Ponderings

After a summer stormed rumbled through St. Louis last night we were left without power. Us and about 500,000 of our closest friends. Having spent the better part of the storm in our candlelit basement (nasty even in the flickering light), I was relieved to share an impromptu party on the back deck with my family. The air after a storm is always cooler and cleaner and last night was no exception. The open windows allowed enough airflow to get us comfortably through the unlit night and the power (and air conditioning) returned mercifully as the sun rose this morning. All is well. For us and about 100,000 of our closest friends.

But many hundreds of thousand St. Louisans are without power this morning. As the sun moves higher in the sky the temperatures (never mind the humidity!) are expected to top 100degrees. With our modern architecture dependent on central air, a black out can be more than an inconvenience. Houses built for energy efficiency (low ceilings and few windows) are disasters without electricity, and those most vulnerable will suffer.

While my ceiling fan moves the air around me, I ponder the plight of my city in the context of a world in crisis. Another day of fighting in Lebanon, another tsunami in the ‘ring of fire’, another debacle in our St. Louis Public Schools (the Board passed the “wrong” budget on Tuesday!?).

Compassion is the theme for the Sunday readings. With passion, shared emotion. A connection one with another that is rooted in the depth of our being.

What will compassion look like for the child in the city? Caught in a high rise during a heat wave and no electricity? Looking ahead to a school year filled with adults in crisis mode?

What is compassion between myself and the unnamed man in the news story from Indonesia? And what compassion is possible between my pacifist self, the marine, and the Lebanese child? As I sit in the comfort of my airconditioned space, lace curtain gently swaying, monitor responding to my every stroke?

These are the questions of the morning after…

25,000 Americans, less 250 evacuees, are still stranded in Lebanon and waiting by the phone for the American Embassy to call. Actually only a few thousand of the 25,000 have actually asked to leave. As a St. Louisan I’ve been watching for news of the evacuees because Fr. Biondi is stranded there. Biondi is the leader of St. Louis University, a Jesuit, and one of the rare priests that can stand up to arch conservative Bishop Raymond Burke. There is no news again today from Biondi at stltoday.com. I pray that he is safe, we need him here.

But Biondi is one of an estimated 25,000 Americans in Lebanon. How in the world did we get 25,000 Americans in Lebanon? Lebanon is a tiny little country, smaller than Connecticut. Lebanon has about 10 thousand sq kilometers compared to Missouri’s 180. So how do 25,000 Americans find there way to this small country in a hot spot of the world?

One family headlining in CNN is in Lebanon on holiday, but it’s a family visit not a National Geographic tour. Lebanon is hardly a tourist mecca. Biondi is there on business (altruistic god-related business, but business nonetheless). That accounts for about 10 if you count both entourages, who are the other 24,990?

That’s alot of people on vacation. Or???

Invocation

Weary God
you who crept into human skin
skin that was tired and weak
skin that needed Sabbath rest
skin that felt harried and pained…
Weary God
be gentle with us as we gather in our neediness.

Call to Worship

My daughter’s athletic interest is an anomaly. She hails from a long and not so distinguished line of klutzes from both genetic donors. An aberration perhaps, but she has some genuine (if undeveloped) talent and sincere interest. She actually enjoys having balls thrown at her (the distinction between “to” and “at” are lost on this mom) and is proud of the latest bruises. Intrigued with this child of mine, I have tried to encourage and support her athletic endeavors. But we are now at a critical juncture. She is at the crossroads of get better or get out.

As I sit in the stands with the non-klutz parents I realize that my child may have talent but also liability. Who knew that grown ups actually chose to spend time in backyard throwing spheres at each other? And though my daughter was often the pitcher for her team, I was astonished to know that serious preteen players were hiring pitching coaches. Lessons for piano I knew, but no one told me that I was expected to ferret out private lessons for recreation! (Not having known, she may be a little less polished but I’m in a lot less debt. Some ignorance is indeed bliss.)

I’m loathe to offer an escape route for this child of mine that has been given so much. Achievement has come so easily and naturally to her that the concept of hard work is foreign and failure unknown. Yet even for Einstein the discoveries did not come without incredible effort. Talents are like diamonds hiding in seemingling worthless rock, valuable insofar as they are developed. And though my klutzy self cares not about RBI’s (whatever they are), I do care that my firstborn know the value of developing skill. My parental instinct is to push for commitment.

When I watched her slide into home last night, her first slide since a horrific experience last summer (that resulted in months in a cast and surgeries and endless bills that continue), I saw her conquer her fear. At least for one brief moment she had prevailed. I was so proud of her, and happy for her. And for a brief moment I was sure of my resolve to continue championing the cause of perseverance.

On this note of jubilation I slipped out of the stands, playing tag team with her dad, and floated towards the car. As I passed the opposing team’s dug out I realized that the angry adult voice I heard was coming from the dug out. I admit that I looked. It was the coach and he was spitting his anger, shaming the hapless girls that weren’t lucky enough to be out on the field. In tone and words he ripped at their self confidence in the service of making them better athletes. I paused. I wanted him to shut up. I wanted to protect these adolescent souls from his assault. But the girls, seasoned athletes that they were, seemed nonplussed. Apparently in this strange world of flying balls such is the order of the day.

And again I wondered… get better? or get out? I do not know. I know only that it is a world foreign to me and that I will follow my daughter into it as far as she goes and back out again as she chooses.

As a western liberal not acquainted with war I’ve always been persuaded by Ghandi’s legendary logic, “‘an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth’ leaves the whole world blind and toothless.” Believing Ghandi from the relative comfort of my midwest home has been easy and quite frankly hasn’t exacted much effort. Sure, I joined others in peace vigils before we invaded Iraq. I even preached about peace from the pulpit and angered a few folk. But my check writing never exceeded my disposable income and my daily routines remained uninterrupted.

As I read about the warring in the Middle East, from Lebanon to Iraq and back again, I find myself wondering about the platitudes I so easily espouse. When the greatest threat to our contiguous borders is an influx of cheap (and ‘undocumented’!) labor from the south, I find myself wondering ‘what if’?

What if the Canadian’s were hostile towards us? What if groups of young disgruntled Canadians (not the dignified Canadian government of course) gathered together to strategize about how to undermine our country? What if they began to amass armed colonies in Sarnia, Windsor, and Vancouver? Although our current administration has low public approval ratings, half of the voters got what they wanted. But what about the half that didn’t? And the other half of Americans that didn’t vote? Only 25% of us voted for this path we’re on, and even that 25% isn’t happy. What if the Canadians made strategic alliances (friendships even) with AIM (remember the American Indian Movement?) in the Northwest and the Nation of Islam in Detroit and Buffalo? Given the number of weapons bought and sold in this nation (and I understand from Michael Moore that Canadians have even more!) we could quickly find ourselves surrounded. Recently we spent an hour crossing from Sarnia into Port Huron and had to show passports to keep our kids. We were rather off put that the customs agent was rude. But what if the border was armed and hostile?

From the comfort of my midwest home I find comedy in such a script (as did a particular West Wing episode in Season 6). But comedy is rooted in the things we fear, things we at once fear and from which we feel secure. But what if we did not feel secure? What if the laughter stopped?

Although I do not support the policies of my nation state that provoke hostility from many in the world community, what might I feel when the hostility came round in the form of a bomb on my child’s school bus? Would I side then with those avenging? Or with the avenged?

In fleeting shards I see the Gordian knot of my brothers and sisters who live in a land I generically call the Middle East. So far removed that I need to google a map each time I read a story. But what if I didn’t need mapquest? What if the borders were so close that I could hear the artillery? That the mortar shook my walls? What then would I say about Ghandi’s wisdom?

My query began this morning when my son asked me about Ghandi’s fasting. The question was far from the context of our conversation, a gift from the universe perhaps. Ghandi’s fasting, his hunger fast that my son remembered from the movie seen several years ago, was a tangible, public, and sacrificial act of resistance. Peace comes not from passivity but from active resistance to evil. Perhaps the peace for which we pray will be realized only when we leave the relative comfort behind.