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.

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.

The news of the day: “Lebanese troops deploy as part of the cease-fire” and “Suspect confesses to Jon Benet Ramsey’s killing”. World peace must be just around the corner. But I must confess that troop deployment as a signal for the end of armed aggression rings hollow for me. And the capture of Jon Benet’s killer is certainly welcome news for her family too long shrouded by media speculation and public suspicion, I’m not sure the news affects my sense of personal safety in the least.

I find myself wondering about the sheer number of law enforcement hours invested is finding Jon Benet’s killer. The local Boulder effort became a national search and then international, finally culminating in collaboration with official in Thailand and now an extradition hearing. The investigation involved an unbelievable number of false leads and dogged determination by a fine team of investigators over a ten year period. Following the extradition (international flights for prisoner and guards) there will be months of trial and years of prison (presumably maximum security).

How much have we, will we, spend to find Jon Benet’s killer? And how much will we then spend on the trial and incarceration? The figure must certainly stretch into the seventh digit.

Although Jon Benet’s death was a incomprehensible tragedy, so too the death of Ryon Smith. [Ryon Smith’s lifeless beaten body was found in his squalid home in Cahokia IL on Christmas Day, 2006.] But while we have and will spend millions solving and avenging the murder of Jon Benet’s killer, we are oblivious to Ryon’s. And I wonder why?

Is it that Jon Benet’s beauty pageant face is just too cute? Is it the salacious mystery of practically-perfect-parents being suspects in the crime? Does the wealth of the Ramsey family drive the investigative diligence?

Perhaps it is all of the above and maybe more. But my faith tells me that God weeps just as deeply over the death of Ryon Smith. My faith also wonders if God notices how much of our communal wealth we spend on Jon Benet’s death and how little we spent on Ryon Smith’s life. What if our communal priorties shifted and we invest more with the most vulnerable of our society?

Perhaps it’s easier to place our trust in the Lebanese troops marching south and John Mark Karr in custody. But still I wonder…

The Lectionary story for Sunday is David’s escapade down the path of sin and cover up, a story teamed with Seuss’ “Bartholomew and the Oobleck”. It is a timeless but evasive truth that when we have made mistakes, and we all have, our denial and cover up only exacerbate the destruction. No story could be more appropriate in a week where we continue to hemorrhage in the ill gotten war in Iraq. This was also the week of Mel Gibson’s speech denying his anti-Semitism even as the arresting officers were told to tone down their report of his anti-Semitic drunken tirade during his arrest. When it comes to confession, or lack there of, I confess that I’m still kind of stinging from Bill’s refusal to come clean about his involvement with Monica. These are hard stories, ones in which truth is often more painful than fiction.

By all rights I should be wallowing in tales of sin and sorrow in preparation for Sunday’s sermon, but even the most sordid of tales is a bit lame on this Thursday afternoon. After a week spent with children during our annual Peace Trail, a week with the candor and questions of our younger members, I’m really lacking patience for the adult propensity to hide and deny. Children make mistakes but they’re remarkably forthcoming. Sometimes they even do or say mean things, yet their capacity for confession is immense. Children genuinely want to give and receive love, to laugh and play, to revel in the wonder of creation.

Maybe by Saturday I can wade back in to David and the current crisis in honesty, but for today I need to simply revel in the wonder of children.

As the mainline church struggles to be relevant in a post modern world, one of the challenges has been how to incorporate previously unchurched people into a church routine. Each Sunday for years I began the Lord’s Prayer by saying, “we pray the prayer we learned as children”. That’s a great phrase except that many of us did not learn this prayer, or any prayer, as children. One elder asked me why we don’t say the Apostle’s Creed in worship anymore and I was stumped; I honestly didn’t know that we ever did. I was one of those kids who was in college before I even heard the term “Maundy Thursday” - and much later until I understood it! (Ok, I’m still working on understanding). For most of our denomination’s history the majority of church members had been reared in the faith, raised with one of two common hymnals, learning the language of confirmation long before adulthood. Although there have always been some adoptions along the way, folks like myself (that grew up in homes where Sunday was a day to work in the yard), we were the minority. And usually before the adoption- into-church was final we had figured out how to ‘pass’. But something is shifting in our church and in many UCC churches which is at once both an incredible joy and a puzzle. More and more our church backgrounds (or lack there of) are diverse. Maybe this is a result of the successful Still Speaking initiative? Or poor Sponge Bob’s character assassination which allowed us to share our vision of inclusivity? Or maybe the spiritual questing is just a cultural longing of this new millenium? Whatever has moved us into the sanctuary, we are discovering with delight and confusion that we aren’t always speaking the same language. Some of us learned prayers from the Catholic tradition, some from Judaism, some from television, some none at all. And all of us come together each Sunday morning and try to find a common language to sing praise to God. Sometimes when we sing we’re a bit off-key and sometimes the melody line seems a bit elusive. But always the Spirit meets us as we gather and weaves our meager offerings into a rich and beautiful tapestry. I often wonder if I’m in tune, but I never wonder about the incredible blessing of sharing with such an exquisitely diverse community.