Ponderings

When we moved into our beloved house-of-many-projects eight years ago we also moved into a neighborhood whose rich history told “the rest of the story” (from the other side of the tracts) in an affluent Midwest suburb. The move was geographically only five blocks across town, but culturally we crossed into a land still filled with mines.

With elementary age children, the first order of business was navigating the public school system. For the new address, the assigned school was at the far end of the district. In order to get to the new school we would have to pass four others. While the assigned school was an exceptional choice, no more so than the others we would pass to get there. So insistent was the school on this choice that they offered bus service for our children, bus service in a district that had disbanded bus service a decade ago. Clearly the school was serious about wanting our kids at this distant location. Despite the incentives, we opted out and appealed for exemption. Our kids ultimately were able to attend a school closer to home.

As we unpacked our boxes and at least a few of our assumptions, we learned a lot in this new neighborhood. The story of school assignment, for instance, becomes more bizarre the closer you look. Our two block street is assigned to one school, but the street right behind us (with whom we share a backyard) is assigned to a different school. In fact each street in my neighborhood has a unique school assignment. We aren’t split between two or three neighborhood schools, we are literally sliced up and dispersed across the district. We have no neighborhood school. The school building in our neighborhood houses a magnet school (lottery) and a Sixth Grade Center for the district. Backpack laden students in my neighborhood are walking not to school but to bus stops.

Without a neighborhood school we miss the a lot. We miss the common ground, the shared parental concerns, the neighborhood ball teams and scouting clubs, the neighborhood work days on the playground. To be sure there are ball teams and work days to which I and my neighbors are invited, but they are not based in our backyards and planned over our back fences. We moved to this neighborhood to get to know our neighbors, not to met the ones on the other side of town.

We have lost our neighborhood school for the sake of integrated schools. Assuming that our neighborhood was monochromatic, the district believed that diversity in other neighborhood schools could be achieved with a sprinkling from ours. Never mind that our beloved neighborhood, historically monochromatic, is no longer. Never mind that busing my majority race kids across town isn’t going to bring color. Never mind the cost to my neighborhood. As has often been the case, colorful historic neighborhoods have paid a steep price for the illusion of integration.

Integration is not as simple as it would seem and too often the most vulnerable are expected to bear the burden. Bussing, for instance, sounds great until one visits a local sleep clinic and discovers that there is an epidemic of sleep deprivation among school age children boarding the buses at the crack of dawn, sleep deprivation masquerading as attention and hyperactivity disorders. Racial balance sounds laudable but belies the cost to the minority who is transplanted to make the majority look more diverse. The rhetoric enacted has failed us. Seeing the cost of our failed desegregation policies in my own backyard, I applaud the Supreme Court’s willingness to take another look (Parents Involved vs. Seattle School Dist. No. 1).

Tragically, however, another look from those who can’t see won’t help my neighborhood. This landmark decision which purports to remedy the problem doesn’t. Reading the fine print we learn that the policies of neighborhood busting are still ok. A few of the carefully crafted integration programs across this nation will, of course, be affected. But those designed with the broadest racial assumptions, like the ones that assume an address defines ethnicity, are still perfectly legal.

“May you live in interesting times.” - An ancient curse that seems particularly poignant today.

These “times they are a’changin” and the daily news is never boring. One friend recently tried to reassure me, “We’re doing our best to make your life boring.” I knew exactly what she meant and I was – I am – grateful.

Republicans are legislating morality, Democrats are calling for fiscal conservation, and Michael Bloomberg has switched parties, again. The weather is warmer than ever, except when it is colder, and every single highway in Missouri is under construction. The price of plane tickets changes every day at every website, clothing sizes vary by manufacture in an era of mail order everything, and the cost of stamps changes so often that the newest stamps don’t even list a price!

Touchstones become increasingly important in such a time as this. I suspect the rise of religious fervor literally around the globe is an extension of this need for touchstones. For me, as a pastor, both the bible and worship are important touchstones. Touchstones offer grounding and perspective. They remind whose we are, empowering us to withstand the winds of change without losing our minds, or our souls.

Of course not all touchstones are created equal. Touchstones built of patriarchy offer the reassurance of a utopian social order in which roles are defined by gender, race, and class. These stones offer the comfort of reassurance to all who hold them, but opportunity for only a select few. Some touchstones are gems, but are so small as to be easily lost. A touchstone for parents is often the crystallized memory of an infant’s touch, but the memory is easily hidden in the midst of adolescent drama. Other touchstones are so large that they have become uncontrollable, like our economic enmeshment with the military industrial complex.

One of my roles as pastor is helping people to identify touchstones. As I work with our community to use touchstones, I am aware that in addition to knowing the composition and size of the stone, we must also be mindful of the ways we use our stones. The presence of touchstones is value neutral. The value is defined both by their composition and by our employment (and/or deployment) of the stones. I have vivid memories of my mother yelling, “Don’t throw that stone!” She was convinced that one of us would look up as the stone was coming down and we would go through life with one eye. Stones can build walls of safety and walls of division. Stones can kill and stones (at least in the hands of our children) can make soup.

My daughter is always on the lookout for touchstones, probably a hazard of being a teen in a turbulent world. She has been exploring religions beyond the Christianity in which she has been raised; in particular she is curious about Wicca. As a mutual friend began meeting with Winnie to share the Wicca path, I was consulted for permission and found myself a bit tongue-tied. Was there something in Wicca to which I should object? I finally stammered, “Nothing illegal”. Oddly that leaves a lot of open ground I would rather not have my firstborn explore.

As I consider the touchstones, I think I have a better answer. The touchstone of Wicca, of any religion, is not negative until it is used to maim. The touchstone of the bible is not negative until it is used to wall some people in and others out. Difficult as it is for a pacifist to admit, I suspect that the touchstone even of a trained military is not negative until we allow its growth to turn the waters white.

The times would be a little less interesting if our stones stopped flinging. A little less interesting with out the maze of walls we’re building. A little less interesting when only small stones are tossed in the creek and the big stones are held for deeper waters. Go ahead and gather stones, but hold them carefully.

She looks good, smiling and coiffed. If you didn’t know that she’d just spent the past fortnight in the Los Angeles County Jail, you wouldn’t. Paris Hilton is out and back in front of the cameras.

As a self-confessed cultural illiterate, I’m not exactly sure who Paris Hilton is much less why I am supposed to care, but her image has been dominating my news folders all month. The first series were of a young grief stricken girl, today’s was an exuberant young women. As near as I can tell, Paris is a self-absorbed young woman who typifies the narcissism that dominates our culture. Apparently she was convicted of reckless driving (I’m hoping Officer Ziegler doesn’t start ticketing for this – I’ll be in trouble!); the incarceration a consequence of her violation of probation.

I wish that I believed a few nights in the county jail could cure the selfishness greed that holds our people hostage. I wish that a few nights in prison could solve something, anything. The tragic truth is that though we build prisons, lots of them, our investment is questionable.

Back in the 17th century there was a movement to build ‘penitentiary’. The idea was that rule breakers needed time and space to reflect and repent before reentering society. The ‘holy trinity’ of this system was silence, obedience, and labor. It was a great idea, but it didn’t really work, especially for folks who had no remorse. The ‘reformatory movement’ of the late 19th century appealed to an understanding of individuals and psychology, introducing such innovations as flexible sentencing and parole.

A few decades ago, several cultural forces converged to create the chaos we know call the prison system. A culture shift demanded harsher sentences, the Supreme Court allowed for the reinstatement of the death penalty, and the federal government decided to wage a ‘war on drugs’. The ‘three strikes’ rule and mandatory sentencing have earned for us the distinction of having the highest incarceration rates in the world. We have 5% of the world’s population and 25% of the world’s prisoners. Something isn’t working.

Perhaps we need to decide whether incarceration is about retribution (punishment for its own sake) or about rehabilitation. Do we incarcerate people to get rid of them or to help them change? If the goal is reform, the best of our psychological tools might have some light to shed on how we build our prisons. If the goal is to get rid of people, then all sentences probably out to be commuted to life sentences. In the meantime, what we do is incarcerate people in overcrowded hellholes, teach them how to hate with razor edged clarity, and then we release them back into society. All in all, a disaster.

As people of faith, we find ourselves confronted with gospel imperatives to turn the check and to forgive endlessly. We are charged to deal with our own misconduct before we point to our neighbor’s. We are challenged to not only do justice, but to cherish mercy. Although we can find punitive notes in scripture, specific instructions even for the torturing of women suspected of adultery, the overarching theme of the biblical narrative in the both testaments is one of redemption. Ours is a faith grounded on the belief that people are both capable and worthy of being saved. In our faith story, people are not disposable.

Although I can’t imagine Paris’ few nights in the county clink was truly life altering, it could be worse. Her smiling face as yet bears no witness of the cruel inhumanity that awaits the average prisoner. I can only imagine that a hate-filled Paris Hilton would not be a pretty sight. And my faith tells me that even Paris is redeemable. Maybe so.

It’s time to write an article and I’m not quite ready. I’m sitting on the fence and not sure on which side to fall.

One side is crab grass and the prickles look invitingly familiar. Despite what you may have heard, I am a creature of habit and not even a terribly ambitious one. The inconsistency and workload inherent in staff transitions (tumult that has made life with teenagers seem routine) has brought out the less than stellar part of my persona. I would like to yell at the world, have a good cry, and crawl into my bed. My defenses are up and my attitude flagging. The crab grass may be sharp, but it is steady and strong enough to hold both me and my temper tantrum.

The other side of the fence looks like a pile of dirt and pretty risky from my perch. I know that dirt piles can be the beginning of great gardens. After Gary tore up our front yard in the name of landscaping he assured me that it would (eventually) be better than ever. Maybe so.

To be sure there are shoots of life. The seeds of Shared Ministry showed beautiful growth in these past weeks as Laura and Wynn and the People Team have gone the extra mile and then some. And I was absolutely charmed by the children in worship last week! There were lots of them at the early service, chatting and making us smile. The shoots of life are unmistakable even in the overwhelming presence of the mud.

Today I went with Al Schon to a St. Louis Association Church and Ministry meeting where Al was awarded Licensure to be able to share full pastoral leadership with our congregation. The committee was obviously very moved by Al’s story and his call, and I was so very proud to share the experience. Yesterday our very own StudioSTL (with Beth, Jeanne, Cindy, Leslie and others!) was the lead story in the St. Louis Post Dispatch! These are not little shoots, these are full fledged blossoms.

As I ponder the beauty of the week, the dirt is less disconcerting. Gosh, maybe if I make my bed on the dirt pile I can revel in the childish wonder of mud pies. The crab grass offers certainty, but the dirt offers possibility. Do you suppose a little crab grass in the dirt would be ok?

As President Bush crossed the contentious aisle this week to lobby for immigration reform, he was sabotaged from behind and the effort went up - again - in smoke. Immigration is a hot button issue in our culture, and like all wedge issues it has made for some strange bedfellows. What appeared to be a bi-partisan effort broke down along lines reminiscent of the Mason-Dixon line.

In a conversation about the Civil War, a friend from Texas recently confided that down south that chapter of history is still taught as ‘the war of northern aggression’. Although the Civil War was not a war of northern aggression, it likewise was not, as I was taught in the North, a war to end slavery. Both Abolitionists and the States-Rights leaders were certainly prominent players in the thorny ground that spawned that awful war, but the war was much more than either of these issues.

As I toured Oak Valley Plantation in Louisiana a couple of years back, I expected to be offended by this institution that harbored the most atrocious abdication of human rights imaginable. Instead I was moved by the humanness, the vulnerability of both the ‘big house’ and the markings where the shacks had once cowered. The lot in life for those in the ‘big house’ was one of relative comfort, but even they were pawns in a system not of their making.

The system was an economic system and it was in those days a system that spanned the nation. Cotton grown in the south and harvested by people held in bondage, but that was not where the story ended. The harvested crop was shipped to the textile factories in the north where beautiful fabrics and massive fortunes were produced. Dependent but unseen were the ravages of slavery. Those above the artificial dividing line could take a moral high ground and pretend to wash their hands of the unsavory business of slavery while those living in and around the fields were left holding the toxic human waste which has festered for centuries.

If the factories had not purchased the cotton, slavery would have had no purpose in the 19th century. Although ethical issues abound when the word immigration is voiced, the growing number of ‘illegals’ in our nation is the result not of a moral collapse but rather an economic one. Or perhaps at the intersection typically called greed.

Our American economy is dependent upon the relatively cheap labor of our undocumented work force. The human cost of this dependence is staggering, so too the financial cost to local communities where these laborers are forced to live behind curtains of secrecy. Unseen and undocumented does not preclude need for healthcare and education, for police care and sanitation services. Undocumented means not only that people are denied their rights to vote but also that they are not allowed to contribute to the communities in which they live. Although ‘illegals’ pay millions of dollars in taxes (like Social Security that they can never collect on), little of that money supports the indirect but substantial costs to the communities where our growing work force resides.

Those of us who live in communities where this growing population is unseen and the costs not relevant can take a moral high ground and point to the human rights issues. Meanwhile those whose neighbors are undocumented are expected to pay the undocumented costs for this choice. All the while frightened immigrants, recruited by agents on our behalf, are struggling not to find meaning but simply to survive.

If we continue to pretend that cheap labor is really cheap, those most vulnerable and their neighbors will continue to pay an unbearable price. Immigration reform is needed that will allow all of our neighbors - legal or otherwise - to build houses and live in them, to pay taxes and benefit from them, to have sustenance and pursue happiness. Beyond blue and red is purple, and I think purple must be the color of true humanity.