Tears and Fabric

Of the MLK quotes that have found their way into my writing over the years, these lines, from the Letter from the Birmingham City Jail, have resonated most often with my own thinking:

Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. 

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about two parts of that connection and the weaving. When we were in Atlanta for my brother-in-law’s memorial we stayed with a friend on her family’s farm out near Stone Mountain. The story of the remnant 60-some acres of what was once a 600-acre farm that has been in a family since the 1940s is one of being woven together. The story of Stone Mountain itself, with its tortuous history of KKK gatherings and its weird relief of Confederate heroes, has its own inescapable network of connections.

These days the farm where we stayed boards horses, and out in the middle of one pasture stands a seismic station. It can detect an earthquake happening on the other side of the world. The stable earth we stood on in Atlanta is the same rumbling earth shaking beneath the feet of others standing half a world away.

Our friend told us about finding some unexploded ordnance from the Civil War on the farm a few years back. She had professionals come out to take care of it which they did by blowing it up. I remember watching the video on Facebook. It was impressively loud. Yet it didn’t register on the seismic monitor. The explosion scratched the surface of the earth but it didn’t cut deep enough to register at the level where we are all connected.

The war that left behind the unexploded bomb and the carvings on the nearby mountain, on the other hand, touched far deeper places.

On a community and family level, the death that had brought us to Atlanta also left a deep wound that tears at many hearts. No seismic monitor can measure the depth and breadth of this shaking (although the site meter on the blog does show that more people read the eulogy to Terry than any other single post in the more than 10 years I’ve put scribblings here.)

More than that, thought, the overwhelming response of several communities – art, music, faith, work, and family circles – takes measure of something beyond our finest instruments. We are bound together in a single garment, and whatever affects one directly affects the rest of us as the fabric of our lives is rent.

The personal is political, and these connections carry profound implications in all kinds of ways. From the straightforward reminder to hang up and drive, to take driving as the deadly serious responsibility that it is, to the reminder that a single death in Atlanta – or in Aleppo – shifts the ground beneath all our feet.

Remembering Terry

When Beth asked me to say a few words this morning, I rested in the silence for a while remembering. When I went to jot some notes I headed the document “Remembering Terry.” But that seems to me to miss the mark. To remember is to put back together. It’s just wrong to think that I am remembering Terry. He was among the most put together human beings I’ve ever known. He does not need me to re-member him.

Instead, I only wish I could recall him – that is to say, just call him back. Just once more, say, “hey, Terry, did you bring your saw with you? Let’s play some,” or, “hey, Terry, you feel like putting together a grits soufflé, maybe?” or, maybe just, “hey, Terry, how about a Tom & Jerry?”

Reading the posts so many of you shared on Facebook following his death this week I was struck over and over again by a common thread: Terry could find something extraordinary in the most ordinary. He could create quirky, lovely party favors out of objects found buried beneath the house. He could make stunning photographs out of bacon grease. He could make a style all his own out of someone else’s castoffs. That he could make haunting music out of a homely hand tool should come as no surprise.

More than that, though, he could find beautiful chords in the cacophony of community life. When the vendors at the farmers market, the boss from a job you held 30 years ago, the crazy artists, the neighbor down the street, the parents of your young adult child’s friends, and those friends all write touching notes of appreciation about you, you know you’ve lived life well.

Someone wrote on Facebook this week that Terry lived a Christ-like life. I really wish I could see the look on his face in response to that. I’m sure he would have a wry smile and arched brow beneath an angled hat as he pondered the suggestion, and shrugged it off.

Terry was a gentle agnostic when it came to doctrinal questions of religion, but he got exactly right the most important parts of what I think of as faithful living. He knew how to do what he could with what he had right where he was to make others’ lives better. And he knew how to do it with love. Whatever space he occupied, he did so with warmth and generosity, and with a natural hospitality. He was at home almost anywhere he found himself, and he made others at home there, too.

I love that he and Beth lived, both in Athens and here in Atlanta, close to train lines. Terry had friends from both sides – all sides – of the tracks. He was never afraid to be himself, and when you live like that – unafraid – you are not afraid to make friends, connections, community everywhere you go.

I never saw him walk on water, but if being kind, warm, generous, and loving as you bring out the best in everyone around you is Christ-like, well … I don’t know about that. I do know that the religious language of salvation is way over-used, but at its root it simply means wholeness, well-being, and right-relationship. Terry lived that fully. My own faith tells me that the restless Spirit at the heart of creation is loving and eternal – good all the time and in the time beyond our experience and understanding of time. I trust that Terry rests in that gentle and everlasting love.

I do know a few things with utter certainty: I know that Terry loved my sister well, and could almost always make her laugh even if the laughter included an eye-roll at whatever crazy thing he was thinking up to do with whatever crazy thing he had dragged home. I know he loved Willamae beyond words, from her first sentence – “wanna beer” – to the last time you spoke there was deep love behind every syllable. And I know he made our family’s life richer, fuller, and brighter.

For more than 30 years, the Ensign clan has been so happy that Beth brought Terry into our circle. His kindness, generosity, creative spark, and great good humor have helped us hold together well through all of the kinds of ordinary joys and sorrows that families share: the births of a next generation and the deaths of an older one, the birthdays, marriages, and anniversaries, the Christmases and Fourths of Julys. All of the ordinary days that Terry could so often make extraordinary.

We will never stop recalling you, Terry, your laughter will echo in our memories the rest of our days and our broken hearts will hold you in love. The gospel of John begins with the beautiful poetic insistence that a “light shines in the darkness, and the darkness shall not overcome it.” We hold you in that light, today. Rest in the light, dear brother.

Prayers and Lamentations

It's morning in America. Literally. Not in any rosy metaphorical way, but just in the "lord, I hate mornings and there's just not enough coffee for this" kind of way. It’s raining where I am, and the dull grey seems appropriate to this morning after.

Donald Trump is going to be the next president of the United States of America.

Sometimes I have to write things down and read them before I believe them. This is one of those times. Even reading it doesn’t much help. Perhaps it’s the sleep deprivation from staying up past midnight as returns came in and hopes dwindled.

I much prefer losing sleep for baseball games. This, alas, is not a game and I fear the many people dear to me will suffer greatly under this man. As friends lose health insurance, lose marriage rights, lose reproductive freedoms, religious freedoms, are reminded that their lives don’t, in fact, matter to the majority of Americans and their bodies are not safe, I will lament.

I will recommit to the work of justice, but on this drizzly morning it feels too soon to make even that small statement. The work goes on, but this election has made it so much more difficult.

There is a time for every purpose under heaven, and this feels like a time to rest in lament. That is not the same as wallowing in despair, but, rather, a holy moment stepping outside of the rush of history to give voice to the tears that well up in prayers for the nation. In my lamentation, I pray.

I pray today that my daughter, who this morning said, “I’m glad I decided not to apply to Virginia Tech because I don’t think I would feel safe in that area,” some day lives in a country where feeling safe is not a privilege reserved for men.

I pray today that a friend, who this morning posted, “well, I guess now I won’t have health care insurance,” some day lives in a country where health care is a right and not a privilege reserved for the affluent.

I pray today that an African-American friend, who last night wondered, “will I be safe,” some day lives in a country where black lives matter as much as white ones.

I pray today that gay friends, who are wondering if their marriages will survive a new Supreme Court, some day live in a country that believes that love is love is love is love is love.

I pray today that friends who are federal employees (not to mention my wife who is one), and who today are fearful not only about their economic futures but also about their personal safety following a campaign in which they were casually vilified, some day live in a country that authentically values public service.

I pray for the planet whose climate we have so deeply damaged, for the lands far distant where war wages and peace, today, seems even further out of reach, and for refugees who, today, know that they are not welcome in the country from whose shore shines a lamp that once proclaimed, “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”

Finally, I pray today that our long experiment in self-government does not come apart at the seams, even though the fabric of the nation is fraying in frightening ways.

In time, I trust, we will find hope for our hearts, strength for our hands, and ways to give feet to our prayers, but today it feels appropriate to sit in lamentation. Weep, beloved nation, and trust that though tears will linger for a while, there will again be a time of joy, of dancing, of building up, of love, and of peace.

The Day After

Rumor has it there’s an election coming up! If you haven’t already voted, I hope you’ve made plans to do so. Elections matter, and, as Calvin understood clearly, followers of Jesus have a deep responsibility to participate in civic affairs, including serving in office and casting our votes for candidates willing to serve.

The low regard in which we hold public servants these days is one of the sad ironies of the American experiment in self-governance. I suppose that is both a symptom and a cause of the deep political divisions in our society.

We may not share equally in creating these divisions, but it is not false equivalency to say that we all share responsibility for it. It is our society, and we shape its culture even as we are shaped by it.

We have a responsibility – indeed, a duty – to engage critically both the issues of the day and the individuals who would lead us through them. Critical engagement is a faithful response to the world.

Cynical disengagement is not. It undermines the institutions that it pretends to critique, and it damages the individuals who attempt to lead them. When deep cynicism becomes the default response to express disagreement it short-circuits systems built on honest accountability. Cynicism can never stand in for honest criticism, because cynicism is fundamentally dishonest. As such, it is an unfaithful response to the world.

A faithful response to the world holds onto these honest truths, articulated by Steven Mattson at Sojourners this fall:

·      God is not glorified by xenophobia.

·      God is not glorified by sexism.

·      God is not glorified by systemic racism.

·      God is not glorified by rejecting the maligned.

·      God is not glorified by fear, hate, shame, and pride.

We want to glorify God, but it is so very easy to be so deeply cynical these days. The presidential campaign seems designed to undermine trust in every candidate, and has devolved into a contest destined to undermine trust in the outcome, as well. While I have clear thoughts and strong opinions on the race (see the previous post), I have deep concerns about the system’s ability to function well no matter who prevails next week.

As followers of Jesus, we must faithfully proclaim some fundamental truths:

·      God is not a Republican. Or a Democrat. Or a Green. Or a Libertarian.

·      Each of the candidates is loved by God.

·      No matter who prevails, God continues to reign in sovereign love.

This is true today, and it will remain true on Wednesday morning.

No matter where political candidates stand, God stands on the side of the poor, the marginalized, and the victims of violence. If we want to be close to God, we must be close to those with whom God stands. When we stand in those places we may be surprised to find folks with whom we disagree politically standing there, too.

That is to say, no party holds a corner on the market of political or policy ideas to address poverty, violence, and injustice.

That is why I remain committed to keeping the church wide open to people who hold a wide range of political perspectives so long as they remain committed to engaging those core concerns with compassion and love.

Standing together in those places where God is calling we might just be able to see a path out of the cynical morass of these days.

We stand together in worship, remembering all of this. As we re-member, we are also working to put back together a body politic that seem dismembered by cynicism these days.

So, come and worship!