Ponderings

After a couple of cloudy days, and a generous amount of rain, the bright sunshine this afternoon was a welcome treat. I was sitting on the bleachers in the sun, watching the kids play ball, and reveling in the tease of summer warmth. But almost as quickly as the blissful thought crystallized, my hand went to where a visor might have been and my eyes squinted to get a better view. The very sun that makes the morning dew glisten and the flowers burst in radiance is the sun which blocks my vision as it rises and falls each day.

Some of what is hidden to me is perhaps best left beyond the glare, but some of it I would be good to see. Like on coming cars when I’m driving west at sunset. And some sights just make life more sweet, like watching the fly ball land in the pitcher’s mitt. My partner chooses to wear sunglasses for just such occasions, and maybe his is the better part of wisdom. But I’ve never appreciated the dark view of the world offered by tinted lenses; I always feel a little cheated of the full wonder of the sun. What I do see then is more brilliant, but admittedly my blind spots are pretty large.

So too my theology of justice. What I see so vividly is the right of every worker, in every land, to a livable wage with plentiful food, shelter, and healthcare. My vantage sees the simplicity of universal health care and minimum wage rising with the cost of living. Quality affordable childcare has blossomed as a ProLife concern. To be sure the sun drenched scene I witness bears a few less SUV’s and a whole lot more affordable public transportation. A hamburger does cost a bit more in my sight but the farmer and the server can afford to eat one. God’s justice, at least in the abstract, is remarkably clear to me.

My more fiscally conservative family members are oft to remind me that my view has some serious blind spots. Admittedly my view is not protected by economic theory nor shielded by a theology of works righteousness. Were I to see behind the glare I’m sure that I would stumble over the complicated ambiguity of unions. And I’m content in the hidden but undeniably messy issues of class, the cumulative effects of malnutrition, inadequate education, and desperation. The glare illumines and hides.

To be sure I would see the plight of the working poor differently were I to don visor and shades, but would the resulting view truly be more faithful? And this is the question to which we are called on this Labor Day weekend.

It’s Tuesday evening, August 29th and I just read a CNN Breaking News bulletin that Hurricane Ernesto is no longer a threat to Florida coastal areas. Residents further west on the Gulf are still bracing themselves.

Ernesto seems to be the first hurricane of this season that threatens the people and property covered by the major news networks. At this point last year we had already been pummeled by Ivan which proved to be merely a precursor to Katrina. And the hurricane count of last year actually paled in comparison to the Tsunami that will define our generation followed by a litany of heart numbing natural disasters around the globe.

Quite frankly, it’s been a quiet year. Maybe Al was wrong about global warming? Maybe last year’s relentless crises were indeed coincidental. Maybe the truth is not as inconvenient as we fear. And maybe the Alaska pipeline isn’t really leaking.

In this year of relative calm it is so very tempting to return our heads and hearts to the safety of the sand, but even with our eyes closed we can still see the haunting faces trapped without food and water in New Orleans. By day we try to banish these memories, but by night the spirit brings them back into our hearts.

Now is the time we need to remember. Now in a year with relative calm. Now is the time to not only remember but to learn; to learn the lessons of vulnerability and compassion. Now is the time to learn the truth of our greed, the destruction wrought on the most vulnerable people and ecosystems.

Now is the time, because already another hurricane has been named and this window is brief.

A representative democracy is one in which the people elect leaders entrusted to govern on their behalf. In theory this is the form of government we have in our state and nation. But our trust in the leadership of our elected officials is waning. This loss is multifaceted, not the least of which is a sharply divided electorate that guarantees that essentially half of all participating voters feel unrepresented. Throw in a few well placed scandals and the publication of a few too many back room deals and the public has little trust that their best interest is being guarded.

Two important ballot initiatives are before Missouri voters in November. One is a proposal to increase minimum wage and index the wage to the cost of living. Another is a proposed state constitutional amendment to ensure Missourians access to stem cell research and treatments. Although both initiatives appear to have broad public support, already my church mailbox is filling with flyers suggesting that stem cell research is tantamount to baby killing. The mud slinging is in full swing already on TV and the facts of both issues have been reduced to nonsensical sound bytes.

While I would like to believe that a vote from the people will result in the best decisions for our communal well being, I’m skeptical. And I’m not alone in my skepticism. No less esteemed a body than the Missouri State Legislature dared to go on record as saying that the voice of the people can be wrong. In 1999 Missourians defeated Proposition B, a proposal to legalize concealed handguns. After much acrimonious debate, our representatives in Jefferson City overruled the will of the people and we can now carry handguns in our purses. The will of the people was also heard in 2004 when and amendment was added to our state constitution defining who can (and thereby cannot) be legally married in our state. The will of the people may be strong, and may even be reflective of the majority interest, but does it protect the right of all members of our society?

Were I not a person of faith I might more quickly defer to the will of the people. But I am a person of faith, a person believing in a power beyond our knowing that created each one of our unique quirky personages, a person committed to the spirit that not only created us but also dared to call us good. Were I not a person of faith, of such quirky faith, I might defer to the will of the masses.

But I am a person of faith and I do believe in a communal responsibility to care for the most vulnerable of our society; the widows, the orphans, and the minority communities in a democracy. I am loathe to throw my hat to the back room deals, but I am also leery about this emerging form of democracy. “Majority rules” perpetually leaves the minority at the margins. And sadly the advent of media savvy sound bytes has only further eroded our sense of communal responsibility for the vulnerable. Given my unease in trusting either the career politician or the wisdom of the morning coffee klatch, I am in a quandary.

As a person of faith, I confess that our current political abyss is testing that faith. Maybe I need to trust that the God who dared to create such quirky beings will continue to live in and through us as we make our way to the ballot boxes in November. As a person of faith, I’m trying.

Yesterday was orientation at my house, both kids visiting their new schools, finding their lockers, practicing their schedules. Monday morning classes begin. Ready or not, school is starting. And as is true in most families, I have one child who is ready and excited and one who is dreading this new beginning.

One of the oft’ overlooked problems with new beginnings is that they are continguous with new endings. School’s beginning means the end of summer playtime. Even the high holy beginnings of life like marriage also signal endings; the closing of a chapter of family definition, the end of the ‘search’, and even the loss of singledom. As we celebrate a new beginning at EUCC with the start of this program year with our Shared Ministry we are also, consciously or not, experiencing loss.

Yesterday I was sitting with Virginia at Carl’s bedside at St. John’s Hospital and this both-and of transitions was palpable. Carl and Virginia are beloved elders in our community and Carl is in the final stages of life after five difficult years with Alzheimers. Carl was an official visitor at EUCC for half a century, only recently becoming a ‘member’. His decision to join EUCC in the midst of all the changes in our communal life was the greatest gift he could have given to this community. As life itself became more confusing, the love of God became more clear and for Carl, this love was felt and expressed in our “lovely church”.

As we step into this new beginning, we carry with us the losses of what we leave behind. And though our elders remind us that their time with us is finite, the lessons that we have learned from them are carried in our hearts as we move forward.

Perhaps I need to confess upfront that bread and cheese are two of my favorite foods so a trip to Chicago can mean only one thing: pizza. Although no one else in my immediate family is terribly fond of this delicacy everyone recognizes that keeping mom happy is something of a priority. So when we arrived at 10pm on a Friday evening, we headed straight to the nearest Chicago pizza.

I suppose expecting to bite into the long awaited delicacy on a Friday night, a Friday night of the Air and Water show, a Friday night when every hotel room in town was sold out, was too optimistic. Even our late arrival at 10pm meant a one hour wait for a table and another 30 minutes to eat. While I would surely have waited the requisite ninety minutes for nirvana, my family had mutiny written on their faces. We quickly enacted Plan B and had a truly wonderful dinner (with no waiting) at the restaurant next door.

But my craving for pizza rose with the sun on Saturday. My friend Susan and her daughter Ellie were on their way in from the ‘burbs and would be joining us for a day of Chicago play. I knew that I could depend on Susan to take my side and keep my brood in line while we waited the requisite ninety minutes. After a full day of sightseeing, shopping and Lego building, we corralled the group and headed for the long awaited pizza. Perhaps the crowded sidewalks should have warned me of the looming roadblock, but after nearly 24 hours of Chicago and no pizza I was pretty much desperate. When we arrived and the bouncer announced the wait time (ninety minutes), I gave them my name and proudly returned to our group with menu in hand. Standing on a crowded street corner with two hunger teenagers and a tired six year old is, well, not pretty. The first order of business was deciding what kind of pizza we would order when our “preorder” time arrived, but mutiny arrived before the decision. Six year old Ellie wanted a balloon, Winnie wanted a burger, and Micah wanted a nap. Given that I was the only adult with a hankering for the sauce, we bailed.

Sunday was my last shot and I wasn’t going to blow it. I was going to have pizza, thick decidedly deadly cheesy heart stopping pizza. When we found ourselves in Chinatown in the late afternoon, Susan looked at the hungry kids and my pizza craven face and suggested that we get appetizers to fend off the mutiny. I sternly reminded everyone to save room for pizza. I had a plan. We were soon back at the hotel where my husband and all three kids parked while Susan and I walked to the nearest pizza place to order and wait. Two women, no kids, no car and a good bar. Who couldn’t wait for ninety minutes?

The wait flew by and the long awaited pizza was placed in our arms. One plain cheese for the tentative crowd, another with enough stuff to keep the heart surgeon in business. Within minutes we were back at the room. What happened next is something of a blur. It could be the sheer joy of the pizza that clouds my recall or the beer consumed waiting for our turn at the trough. What I can recall is that the boxes flew into action with kids, plates, and pizza all over the hotel room. And for one brief moment, I think I experienced nirvana.

And then it happened. Susan crept quietly over to where I sat in my pizza stupor, showing me what remained of her piece (a small bit of crust), and said, “What’s that?” I looked to where her hand pointed. Unmistakable. A grayish wispy thing attached to the crust, something very unpizza like. A feather. A plain simple feather that once belonged to a pigeon.

Instantly sobered, all remaining pizza was tossed back into the boxes. We were back at the pizzeria in record time, the manager quickly assured an immediate and full refund. My craving for Chicago style pizza was finally quenched.

But I am left wondering about the things we crave. Those odd desires of the heart that keep us restless and sidetracked. One wise friend told me that fantasies are a gift from God, but the quest to enact them a date with disaster. Perhaps some hungers are best left unfed.