Ponderings

Of late I’ve been longing for a conversation with the Niebuhr brothers, influential theologians in the middle of the past century. H. Richard and Reinhold were lifelong Americans of German ancestry.

I first encountered the brothers as a student at Calvin College, long after their deaths. I was exploring the gospel imperative to social action with H. Richard’s pivotal work “Christ and Culture.” Later I was introduced to Reinhold’s “Moral Man and Immoral Society,” also compelling. But even more than these two treatises, the real life drama of the two brothers moved me. The intrigue of this drama intensified when I moved into the land of their youth, just down the road from their alma mater, Eden Theological Seminary. When H. Richard came home briefly to teach at Eden, he served as the Sunday School Superintendent at the church I now serve, Evangelical United Church of Christ. Now I’m living and working where they once worked—and their spirit looms ever larger.

Both boys, which they must surely have been at the beginning, came of age during WWI. This war to end all wars didn’t, but its killing fields haunted the world with the help of photojournalists and Life magazine. Out of the carnage came renewed commitment to pacifism, and organizations like the Fellowship of Reconciliation gained strength. Both young men were deeply passionate both about justice and about peace. This passion was tested with the rise of Hitler and the Nazi party in their German homeland and their response divided.

Although their respect for one another apparently never wavered, they publicly shared their differences in a series of articles in the Christian Century in the early 1930s. Of specific concern was an appropriate response to Japanese aggression. Although both ultimately distanced themselves from the Fellowship of Reconciliation, their struggle demonstrates the immense challenge of forging a faithful response to warring madness. And though their story and their writings are illustrative, I’m finding a need to have one more conversation.

Although of German ancestry and clearly very knowledgeable about the ground upon which Nazism flourished, both H. Richard and Reinhold were lifelong Americans and could watch the rise and fall of the Third Reich with a particular detachment. Their discussion was on the role we ought play when our neighbor’s house is on fire. But what about when it’s our own?

Last weekend we began to hear more about a story that really should have been told last October when our president signed the “John Warner Defense Authorization Act of 2007.” This legislation was signed into law on the same day as the more widely publicized “Military Commissions Act” which defined the legally acceptable parameters for the use of torture and denies habeas corpus to ‘aliens’ suspected of being ‘enemy combatants.’ Undoubtedly the Military Commissions Act deserved every bit of scrutiny given to it and more, but that doesn’t explain the silence around the Defense Authorization Act. That the Warner piece didn’t get more press is probably in no small part that the details were not, and still have not, been fully disclosed. The details we do have, however, are chilling. The conversation on Diane Rehm last Monday morning (with Bruce Fein and Lee Casey) talked about the Defense Authorization Act’s effective nullification of the Posse Comitatus Act. The issue at hand is the expansion of executive privilege allowing the president to define the conditions under which martial law may be declared. All in all, it’s tough for a paranoid person not to smell a rat.
Now, more than ever, I pray, “Lord, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.”
This classic American prayer known as the serenity prayer was purportedly written by Reinhold Niebuhr half a century ago. Even as I pray Niebuhr’s words I find myself longing for even a few minutes with the brothers to ask about wisdom and knowing. From their public disagreements, we know that wisdom was hard to come by when the aggressor was across the ocean. Even more elusive is wisdom when we sit in the midst of a nation with slowly eroding civil liberties and growing international aggression. What do we do when we discover that we are becoming the enemy?
The Niebuhrs were spared this question, but many in their generation were not. Martin Niemoller was a German pastor directly facing Hitler’s reign of terror. Niemoller was an ordinary pastor, neither a renowned scholar nor saint. Despite the skeletons hiding in his closet, he worked with the likes of Dietrich Bonhoeffer to raise his voice bringing international attention to the abuse of power in Germany 75 years ago. Without great theological fanfare, Niemoller said, “No. Not in my name.” Specifically Niemoller took issue with the state’s use and control of religious institutions. He questioned the explicit and illicit ties between the administration and the church. And for his questions he spent eight years in the death camps. It is Niemoller who is credited with the haunting poem “When they came:”
When the Nazis came for the communists,
I remained silent;
I was not a communist.
When they locked up the social democrats,
I remained silent;
I was not a social democrat.
When they came for the trade unionists,
I did not speak out;
I was not a trade unionist.
When they came for me,
there was no one left to speak out.
I may not have the wisdom to know what can and cannot be changed, but I do have a voice and I cannot remain silent. In honor of the Niebuhr brothers, I add my name to Niemoller’s saying, “Not in my name.”

In a moment that straddles the fence between foolishness and faithfulness, I agreed to participate in the MDA’s annual Maplewood/Webster Lock-up to help “Jerry’s Kids®”.

With a history of civil disobedience, I don’t take ‘lock up’ lightly. In fact the thought of handcuffs makes my heart race. But when the call to participate this year came, I was thinking about my friend Graham. Graham is a gentle child in with a bright smile and a beloved dog (Carmel) who comes to worship with us every week. Graham has been spending a lot of time at doctors’ offices lately and using his wheelchair more often. Although he does not have Muscular Dystrophy, he too struggles with neurons that won’t do what he needs them to do. Graham’s family introduced me to words like ‘mitochondrial’ and first hand accounts of the gauntlet we call our health care system. Research into Muscular Dystrophy is not providing a quick fix, but the research does have the potential to help Graham and kids like Graham, kids that I might never known if Graham hadn’t shown me.

Still, in the interest of full disclosure I should point out that I have been avoiding this impending reality for several weeks. After agreeing to participate, I have received weekly phone calls from a ‘coach’ to help me prepare. But at best I’ve been plodding and increasingly short with my ‘coach’. I did set up the “participant page” but couldn’t bring myself to send out the requested emails. This morning I woke up thinking of an escape route. I confess that I have an abiding distaste for Jerry Lewis and the telethon. Perhaps it’s a style issue, perhaps my own discomfort with disability, but I’ve always sensed a bit of charlatan. Maybe this was my opportunity to bolt. With the help of my friend Google, I did a little sleuthing. While the MDA may earn a high grade for cheesy, that may be because they are not spending the store on marketing. With room for improvement, the MDA gets an A- from the American Institute of Philanthropy, making the list of “top-rated charities” and coming in well ahead of the AARP. Guilty of bad taste maybe, but undeniably committed to the advancement of medical research on behalf of vulnerable children.

The scheduled ‘lock up’ is on Tuesday morning (July 31st) – right in the middle of our Peace Trail week with a yard full of children! - unless, of course, I raise the bail ($1000) ahead of time. Here’s where you, the reader, come in. This is a shameless plea for money. Your donation not only keeps me out of ‘lock up’ but (more importantly!) helps MDA continue the important research on behalf of children. You can donate online at my “participant page”. You can also send checks, money orders, and nail files the old fashioned way (with stamps).

Meanwhile, I am grateful that I don’t need Jerry’s kids. I have Graham.

When Rabbi Michael Lerner, taking aim at the reintroduction of the Latin Mass, raised the anti-Semitism flag this week, I took note. Lerner is an interfaith bridge builder known for pointing fingers at his own religion (Judaism). A rebel rouser, to be sure, he is most commonly found challenging the politics of Israel not the language of Christian worship.

The offense is apparently embedded in the Latin version of the Good Friday liturgy. The ancient story, brought to horrifying life in Mel Gibson’s “Passion”, pleads with God to “lift the veil” from the eyes of the Jews in order that they might accept Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior. Translated into common parlance the prayer reads something like, ‘Jews are blind to the truth of Christianity’. Ouch.

While the offense is undeniable and the tension palpable, I find myself wondering if this is offense given, offense taken, or both. Although this would appear to be a theological quagmire, my hunch is that it is a logic problem. And though arrogance abounds, this is really an issue of ignorance. What we need right now is not Henry Kissinger, but a flowchart.

Years ago, in the days before Bill Gates had made his first million (really, there was such a time), we learned the art of flowcharts. Before we were allowed to write a program (in a foreign language called ‘fortran’), we had to demonstrate mastery of the logic flow on paper. Although I have no recall about the specific functions of the boxes and diamonds and circles, I have an abiding memory of choice. At each junction, a choice was made and each choice affected the outcome.

The flow of the Latin Mass, which leads to the prayer for the conversion of the Jews, when seen on a flowchart is not about Judaism but about narrowly defined Christianity. The flow can be seen in a few brief questions:
First: Do you believe in life after death (afterlife)?
If yes: then do you believe in a dualistic (good/bad, heaven/hell) afterlife?
If yes: then do you believe that one’s profession of faith (religion) affects one’s placement in the afterlife?
If yes: then you have a moral duty to help others make the faith profession that would enable them to experience the most positive afterlife. If I could save my neighbor from eternal torment, wouldn’t I want to do so? The concern is genuine and well intentioned.

It takes a lot of “yes” choices to get to proselytizing. The beauty of understanding flowcharts is the reminder that at any point along the way, a different choice can be made yielding a different outcome. If we pause to draw the flowchart that has lead to the offense of proselytizing, we can determine what choices might be made differently.

We choose to believe in an afterlife. We choose to interpret to scripture in a manner which confirms that belief. We choose religious liturgy that supports that belief. But we could make different choices.

I confess that after years of seminary, a couple of decades of parish ministry, and a lifetime of bible reading, the specifics of what happens after we take our last breath are a mystery to me. I’ve been blessed to have walked with people of deep faith who have made a variety of choices along the flowchart of faith. One of my very devout Christian friends does not choose to believe in an afterlife. “We live on in those who have loved us,” is the best he can do for an afterlife belief. Though his simple assertion is anathema to his orthodox friends, his choice frees his theology to focus on the presence of the sacred in this life.

Given the ghostly legacy of our logic choices, maybe it’s time to chose a different belief. ‘Our believing that hell doesn’t exist won’t extinguish the fires!’, some say, and maybe they are right. But our belief in the coming fire is fanning flames in the here and now. Our choice to believe in a dualistic afterlife has fostered the creation of hell in this one.

Justice is overrated and mercy in short supply. When the question “what does the Lord require of you?” is answered with three distinct charges, “do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God” (Micah 6:8) there is no redundancy.

I remember when the first woman was executed in Texas after the reinstatement of the death penalty. Then Governor Bush referred to the importance of justice in his refusal to entertain mercy. Our justice system is not, after all, a mercy system. Justice and mercy are distinct, and both are important.

Justice points to earned rewards (and punishments) whereas mercy looks at mitigating circumstances and potential. Justice may call for ‘an eye for an eye’, but the ancient prophets called us to begin not end with justice. Gandhi, like the ancient prophets before him, knew the futility of simple justice when he warned of a blind and toothless world. When justice fails to provide a level playing field, mercy is summoned.

Recognizing the role of mercy, I am inclined to give pardons and commutations great latitude. Even when the justice system has delivered justice (not always the case), there are a myriad of ways in which our faith would incur a further step, mercy. Though I’ve wondered at the apparent whimsy in which clemency is doled by presidents, governors, and parole boards, I embrace the concept and appreciate the humanity reflected.

I can make myself believe that there are reasons that mercy for Scooter Libby is faithful, if not just. He was, after all, himself a faithful player in a web that was not necessarily of his design. I’ll hold my tongue (and keyboard strokes) about cronyism in the Libby debacle, but if mercy is on the table, I’d certainly like to see more of it.

Mercy for the men held in Guantanamo for almost five years and denied habeas corpus would be a good place to start. Even if we accept the presumption of justice in the taking of ‘prisoners of war’, a war that has no foreseeable ending leaves prisoners of war incarcerated for life. Incarcerated not at the relatively upscale federal prison that awaited Scooter Libby, or even the more rough and tumble county jail that held Paris Hilton captive; the men at Guantanamo are held in the most unimaginable of circumstances. Justice denied, for whatever reasons, pleads for mercy.

Mercy is in the air this week as the pundits’ rail. Libby’s freedom is evidence of mercy. For mercy to find Guantanamo, however, the third charge from Micah must be realized. “Walk humbly with God.” Mercy requires awe in the presence of the creator of life, acknowledgement not of a disengaged higher power but of a presence greater than ourselves that is alive in those around us.

Humility before God is perhaps the most daunting of the three charges. Humility is the antithesis of the American ‘make-do’ mentality, counter intuitive for those of us who believe that we have earned our relative fortune in life. Humility calls us to subjugate ourselves and our accomplishments in light of something much more significant than any single human being, something more powerful than any single nation state. Humility calls us to recognize and even embrace the finitude of our existence, honoring infinity only in our interconnectedness. Humility is anathema to those who would wage pre-emptive air strikes but in humility we find the much needed foundation stones for reconciliation.

With justice elusive and mercy at a dangerous low, maybe it’s time to try a little humility.