Advent Coming
Cold breeze blowing on a November night
Before Thanksgiving
Have you seen me lately?
In your dreams day and night
Sitting in a corner with my cigarette reading my paper
Across from you in a coffee shop
Watching you from a place unknown
Where I hear your voice
See your face
In your waking and lying down
Cold nights and days coming
Are here... now
Gripping you in their fold
Leaves dead on the sidewalk
Kicked to the curb
On a long walk last night
In the dark
Embraced by the chill
Air that hits with sharp pangs
Biting
Crunching
Crushing
Coming like the death that comes soon but not soon enough
Waiting is the hardest
With news of old wounds that won't heal
Here
Now
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Observations on Life (and sometimes death)
So today …. I went alone.
Ok so that was dramatic!! I have begun a year long residency in chaplaincy better known as CPE or Clinical Pastoral Education. For those who need to know, most chaplains actually DO get certified to do their job and a year long residency is part of the process. Most chaplaincy jobs require a residency in a clinical placement which may be in a hospital setting (where I have worked before), prisons, psych hospitals, and hospice settings (where I am placed) and other places. I have been visiting folks in tandem with another team member. Today I escaped and was on my own thankfully.
My placement is in a hospice group. This placement requires me to visit patients in their homes. What I have discovered in the mere two weeks I have been working in hospice is that one home is as different from another and another and another…. And people live everywhere.
Some random observations after a week.
Observation #1: Despite what the “typical” definition of family may be, I have yet to see a “typical” family. I met a couple, now married for 10 years who married each other late in life. They “lived in sin” for two years before they got married. They were 65 and 69 respectively when they married. Grown kids and grandchildren. Another man I met is estranged from 2 of his 3 children (I think I know why but still…). Two patients are living with friends who have taken them in. One patient is living with his significant other girlfriend and sees his ex wife about every week.
Observation #2: I love GPS. I swear I do. I even used it to get to the store yesterday. Just because I wanted to try a new route (which I knew but the voice on the GPS relaxes me)
Observation #3: Pets. Pets matter. Period. Just today, I met Binkie the cat, still traumatized by a de-clawing experience. I was the first person to see him today as he has remained hidden for the last three days. Rufus the boxer who hates it when you leave. I have a hole in my shirt sleeve from that one. And finally, Bubbles the parrot. He does talk but I couldn’t teach him Rocky Top today. Maybe next time.
Observation #4: Lots of parents worry about lots of kids. And houses and property that no one may want.
Observation #5: Access to health care is a privilege. A paid for privilege. It shouldn't be. Right now, the way the system works money is access and access is limited. Period. Health should not be a matter of economics of treatment. I knew that in theory. I am now coming to know this in practice. I am not sure how to rectify this but will work on it.
Observation #6: 80 year olds apparently used the word “copacetic” back in the day. My friend Sam uses it often… he is 82. An 86 year old used it today. I love the word.
New factoid: Cows lived across the street from me… in 1933. And there was a tornado that year to. Trauma to a 10 year old girl who is now 86.
Not bad for the first two weeks.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
There's life in the old girl yet...
I have worked the evening shift at the hospital the last couple of nights. Not a bad gig if you are into quiet hallways and crickets. And I have been fortunate that there have been no huge emergencies…though those make life interesting.
Yesterday, I met a woman whose aorta exploded. Don’t ask me how or why or what that looks like but according to her husband, that is what the doctor told them. The patient, whom I will call Cecilia, was in and out of sleep and on a breathing tube. She has been here for 3 weeks and each day is part of the roller coaster ride of life on the edge of death. Her husband, Mr. French, (again I will call him that) was a gentle sort who took his hat off when I came in and clutched it in his hands as we talked.
Conversations often begin with how and why a patient is here, where folks are from, etc. I usually ask about families and how long the patient and spouse have been married. This conversation was no different, other than the worry on Mr. French’s face. He had been sleeping in the waiting area for the last three weeks. Afraid to leave and afraid to stay all at once. As our conversation turned toward his marriage to Cecilia, he smiled and blushed.
“How long have you been married?” I asked
“27 years” he answered
“That is a good long time”, I responded, thinking this may be a second marriage.
From the other corner of the room I heard “It is both of their first marriages”
“Great!” I say, “Nothing like waiting to be certain. Where did you get married?”
Mr. French shuffled a bit and the blush grew a little deeper….. “we eloped”
“Eloped!” I said, along with the nurse who replied all at once. Both of us imagining this sweet sweet couple sneaking off one day to their parents surprise.
He giggled and said “yes we did… to Florence AL!”
Of all places! We laughed and he grinned and gushed over his bride now lying behind a bank of machines and bells and whistles.
I noticed she was awake and went to her bedside. Her eyes opened and I introduced myself. She tried to talk but the breathing tube prevented any conversation. I saw in her eyes that she was aware of her surroundings. I told her I heard she eloped with this sweet man on the other side of her. Her blue eyes smiled as she nodded. And I saw someone else there in that pool of blue.
We prayed together and Mr. French cried… I hate it when men cry. I looked at Cecelia and told her I would visit again. I went back today. She was more alert and Mr. French had gone home for the night. A good sign I think. And those blue eyes of hers lit up again. She wanted to talk and couldn’t. I yammered on about how she needed to rest. We continued to look at each other intently. Her eyes wide and wonderfully bright. Mine trying to tell her it was ok to rest.
And then I realized who else was there…. my grandmother. The same look. The same blue. My grandmother died a good 12 or more years ago but I saw her again today. A shadow that follows me around a good bit. The woman who was so very strict and stoic but who read to me from the Bible. A woman who could remember the 23rd Psalm when she could no longer remember her name… or mine.
The woman who baked the best cakes and whole wheat rolls in the world. None of us can re-create those.
And the woman from whom I learned an awful lot about trusting God and prayer and the church.
I never know who I will meet in a hospital room. Sometimes, it isn’t the person in the bed but is the person you need the most.
Night work might be ok sometimes.
Yesterday, I met a woman whose aorta exploded. Don’t ask me how or why or what that looks like but according to her husband, that is what the doctor told them. The patient, whom I will call Cecilia, was in and out of sleep and on a breathing tube. She has been here for 3 weeks and each day is part of the roller coaster ride of life on the edge of death. Her husband, Mr. French, (again I will call him that) was a gentle sort who took his hat off when I came in and clutched it in his hands as we talked.
Conversations often begin with how and why a patient is here, where folks are from, etc. I usually ask about families and how long the patient and spouse have been married. This conversation was no different, other than the worry on Mr. French’s face. He had been sleeping in the waiting area for the last three weeks. Afraid to leave and afraid to stay all at once. As our conversation turned toward his marriage to Cecilia, he smiled and blushed.
“How long have you been married?” I asked
“27 years” he answered
“That is a good long time”, I responded, thinking this may be a second marriage.
From the other corner of the room I heard “It is both of their first marriages”
“Great!” I say, “Nothing like waiting to be certain. Where did you get married?”
Mr. French shuffled a bit and the blush grew a little deeper….. “we eloped”
“Eloped!” I said, along with the nurse who replied all at once. Both of us imagining this sweet sweet couple sneaking off one day to their parents surprise.
He giggled and said “yes we did… to Florence AL!”
Of all places! We laughed and he grinned and gushed over his bride now lying behind a bank of machines and bells and whistles.
I noticed she was awake and went to her bedside. Her eyes opened and I introduced myself. She tried to talk but the breathing tube prevented any conversation. I saw in her eyes that she was aware of her surroundings. I told her I heard she eloped with this sweet man on the other side of her. Her blue eyes smiled as she nodded. And I saw someone else there in that pool of blue.
We prayed together and Mr. French cried… I hate it when men cry. I looked at Cecelia and told her I would visit again. I went back today. She was more alert and Mr. French had gone home for the night. A good sign I think. And those blue eyes of hers lit up again. She wanted to talk and couldn’t. I yammered on about how she needed to rest. We continued to look at each other intently. Her eyes wide and wonderfully bright. Mine trying to tell her it was ok to rest.
And then I realized who else was there…. my grandmother. The same look. The same blue. My grandmother died a good 12 or more years ago but I saw her again today. A shadow that follows me around a good bit. The woman who was so very strict and stoic but who read to me from the Bible. A woman who could remember the 23rd Psalm when she could no longer remember her name… or mine.
The woman who baked the best cakes and whole wheat rolls in the world. None of us can re-create those.
And the woman from whom I learned an awful lot about trusting God and prayer and the church.
I never know who I will meet in a hospital room. Sometimes, it isn’t the person in the bed but is the person you need the most.
Night work might be ok sometimes.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Guilty Pleasures
Ok I broke down..I am on Twitter. Don’t ask why. I was merely supporting those I love in their endeavors. But apparently it will be my new addiction. Thinking for some stupid adolescent reason that I can “follow” my favorite celebrities (ok basketball players and coaches!), I am following the likes of well…ok… former UT Lady Vols and hot coaches! There I admitted it!
So here I am, a relationship person. One who believes in a good cup of coffee and good belly laughs and conversation. Face to face. And I will be Twitterized for awhile now.
I also like People magazine and VH1 Behind the Music. And E True Stories. Roller Derby and an occasional Britany Spears break down.
How is it we think we can “know” each other in 140 characters or less?
I will let you know. And when the randomness comes out of my twitter account…. Maybe you can ask me a question.
PS KitKhet is one of the family nicknames. Me and Dad….just like always.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
All will be well...
I went to lunch with friends yesterday. A long drive to Knoxville buoyed by conversation with a college friend with whom I have reconnected.
We were off to deliver some of my mom’s dishes to a former girlfriend. Long story there, but let it be said I seldom rid myself of relationships. I never have been good at goodbyes or separations. I have too much need to be connected and cared about to “get rid of people”. A normally good trait but it leads to complications some days.
So there we sat: two recovering alcoholics and a child of one who never could. Between the three of us we had seen the destruction of a lot of money, some relationships, and mostly damage to ourselves. But this day we weren’t thinking of that. We were instead three 40 plus year olds acknowledging our lives lived in ways only we could live them. We all harbor our insecurities. We all live into the people we are affected by and affecting us.
Conversation on the way over to Knoxville turned toward a comment about spiritual needs and spiritual disconnect. I am not sure how all of that works in us much less in how it manifests itself in an addictive personality. And we likely all exhibit addictive behaviors at one point or another. None of us are immune to that. Perhaps it is that some of us have an “off” button that gives us a better sense of when to stop things that are destructive. What I do know is that we are all human. I shy away from the word “broken” though surely that is a truth we know. I have read recently that there is original grace instead of original sin. I prefer that logic, particularly if we are made a little lower than the angels.
I also know how proud I am of these two who continue to work each day (maybe each minute) to stay sober. To stay healthy. To stay self aware. They speak truth to themselves each day and to me most of the time. We all laughed hard at college tales of stupidity but unadulterated fun at the same time. Not many regrets there either. We laughed hard at our own foibles and fallibility. And patted ourselves on the back for keeping at it and getting up every day.
It is times like these I am grateful for my habit of not ridding myself of people. I need these and others to remind me who I am, who I was, how far I have come, and how far I have yet to travel. It is good to go along with someone.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Summer Job Posting
Lots of folks have asked me what I am up to this summer, a summer that is proving to be one of transition and re invention or some such newness. My pat answer in grown up speak is that I am the Assistant Director of East Nashville Hope Exchange. Hope Exchange is a five week reading enrichment program for kids in East Nashville. We are located at St. Ann’s Episcopal Church at the corner of Woodland and 5th Street.
That is the technical job description anyway. The real job description is chief snack maker, sometime cheerleader, field trip coordinator, lemonade creator, Kool Aid chef, reading buddy, nurse on call, track coach and sometime pace maker, and anything else that gets tossed my way. I am learning to make Kool Aid. I need a taste tester every day almost. And always the reaction is that it needs more sugar. So I add a boat load more mix…more than any human being should have especially if they are 4 feet tall and are going to be confined for the next hour and a half. But my 6, 7, and 8 year old taste testers tell me it is getting better. I am grateful to add that to my transferable skill set.
I usually spend my time with sick kids, kids that are dying, or their parents who are grieving their loss. So this summer is an experiment in life. It has been a welcome and needed break. I have watched a 6 year old girl with fire in her eyes knock over a boy who wouldn’t let her play football. All the little girls thought her a hero of sorts. And all the big girls secretly cheered for her too. We have had our share of homesickness – the 6 year old who only sees her Dad before work in the morning and another little girl who wanted to hang out with her mom because the day was “too long”. Her mom works 2nd shift at the Fire Department. Her days are too long too.
We have read “Pig Boy”, a book about an adventurous little pig who morphs into what he needs to become as life throws him adventures. He ends up like the rest of us, wanting his mom at the end of the day. There was Sam the Hot Dog man who retired at the bakery only to open a hot dog stand and work 10 – 2 every day so he could fish with his wife. He also saved some kids from a snowstorm since his hot dog van was warm and had food. And then there was Moses who taught me and 2 others about sign language and music at the concert he had. Oh and there was the bus ride through the human body…only to have us sneezed out at the end of the day. If I had had that one as an 8 year old, I really would have been a doctor.
There are more adventures to come I am sure. We have two more weeks. My hope is that these 40 kids will gain some good reading skills, learn that life presents them with opportunities and choices to make, love with the abandon that they have now already, and they live into what they are created to be. Perhaps they might remember how it is to run with abandon to the fence and back and then do it again until they fall over or will roll down a hill and try to stand up straight afterwards. Life makes us dizzy but it passes soon enough.
Or maybe they will just teach me all of this.
That is the technical job description anyway. The real job description is chief snack maker, sometime cheerleader, field trip coordinator, lemonade creator, Kool Aid chef, reading buddy, nurse on call, track coach and sometime pace maker, and anything else that gets tossed my way. I am learning to make Kool Aid. I need a taste tester every day almost. And always the reaction is that it needs more sugar. So I add a boat load more mix…more than any human being should have especially if they are 4 feet tall and are going to be confined for the next hour and a half. But my 6, 7, and 8 year old taste testers tell me it is getting better. I am grateful to add that to my transferable skill set.
I usually spend my time with sick kids, kids that are dying, or their parents who are grieving their loss. So this summer is an experiment in life. It has been a welcome and needed break. I have watched a 6 year old girl with fire in her eyes knock over a boy who wouldn’t let her play football. All the little girls thought her a hero of sorts. And all the big girls secretly cheered for her too. We have had our share of homesickness – the 6 year old who only sees her Dad before work in the morning and another little girl who wanted to hang out with her mom because the day was “too long”. Her mom works 2nd shift at the Fire Department. Her days are too long too.
We have read “Pig Boy”, a book about an adventurous little pig who morphs into what he needs to become as life throws him adventures. He ends up like the rest of us, wanting his mom at the end of the day. There was Sam the Hot Dog man who retired at the bakery only to open a hot dog stand and work 10 – 2 every day so he could fish with his wife. He also saved some kids from a snowstorm since his hot dog van was warm and had food. And then there was Moses who taught me and 2 others about sign language and music at the concert he had. Oh and there was the bus ride through the human body…only to have us sneezed out at the end of the day. If I had had that one as an 8 year old, I really would have been a doctor.
There are more adventures to come I am sure. We have two more weeks. My hope is that these 40 kids will gain some good reading skills, learn that life presents them with opportunities and choices to make, love with the abandon that they have now already, and they live into what they are created to be. Perhaps they might remember how it is to run with abandon to the fence and back and then do it again until they fall over or will roll down a hill and try to stand up straight afterwards. Life makes us dizzy but it passes soon enough.
Or maybe they will just teach me all of this.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Frameworks? Who needs 'em?
Roller Girls. Roller Derby.
I remember Roller Derby when I was a kid. It was on television and was on a wooden track and looked just really out dated. Besides that, everyone wore pink and I thought that was stupid. Just not a fan of pink.
Last year some friends kept after me to go see the Nashville Roller Girls. Yeah yeah yeah I said. It cannot be all that fun. Looks kinda redneck. Looks like I would have to crush a beer can on my forehead to fit in. Looks like a preppy little red head from Vanderbilt would never like it. Well think again. It took all of 10 minutes and the trash talk started. Mostly because it was an intra league match and I was cheering for the “wrong team. I cheered for the Green Team …the X Pistols. The other team had on well, pink.
Once around the track and there were some bumps along the way. Twice around the track and someone got pushed into the crowd and I was hooked.
Last night was the second match of the season. It was a sanctioned match too so it was a kinda big deal. The place was sold out. A friend of mine came with us. She is an Ethics professor here in town. Smart. Articulate. Funny. And new to the sport. Her comments?
“I do not have an epistemological framework for this”
What the hell does that mean?
I remember Roller Derby when I was a kid. It was on television and was on a wooden track and looked just really out dated. Besides that, everyone wore pink and I thought that was stupid. Just not a fan of pink.
Last year some friends kept after me to go see the Nashville Roller Girls. Yeah yeah yeah I said. It cannot be all that fun. Looks kinda redneck. Looks like I would have to crush a beer can on my forehead to fit in. Looks like a preppy little red head from Vanderbilt would never like it. Well think again. It took all of 10 minutes and the trash talk started. Mostly because it was an intra league match and I was cheering for the “wrong team. I cheered for the Green Team …the X Pistols. The other team had on well, pink.
Once around the track and there were some bumps along the way. Twice around the track and someone got pushed into the crowd and I was hooked.
Last night was the second match of the season. It was a sanctioned match too so it was a kinda big deal. The place was sold out. A friend of mine came with us. She is an Ethics professor here in town. Smart. Articulate. Funny. And new to the sport. Her comments?
“I do not have an epistemological framework for this”
What the hell does that mean?
According to the dictionary epistemological means : a branch of philosophy that investigates the origin, nature, methods, and limits of human knowledge. So that all fits with her question and frankly her working out of life. In other words: I have no idea what this is!
She, by the way, is hooked too.
We looked at each other and wondered how in the world an ethics professor and a hospital chaplain were sitting at a Nashville Roller Girl Derby. Then we witnessed a halftime contest for Roller Girl names. The one that won? Mary Smash-delene. Uh huh. It did. The best part? It was a Div School grad who came up with it. So we watched as Lady Fury, Dr. Hildebeast, and Slammy Lou Harris skated their hearts out, flung their opponents to the ground, and won a hard fought match .
And then we went home and went to bed. All the better for the simplicity of it. No need for frameworks. No need for the usual trappings of sport. Just in your face names for in your face skaters who likely wait on us at area restaurants or bars. Who maybe have kids. Or who work next to us at the hospital.
Frameworks? Who needs ‘em!
And then we went home and went to bed. All the better for the simplicity of it. No need for frameworks. No need for the usual trappings of sport. Just in your face names for in your face skaters who likely wait on us at area restaurants or bars. Who maybe have kids. Or who work next to us at the hospital.
Frameworks? Who needs ‘em!
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Maybe a Little Patience too....
Lent. I love Lent. A time to reflect. That time in the church calendar that calls me to be still and shut the hell up. Those of you who know me know of my love…LOVE…for the liturgical calendar. It speaks to me in ways I can’t explain and has since I figured it out in my small Methodist church in Knoxville. I asked my mother why the colors were green and she said she didn’t know but we should find out. She was Baptist and most Baptists don’t follow such things. Too Catholic my grandmother always said.
But Mom and I found out together. And I have not ever looked at the world the same again.
Lent is usually a time of “giving up” something. I choose to take on something since every time I give up something I think I fail. So I take on a practice. One year was water. I never drank enough so that year I drank so much I couldn’t help but go to the bathroom every hour on the hour. My kidneys LOVED me.
This year I decided to call my family. As an only child and one whose parents are both deceased, family is a precious and elusive entity to me. It has bothered me a lot this year. I am far away from my hometown of Knoxville (well farther than I usually am). My Other Dad, Sam is older and frankly drives me a little nutty with his sermons. And he does sermonize on how we don’t know the Bible enough, preachers don’t preach it enough, Israel needs to be protected and is my car ok. I love him. Truly, madly, deeply, I love him. He taught me so much about the Bible, about faithful living, about car care, about people and how to treat them. I think he even taught me how to flirt. And how to wear a ball cap.
But he tries my patience. And reminds me why I needed to do this call thing anyway. As a way to remember who is important and maybe to remember who is it that loves me even when they know I took their gospel lessons and turned them on their head. I re-interpreted lots of things he taught me. I heard God loves everyone. God created everyone. God will care for you. The church matters. Only I think Sam is a little more exclusive about God and who God cares for. I missed that part of the sermon message.
But I called. I will call him again next week. Because he makes me laugh and he makes me cry when he tells me he loves me. He knows me since I was a baby. Was there when I was born and was one of the first people to hold me (#4, I think after Mom, Dad, and Dot). I need patience with him now. But I think I need HIM more.
When is Lent over?!
But Mom and I found out together. And I have not ever looked at the world the same again.
Lent is usually a time of “giving up” something. I choose to take on something since every time I give up something I think I fail. So I take on a practice. One year was water. I never drank enough so that year I drank so much I couldn’t help but go to the bathroom every hour on the hour. My kidneys LOVED me.
This year I decided to call my family. As an only child and one whose parents are both deceased, family is a precious and elusive entity to me. It has bothered me a lot this year. I am far away from my hometown of Knoxville (well farther than I usually am). My Other Dad, Sam is older and frankly drives me a little nutty with his sermons. And he does sermonize on how we don’t know the Bible enough, preachers don’t preach it enough, Israel needs to be protected and is my car ok. I love him. Truly, madly, deeply, I love him. He taught me so much about the Bible, about faithful living, about car care, about people and how to treat them. I think he even taught me how to flirt. And how to wear a ball cap.
But he tries my patience. And reminds me why I needed to do this call thing anyway. As a way to remember who is important and maybe to remember who is it that loves me even when they know I took their gospel lessons and turned them on their head. I re-interpreted lots of things he taught me. I heard God loves everyone. God created everyone. God will care for you. The church matters. Only I think Sam is a little more exclusive about God and who God cares for. I missed that part of the sermon message.
But I called. I will call him again next week. Because he makes me laugh and he makes me cry when he tells me he loves me. He knows me since I was a baby. Was there when I was born and was one of the first people to hold me (#4, I think after Mom, Dad, and Dot). I need patience with him now. But I think I need HIM more.
When is Lent over?!
Monday, February 23, 2009
Shoes
I wrote this for a class reflection. We reflect a lot around here. Too much sometimes. I am a little anxious today. For reasons that are obvious. I graduate in May with hopes of a job over the summer and hopes of an internship in August that will pay me for a bit. But hopes don't always pay the bills. I get anxious over all of that and all of sudden I get anxious. Maybe it won't last too long. The reflection part is for a Field Education class where we are "encouraged" to do a spiritual discipline. We don't do very well with disciplines really. I picked walking cause I know I do that on a fairly regular basis.
Reflection on Shoes, Part I
Shoes
The tales you could tell about where you have been
The things you have collected that I missed along the way
The grounds on which we walk, what has it seen and taken on from us?
From others.
Ground called “hallowed”.
Ground “condemned”
Ground poisoned
Ground lush with food
Ground called home
Stomping ground
Named by what happens there, who lives there, who dies there.
Shoes
These went across the sea to places of wonder and worship.
They were bathed in tears that day in the park.
They were washed in the blood of a child
They carry my weight and the weight of the world in which I walk.
Placed specially in a place as a reminder of all that is out there
Shoes
Protecting feet that walk too much in death
Supporting knees that ran too much too young
Teaching me to dance in love
Carrying me into an intimate place where it is just me and Thee
Where I am cared for, loved, named, and held. On hallowed ground simply because I am present
Reflection on Shoes, Part I
Shoes
The tales you could tell about where you have been
The things you have collected that I missed along the way
The grounds on which we walk, what has it seen and taken on from us?
From others.
Ground called “hallowed”.
Ground “condemned”
Ground poisoned
Ground lush with food
Ground called home
Stomping ground
Named by what happens there, who lives there, who dies there.
Shoes
These went across the sea to places of wonder and worship.
They were bathed in tears that day in the park.
They were washed in the blood of a child
They carry my weight and the weight of the world in which I walk.
Placed specially in a place as a reminder of all that is out there
Shoes
Protecting feet that walk too much in death
Supporting knees that ran too much too young
Teaching me to dance in love
Carrying me into an intimate place where it is just me and Thee
Where I am cared for, loved, named, and held. On hallowed ground simply because I am present
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Aunt Kay
Kay Yow was buried today. The finality of life that seems to just end for some.
She was an inspiration to many of those fighting cancer. Her “success” at having had 2 recurrences and continued work seemed to define what cancer should look like…manageable and chronic. As one who has witnessed it up close in my personal life and work, I can be assured it doesn’t always look so “easy”. She was likely in pain for much of the last few years. Fogged by chemo brain and tired beyond any measure of a way we healthy ones can imagine. Admirable for sure, and certainly for her, the way she managed the disease was a way she could continue to educate and care for young women.
But rather than being defined as a “fighter” and “brave”, I hope that she knew in her heart of hearts what she meant to others. Reports of 1400 or so at the funeral yesterday are followed by reports of 300 or so at a burial. She did a video that was played at the funeral. A little creepy but she was known as a talker so no reason to deny a woman her last word.
I didn’t know Kay Yow. I watched her coach basketball for so many years she just seemed to be there. Kind of like Pat still is. There is a bevy of coaches who are still considered the matriarchs of this sport I love so much. And most are still young enough to remain active for a while to come. Yet we forget they have lives to live. Kids to raise. Divorces to contend with and diseases to fight.
I knew Kay Yow’s nephew however. He was a tall gangly fella named Walt Beeker. A kind soul who loved his Aunt Kay. He spent a good deal of time in my office on Friday afternoons when I was at East Tennessee State University. Last I knew of him he was a contractor in Myrtle Beach. From him, I heard stories of visits to the country and fun times with family. Full of food and those warm southern memories. I didn’t know until just before graduation that "Aunt Kay" was Kay Yow. I am glad I didn’t because I could hear stories of the woman and not who I thought she should be.
I hope we can all be seen as who we are. Not just what we do or who we know or how many people attend our funeral.
May we all be Aunt Kay, or Cousin Khette, or whatever we are called by our loved ones.
Because that is what matters.
She was an inspiration to many of those fighting cancer. Her “success” at having had 2 recurrences and continued work seemed to define what cancer should look like…manageable and chronic. As one who has witnessed it up close in my personal life and work, I can be assured it doesn’t always look so “easy”. She was likely in pain for much of the last few years. Fogged by chemo brain and tired beyond any measure of a way we healthy ones can imagine. Admirable for sure, and certainly for her, the way she managed the disease was a way she could continue to educate and care for young women.
But rather than being defined as a “fighter” and “brave”, I hope that she knew in her heart of hearts what she meant to others. Reports of 1400 or so at the funeral yesterday are followed by reports of 300 or so at a burial. She did a video that was played at the funeral. A little creepy but she was known as a talker so no reason to deny a woman her last word.
I didn’t know Kay Yow. I watched her coach basketball for so many years she just seemed to be there. Kind of like Pat still is. There is a bevy of coaches who are still considered the matriarchs of this sport I love so much. And most are still young enough to remain active for a while to come. Yet we forget they have lives to live. Kids to raise. Divorces to contend with and diseases to fight.
I knew Kay Yow’s nephew however. He was a tall gangly fella named Walt Beeker. A kind soul who loved his Aunt Kay. He spent a good deal of time in my office on Friday afternoons when I was at East Tennessee State University. Last I knew of him he was a contractor in Myrtle Beach. From him, I heard stories of visits to the country and fun times with family. Full of food and those warm southern memories. I didn’t know until just before graduation that "Aunt Kay" was Kay Yow. I am glad I didn’t because I could hear stories of the woman and not who I thought she should be.
I hope we can all be seen as who we are. Not just what we do or who we know or how many people attend our funeral.
May we all be Aunt Kay, or Cousin Khette, or whatever we are called by our loved ones.
Because that is what matters.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Reality and Religion
I got a call today from the Children’s Emergency Dept. I don't always get to go down there but when I do, it is never good. I guess it is what I call the Jesus shit. That stuff no one wants to do but some of us get to do and it becomes a back-ass-wards blessing. And well, Jesus shit likes me I think.
A 1 year old child was hurt in a car wreck. Uncle was driving. He is being treated elsewhere. Mom is about 25 or so. There were a gazillion people in the Trauma room doing what a zillion individuals do in a trauma room to keep a being alive. How that all works I have no idea. The little girl’s heart had stopped completely at one point but oxygen was continually running so maybe there is no further damage. So they prepared to take the child to get a CT scan. Before they go Mom went in to see her baby for a moment. So was escorted by a very skilled nurse manager. We had already prayed in the hallway… that place that for me seems to be the literal line often between life and death. The no man's land of uncertainty.
After they whisked the baby away to CT, Mom collapsed into a chair. I held her as close as I could. I realized as I started to put my own knee down to the floor a nurse stopped me. There was a pool of blood beneath me. I think I have some on the bottom of my shoes probably. We moved mom to another room for some privacy. Grandma came to be of no use as she decided to have heart issues (a pre condition anyway). I moved to the hallway to let them do their medical thing and the same capable nurse manager came out and thanked me for being there and said "She is of no f-ing use" which made me laugh. One thing about ED nurses is that they don't mince words...about anything. Much.
I passed the same trauma room when I left the ED. All the paper and plastic and yes the blood was still there. The chaos of keeping life in this world.
It makes the body and blood real. All of it.
And somehow I have to go read some book on Shenandoah Religion….
A 1 year old child was hurt in a car wreck. Uncle was driving. He is being treated elsewhere. Mom is about 25 or so. There were a gazillion people in the Trauma room doing what a zillion individuals do in a trauma room to keep a being alive. How that all works I have no idea. The little girl’s heart had stopped completely at one point but oxygen was continually running so maybe there is no further damage. So they prepared to take the child to get a CT scan. Before they go Mom went in to see her baby for a moment. So was escorted by a very skilled nurse manager. We had already prayed in the hallway… that place that for me seems to be the literal line often between life and death. The no man's land of uncertainty.
After they whisked the baby away to CT, Mom collapsed into a chair. I held her as close as I could. I realized as I started to put my own knee down to the floor a nurse stopped me. There was a pool of blood beneath me. I think I have some on the bottom of my shoes probably. We moved mom to another room for some privacy. Grandma came to be of no use as she decided to have heart issues (a pre condition anyway). I moved to the hallway to let them do their medical thing and the same capable nurse manager came out and thanked me for being there and said "She is of no f-ing use" which made me laugh. One thing about ED nurses is that they don't mince words...about anything. Much.
I passed the same trauma room when I left the ED. All the paper and plastic and yes the blood was still there. The chaos of keeping life in this world.
It makes the body and blood real. All of it.
And somehow I have to go read some book on Shenandoah Religion….
Friday, January 9, 2009
Epiphanies and Referendum (or is it Referenda? Referen-duh?)
A few weeks ago I was called to the room of a mother whose child had been admitted to the hospital.
As I approached the room, I noticed that mom looked frightened and held her son close.
I approached her carefully and said hello.
We quickly realized that my Spanish and her English was not going to get us too far. After a few awkward moments of rudimentary sign language and pointing, I came to the obvious conclusion that I needed some help.
I called an interpreter.
I had a choice with how to do this. I could talk to mom through an interpreter on the phone. This seemed a little impersonal. Or an interpreter could come to her room and we could talk together.
Now to do this, I had to make an appointment. All of which meant due to scheduling, I would not even get to speak to mom again. Another chaplain would.
I found the whole experience Frustrating and Inconvenient. Because of the language barrier, we could not express ourselves in a way that was authentic to either of us.
And we lost something in translation.
On January 22, 2009 Davidson County residents may consider a Charter amendment proposal that deems English as the only language in which the county government may do business.
Officially, this amendment states, in full, emphasis is mine:
English is the official language of the Metropolitan Government of Nashville and Davidson County, Tennessee.
Official actions which bind or commit the government shall be taken only in the English language, and all official government communications and publications shall be in English.
No person shall have a right to government services in any other language. All meetings of the Metro Council, Boards, and Commissions of the Metropolitan Government shall be conducted in English. The Metro Council may make specific exceptions to protect public health and safety. Nothing in this measure shall be interpreted to conflict with federal or state law.
In December, I joined several local clergy members in the Glendale Baptist Church Fellowship Hall to discuss this amendment.
I would say we met under the cover of darkness in the basement but that simply was not the case. This overt operation included salad, chili, homemade cobbler, and iced tea.
The usual suspects were present. The serious conversations we had about inclusion and welcome was interspersed with laughter and concern about what it meant to be a witness to the life of Christ and a citizen of the world.
As faith leaders, your pastors (and intern) felt it necessary to talk with others who oppose this amendment, to share information, to share stories, to share the burden of leadership in times of cultural conflict.
Over lunch, we decided Epiphany Sunday would be a date to collectively preach upon what it means to welcome the stranger.
There are signs where I live that invite my community to “Keep Nashville Friendly”.
I reckon that is what we do in the South. I was told growing up to be nice. Be friendly. Bless their hearts.
But this amendment calls for so much more than let’s be nice to each other. It is about more than friendliness and the platitudes of propriety.
It is about prejudice and power and frankly fear.
Notice the language. It calls for totality of action. Words such as ONLY and ALL, No person. The amendment literally calls for voices to be silenced.
There is no room for any one else, in the inn or in the courthouse, or the city employment line.
In contrast, Matthew’s text tells the story of strangers at the bedside and a story of aliens as angels.
And if you saw our Christmas pageant a few weeks ago, the kids will tell you, the aliens are less scary.
To read this text again especially through the lens of local politics, one can clearly see the power dynamics. Herod fears this child. His power is threatened. He doesn’t know who or where this child is. But he fears him.
Later in Matthew it becomes clear to what lengths Herod will go to retain his power. Going on to murder all male children under the age of three, he wipes out a whole generation of Israel.
This amendment before us in essence wipes out a whole segment of our population as well.
UCC minister Kathy Huey suggests: “the biblical story leads us to ponder the meaning of visitors from the very places in the world that we seem to fear most right now.”
She suggests that we get a better sense of the reaction to these visitors if we imagine a visit to our local church (or government) by religious or political leaders from say Iran or Iraq. South Koreans or Chinese.
What is it we fear? What is it that drives this amendment?
Scott Hoezee puts it this way: "Matthew is giving a Gospel sneak preview: the Christ child who attracted these odd Magi to his cradle will later have the same magnetic effect on Samaritan adulterers, immoral prostitutes, greasy tax collectors on the take, despised Roman soldiers, and ostracized lepers."
In Matthew's story, then, of God at work in the world--the good news, the gospel--these foreigners, these Gentiles, represent us, too, in a sense. Remember then that Matthew, twenty-six chapters later, would tell of Jesus commanding his disciples to "Go, make disciples of all nations."
We are all in this big picture. The one that includes a big tent of a tradition of hope rooted in the prophets and embodied by Jesus Christ himself.
I recall stopping at a local bank one afternoon. I approached the ATM machine, already irritated that it was “talking to me”.
I put my card into the slot only to notice a message that I could receive my instructions in English or Spanish.
I was furious. Why is it that I have to choose I thought? I want English. I speak English. If I was in France I would have to speak French. No one would help me. I would be lost and unable to communicate or know what to eat or go to the bathroom….
In less than 5 minutes I had become a world traveler lost in Europe ..all from the comfort of my car which sat in a bank parking lot in Chattanooga Tennessee.
How did THAT happen? How was it that I became afraid of instructions on the ATM machine?
But do these arguments sound familiar?
After a few minutes and maybe a year or two later, I came to my senses a bit.
I was a management major in college. In reality banks aren’t going to reprogram their ATM’s just to be “friendly”. They are going to invest in where they will receive the most benefit.
To have instructions in English or Spanish is good business. That means our Latino neighbors might have bank accounts. They are contributing to the economy. They are helping me have a more diverse and rich life experience.
There is no word from our text as to how the magi interacted with Jesus or his family or the locals.
There is no word from our text as to whether they were wanted or not.
But they were welcomed. If nothing else, their story was deemed important enough to be included in our faith tradition.
Under the proposed amendment before us, this story would not be included. Thousands of stories will not be included. Lives will continue to be ignored and will be made irrelevant.
It isn’t to be “nice and friendly” that we should think hard about this resolution.
It is to realize that some resolutions are just mean spirited.
It is to remember that as our own table is set, all are welcome.
Our text does tell us is that the magi went home another way.
They chose a different path. They chose to travel a longer road. Perhaps one that was frustrating and inconvenient and required an interpreter.
But they knew that was the best path.
Let us do the same. Not for convenience but for community.
For welcome.
For the love of all of us.
As I approached the room, I noticed that mom looked frightened and held her son close.
I approached her carefully and said hello.
We quickly realized that my Spanish and her English was not going to get us too far. After a few awkward moments of rudimentary sign language and pointing, I came to the obvious conclusion that I needed some help.
I called an interpreter.
I had a choice with how to do this. I could talk to mom through an interpreter on the phone. This seemed a little impersonal. Or an interpreter could come to her room and we could talk together.
Now to do this, I had to make an appointment. All of which meant due to scheduling, I would not even get to speak to mom again. Another chaplain would.
I found the whole experience Frustrating and Inconvenient. Because of the language barrier, we could not express ourselves in a way that was authentic to either of us.
And we lost something in translation.
On January 22, 2009 Davidson County residents may consider a Charter amendment proposal that deems English as the only language in which the county government may do business.
Officially, this amendment states, in full, emphasis is mine:
English is the official language of the Metropolitan Government of Nashville and Davidson County, Tennessee.
Official actions which bind or commit the government shall be taken only in the English language, and all official government communications and publications shall be in English.
No person shall have a right to government services in any other language. All meetings of the Metro Council, Boards, and Commissions of the Metropolitan Government shall be conducted in English. The Metro Council may make specific exceptions to protect public health and safety. Nothing in this measure shall be interpreted to conflict with federal or state law.
In December, I joined several local clergy members in the Glendale Baptist Church Fellowship Hall to discuss this amendment.
I would say we met under the cover of darkness in the basement but that simply was not the case. This overt operation included salad, chili, homemade cobbler, and iced tea.
The usual suspects were present. The serious conversations we had about inclusion and welcome was interspersed with laughter and concern about what it meant to be a witness to the life of Christ and a citizen of the world.
As faith leaders, your pastors (and intern) felt it necessary to talk with others who oppose this amendment, to share information, to share stories, to share the burden of leadership in times of cultural conflict.
Over lunch, we decided Epiphany Sunday would be a date to collectively preach upon what it means to welcome the stranger.
There are signs where I live that invite my community to “Keep Nashville Friendly”.
I reckon that is what we do in the South. I was told growing up to be nice. Be friendly. Bless their hearts.
But this amendment calls for so much more than let’s be nice to each other. It is about more than friendliness and the platitudes of propriety.
It is about prejudice and power and frankly fear.
Notice the language. It calls for totality of action. Words such as ONLY and ALL, No person. The amendment literally calls for voices to be silenced.
There is no room for any one else, in the inn or in the courthouse, or the city employment line.
In contrast, Matthew’s text tells the story of strangers at the bedside and a story of aliens as angels.
And if you saw our Christmas pageant a few weeks ago, the kids will tell you, the aliens are less scary.
To read this text again especially through the lens of local politics, one can clearly see the power dynamics. Herod fears this child. His power is threatened. He doesn’t know who or where this child is. But he fears him.
Later in Matthew it becomes clear to what lengths Herod will go to retain his power. Going on to murder all male children under the age of three, he wipes out a whole generation of Israel.
This amendment before us in essence wipes out a whole segment of our population as well.
UCC minister Kathy Huey suggests: “the biblical story leads us to ponder the meaning of visitors from the very places in the world that we seem to fear most right now.”
She suggests that we get a better sense of the reaction to these visitors if we imagine a visit to our local church (or government) by religious or political leaders from say Iran or Iraq. South Koreans or Chinese.
What is it we fear? What is it that drives this amendment?
Scott Hoezee puts it this way: "Matthew is giving a Gospel sneak preview: the Christ child who attracted these odd Magi to his cradle will later have the same magnetic effect on Samaritan adulterers, immoral prostitutes, greasy tax collectors on the take, despised Roman soldiers, and ostracized lepers."
In Matthew's story, then, of God at work in the world--the good news, the gospel--these foreigners, these Gentiles, represent us, too, in a sense. Remember then that Matthew, twenty-six chapters later, would tell of Jesus commanding his disciples to "Go, make disciples of all nations."
We are all in this big picture. The one that includes a big tent of a tradition of hope rooted in the prophets and embodied by Jesus Christ himself.
I recall stopping at a local bank one afternoon. I approached the ATM machine, already irritated that it was “talking to me”.
I put my card into the slot only to notice a message that I could receive my instructions in English or Spanish.
I was furious. Why is it that I have to choose I thought? I want English. I speak English. If I was in France I would have to speak French. No one would help me. I would be lost and unable to communicate or know what to eat or go to the bathroom….
In less than 5 minutes I had become a world traveler lost in Europe ..all from the comfort of my car which sat in a bank parking lot in Chattanooga Tennessee.
How did THAT happen? How was it that I became afraid of instructions on the ATM machine?
But do these arguments sound familiar?
After a few minutes and maybe a year or two later, I came to my senses a bit.
I was a management major in college. In reality banks aren’t going to reprogram their ATM’s just to be “friendly”. They are going to invest in where they will receive the most benefit.
To have instructions in English or Spanish is good business. That means our Latino neighbors might have bank accounts. They are contributing to the economy. They are helping me have a more diverse and rich life experience.
There is no word from our text as to how the magi interacted with Jesus or his family or the locals.
There is no word from our text as to whether they were wanted or not.
But they were welcomed. If nothing else, their story was deemed important enough to be included in our faith tradition.
Under the proposed amendment before us, this story would not be included. Thousands of stories will not be included. Lives will continue to be ignored and will be made irrelevant.
It isn’t to be “nice and friendly” that we should think hard about this resolution.
It is to realize that some resolutions are just mean spirited.
It is to remember that as our own table is set, all are welcome.
Our text does tell us is that the magi went home another way.
They chose a different path. They chose to travel a longer road. Perhaps one that was frustrating and inconvenient and required an interpreter.
But they knew that was the best path.
Let us do the same. Not for convenience but for community.
For welcome.
For the love of all of us.
Epiphanies and Referendum (or is it Referenda? Referen-duh?)
A few weeks ago I was called to the room of a mother whose child had been admitted to the hospital.
As I approached the room, I noticed that mom looked frightened and held her son close.
I approached her carefully and said hello.
We quickly realized that my Spanish and her English was not going to get us too far. After a few awkward moments of rudimentary sign language and pointing, I came to the obvious conclusion that I needed some help.
I called an interpreter.
I had a choice with how to do this. I could talk to mom through an interpreter on the phone. This seemed a little impersonal. Or an interpreter could come to her room and we could talk together.
Now to do this, I had to make an appointment. All of which meant due to scheduling, I would not even get to speak to mom again. Another chaplain would.
I found the whole experience Frustrating and Inconvenient. Because of the language barrier, we could not express ourselves in a way that was authentic to either of us.
And we lost something in translation.
On January 22, 2009 Davidson County residents may consider a Charter amendment proposal that deems English as the only language in which the county government may do business.
Officially, this amendment states, in full, emphasis is mine:
English is the official language of the Metropolitan Government of Nashville and Davidson County, Tennessee.
Official actions which bind or commit the government shall be taken only in the English language, and all official government communications and publications shall be in English.
No person shall have a right to government services in any other language. All meetings of the Metro Council, Boards, and Commissions of the Metropolitan Government shall be conducted in English. The Metro Council may make specific exceptions to protect public health and safety. Nothing in this measure shall be interpreted to conflict with federal or state law.
In December, I joined several local clergy members in the Glendale Baptist Church Fellowship Hall to discuss this amendment.
I would say we met under the cover of darkness in the basement but that simply was not the case. This overt operation included salad, chili, homemade cobbler, and iced tea.
The usual suspects were present. The serious conversations we had about inclusion and welcome was interspersed with laughter and concern about what it meant to be a witness to the life of Christ and a citizen of the world.
As faith leaders, your pastors (and intern) felt it necessary to talk with others who oppose this amendment, to share information, to share stories, to share the burden of leadership in times of cultural conflict.
Over lunch, we decided Epiphany Sunday would be a date to collectively preach upon what it means to welcome the stranger.
There are signs where I live that invite my community to “Keep Nashville Friendly”.
I reckon that is what we do in the South. I was told growing up to be nice. Be friendly. Bless their hearts.
But this amendment calls for so much more than let’s be nice to each other. It is about more than friendliness and the platitudes of propriety.
It is about prejudice and power and frankly fear.
Notice the language. It calls for totality of action. Words such as ONLY and ALL, No person. The amendment literally calls for voices to be silenced.
There is no room for any one else, in the inn or in the courthouse, or the city employment line.
In contrast, Matthew’s text tells the story of strangers at the bedside and a story of aliens as angels.
And if you saw our Christmas pageant a few weeks ago, the kids will tell you, the aliens are less scary.
To read this text again especially through the lens of local politics, one can clearly see the power dynamics. Herod fears this child. His power is threatened. He doesn’t know who or where this child is. But he fears him.
Later in Matthew it becomes clear to what lengths Herod will go to retain his power. Going on to murder all male children under the age of three, he wipes out a whole generation of Israel.
This amendment before us in essence wipes out a whole segment of our population as well.
UCC minister Kathy Huey suggests: “the biblical story leads us to ponder the meaning of visitors from the very places in the world that we seem to fear most right now.”
She suggests that we get a better sense of the reaction to these visitors if we imagine a visit to our local church (or government) by religious or political leaders from say Iran or Iraq. South Koreans or Chinese.
What is it we fear? What is it that drives this amendment?
Scott Hoezee puts it this way: "Matthew is giving a Gospel sneak preview: the Christ child who attracted these odd Magi to his cradle will later have the same magnetic effect on Samaritan adulterers, immoral prostitutes, greasy tax collectors on the take, despised Roman soldiers, and ostracized lepers."
In Matthew's story, then, of God at work in the world--the good news, the gospel--these foreigners, these Gentiles, represent us, too, in a sense. Remember then that Matthew, twenty-six chapters later, would tell of Jesus commanding his disciples to "Go, make disciples of all nations."
We are all in this big picture. The one that includes a big tent of a tradition of hope rooted in the prophets and embodied by Jesus Christ himself.
I recall stopping at a local bank one afternoon. I approached the ATM machine, already irritated that it was “talking to me”.
I put my card into the slot only to notice a message that I could receive my instructions in English or Spanish.
I was furious. Why is it that I have to choose I thought? I want English. I speak English. If I was in France I would have to speak French. No one would help me. I would be lost and unable to communicate or know what to eat or go to the bathroom….
In less than 5 minutes I had become a world traveler lost in Europe ..all from the comfort of my car which sat in a bank parking lot in Chattanooga Tennessee.
How did THAT happen? How was it that I became afraid of instructions on the ATM machine?
But do these arguments sound familiar?
After a few minutes and maybe a year or two later, I came to my senses a bit.
I was a management major in college. In reality banks aren’t going to reprogram their ATM’s just to be “friendly”. They are going to invest in where they will receive the most benefit.
To have instructions in English or Spanish is good business. That means our Latino neighbors might have bank accounts. They are contributing to the economy. They are helping me have a more diverse and rich life experience.
There is no word from our text as to how the magi interacted with Jesus or his family or the locals.
There is no word from our text as to whether they were wanted or not.
But they were welcomed. If nothing else, their story was deemed important enough to be included in our faith tradition.
Under the proposed amendment before us, this story would not be included. Thousands of stories will not be included. Lives will continue to be ignored and will be made irrelevant.
It isn’t to be “nice and friendly” that we should think hard about this resolution.
It is to realize that some resolutions are just mean spirited.
It is to remember that as our own table is set, all are welcome.
Our text does tell us is that the magi went home another way.
They chose a different path. They chose to travel a longer road. Perhaps one that was frustrating and inconvenient and required an interpreter.
But they knew that was the best path.
Let us do the same. Not for convenience but for community.
For welcome.
For the love of all of us.
As I approached the room, I noticed that mom looked frightened and held her son close.
I approached her carefully and said hello.
We quickly realized that my Spanish and her English was not going to get us too far. After a few awkward moments of rudimentary sign language and pointing, I came to the obvious conclusion that I needed some help.
I called an interpreter.
I had a choice with how to do this. I could talk to mom through an interpreter on the phone. This seemed a little impersonal. Or an interpreter could come to her room and we could talk together.
Now to do this, I had to make an appointment. All of which meant due to scheduling, I would not even get to speak to mom again. Another chaplain would.
I found the whole experience Frustrating and Inconvenient. Because of the language barrier, we could not express ourselves in a way that was authentic to either of us.
And we lost something in translation.
On January 22, 2009 Davidson County residents may consider a Charter amendment proposal that deems English as the only language in which the county government may do business.
Officially, this amendment states, in full, emphasis is mine:
English is the official language of the Metropolitan Government of Nashville and Davidson County, Tennessee.
Official actions which bind or commit the government shall be taken only in the English language, and all official government communications and publications shall be in English.
No person shall have a right to government services in any other language. All meetings of the Metro Council, Boards, and Commissions of the Metropolitan Government shall be conducted in English. The Metro Council may make specific exceptions to protect public health and safety. Nothing in this measure shall be interpreted to conflict with federal or state law.
In December, I joined several local clergy members in the Glendale Baptist Church Fellowship Hall to discuss this amendment.
I would say we met under the cover of darkness in the basement but that simply was not the case. This overt operation included salad, chili, homemade cobbler, and iced tea.
The usual suspects were present. The serious conversations we had about inclusion and welcome was interspersed with laughter and concern about what it meant to be a witness to the life of Christ and a citizen of the world.
As faith leaders, your pastors (and intern) felt it necessary to talk with others who oppose this amendment, to share information, to share stories, to share the burden of leadership in times of cultural conflict.
Over lunch, we decided Epiphany Sunday would be a date to collectively preach upon what it means to welcome the stranger.
There are signs where I live that invite my community to “Keep Nashville Friendly”.
I reckon that is what we do in the South. I was told growing up to be nice. Be friendly. Bless their hearts.
But this amendment calls for so much more than let’s be nice to each other. It is about more than friendliness and the platitudes of propriety.
It is about prejudice and power and frankly fear.
Notice the language. It calls for totality of action. Words such as ONLY and ALL, No person. The amendment literally calls for voices to be silenced.
There is no room for any one else, in the inn or in the courthouse, or the city employment line.
In contrast, Matthew’s text tells the story of strangers at the bedside and a story of aliens as angels.
And if you saw our Christmas pageant a few weeks ago, the kids will tell you, the aliens are less scary.
To read this text again especially through the lens of local politics, one can clearly see the power dynamics. Herod fears this child. His power is threatened. He doesn’t know who or where this child is. But he fears him.
Later in Matthew it becomes clear to what lengths Herod will go to retain his power. Going on to murder all male children under the age of three, he wipes out a whole generation of Israel.
This amendment before us in essence wipes out a whole segment of our population as well.
UCC minister Kathy Huey suggests: “the biblical story leads us to ponder the meaning of visitors from the very places in the world that we seem to fear most right now.”
She suggests that we get a better sense of the reaction to these visitors if we imagine a visit to our local church (or government) by religious or political leaders from say Iran or Iraq. South Koreans or Chinese.
What is it we fear? What is it that drives this amendment?
Scott Hoezee puts it this way: "Matthew is giving a Gospel sneak preview: the Christ child who attracted these odd Magi to his cradle will later have the same magnetic effect on Samaritan adulterers, immoral prostitutes, greasy tax collectors on the take, despised Roman soldiers, and ostracized lepers."
In Matthew's story, then, of God at work in the world--the good news, the gospel--these foreigners, these Gentiles, represent us, too, in a sense. Remember then that Matthew, twenty-six chapters later, would tell of Jesus commanding his disciples to "Go, make disciples of all nations."
We are all in this big picture. The one that includes a big tent of a tradition of hope rooted in the prophets and embodied by Jesus Christ himself.
I recall stopping at a local bank one afternoon. I approached the ATM machine, already irritated that it was “talking to me”.
I put my card into the slot only to notice a message that I could receive my instructions in English or Spanish.
I was furious. Why is it that I have to choose I thought? I want English. I speak English. If I was in France I would have to speak French. No one would help me. I would be lost and unable to communicate or know what to eat or go to the bathroom….
In less than 5 minutes I had become a world traveler lost in Europe ..all from the comfort of my car which sat in a bank parking lot in Chattanooga Tennessee.
How did THAT happen? How was it that I became afraid of instructions on the ATM machine?
But do these arguments sound familiar?
After a few minutes and maybe a year or two later, I came to my senses a bit.
I was a management major in college. In reality banks aren’t going to reprogram their ATM’s just to be “friendly”. They are going to invest in where they will receive the most benefit.
To have instructions in English or Spanish is good business. That means our Latino neighbors might have bank accounts. They are contributing to the economy. They are helping me have a more diverse and rich life experience.
There is no word from our text as to how the magi interacted with Jesus or his family or the locals.
There is no word from our text as to whether they were wanted or not.
But they were welcomed. If nothing else, their story was deemed important enough to be included in our faith tradition.
Under the proposed amendment before us, this story would not be included. Thousands of stories will not be included. Lives will continue to be ignored and will be made irrelevant.
It isn’t to be “nice and friendly” that we should think hard about this resolution.
It is to realize that some resolutions are just mean spirited.
It is to remember that as our own table is set, all are welcome.
Our text does tell us is that the magi went home another way.
They chose a different path. They chose to travel a longer road. Perhaps one that was frustrating and inconvenient and required an interpreter.
But they knew that was the best path.
Let us do the same. Not for convenience but for community.
For welcome.
For the love of all of us.
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