Beyond the Gates of Struggle

Struggles whether for a group of people or for us individually, is part of the human condition as the Buddha observed 3000 years ago.  Struggle born of not having enough, struggle born of worrying about the future, struggle born of disease and heartache.  Struggle is real but it is not the totality of our existence.  Struggle is the gate we pass through in order to make ourselves anew.  I think too often we see our future as the gate itself instead of what lies beyond it.

Anne LaMotte put it this way:  “Hope begins in the dark, the stubborn hope that if you just show up and try to do the right thing, the dawn will come. You wait and watch and work: you don't give up.”

You wait and you watch and you don’t give up.  That’s  what moving beyond the gate of struggle looks like.  Last week the Los Angeles City Council increased the minimum wage for hotel workers to $15.37 an hour, the highest in the country.  You think that just happened?  Nope.  That was the result of thousands of people storming the gates of struggle to get to the other side. 

There is always another side to struggle.  With a little stubborn hope we will get there.

With Grace and Grit,  John

Holding Up Astonishing Bridges

“Just as the winged energy of delight

 carried you over many chasms early on,

 now raise the daringly imagined arch

 holding up the astonishing bridges.”

The soaring imagery of Rilke’s poem might strike some of us as fanciful and unrealistic.  I would ask you to begin with me remembering what it was like to play as a child.  Imagination was and always will be our very best friend.  It was mine.  My younger brother didn’t arrive into our house until I was seven and so for the first years of my life, and many more beyond that, I kept company with an imaginary friend.  I called him Rocco.  I don’t know why I called him Rocco, except perhaps I knew such a friend in a previous life or I lived in a town inhabited by Italian and Irish immigrants who came to build the Hudson River rail line.  But Rocco was, and occasionally still is, my confidant and the wings of delight.  I speak to him out load still to this day.  And in those early years we imagined ourselves, building cities, saving families and soaring on imaginary wings over the chasms of reality that all too often weigh us down, certainly by the time we become adults.  In many ways my entire ministry has been about re-awakening in others those early winged energy of delights in simply living and being together that take us over the drab chasms of bills, children, parents, jobs and relationships.  The actions we are called to do, the company we enjoy are the wings that help us soar to deeper understanding over the chasms of barren reason and a world in such pain. 

And lest you think that this is just not the reasonable faith of Unitarian Universalism, let me remind you that Emily Dickenson, Buckminster Fuller and Kurt Vonnegut were all Unitarian Universalists. Count among you, poets and dancers and musicians and cooks and caretakers and story tellers along with engineers, and teachers and creators.  All of us have been holding up the most astonishing bridges.  While we might lose sight of how good we are at meaning making by what troubles us, I only ask that you look deeper; each of you is an original blessing of creation.  And we are not alone; indeed we ride in the wake of an emergent spiritual renewal.

With Grace and Grit, John

Love Beyond Belief!

It’s been a long and hot summer.  It’s been hard for many of us personally. as well.  And then there is the world theater, the Gaza strip, Ebola, Ukraine and the gruesome event in Iraq under ISIS.  One young person this week asked me if this is the world as it will be.  I answered I didn’t think so, but for now this is the world as it is.  Much of this heartache has been brought on by religion or politics masquerading as religion. 

It’s a challenging time to be a religious person these days.  Faced with fundamentalism on the right and the lack of relevancy on the left is it any wonder that so many see religion as the enemy of civilization.  A wonder perhaps but sadly so wrong.  The reality is that every day millions of good meaning people with nothing but their religious faith do all they can to make the world a better place.  These acts of justice, and so many more are done in the name of religion.  Our religion.

What is broken for me, and the vision I see for our future, is not religion but the beliefs that invade our religions.  Here I am not talking about restrictive teachings about homosexuality and abortion so much as the myopia that keeps people of different beliefs from talking with one another.  I remember keenly when I was trying to enlist the help of one fundamentalist church in building with Habitat for Humanity.  The associate pastor told  me that not only would they not associate with me, a heathen and atheist (neither of which is true, well… at least I am not an atheist, a heathen I might be) he would not allow his people to support an organization which believes there are many paths to God, quoting the Gospel of John 14:6  “I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.”

As the president of the UUA Peter Morales claims:  “Belief is the enemy of religion… Religion is not about what you or I or Baptists or Catholics or Jews or Muslims or Hindus believe… We are so immersed in a culture that views religion as a matter of what people believe that we think this the way it has always been. It isn’t. As Karen Armstrong wrote …all of this emphasis on what someone believes is actually very modern and very western.” ("Beyond Belief", preached UU Church of Arlington VA, Feb. 2014)

We get so lost in our beliefs.  We get lost in our doctrines or even our cherished principles. This is not what religion is for.  Religion is for living out our faith of what is right and good in the world.  And more importantly, to do it with people who are not like you.  Because here is the brutal fact:  If we don’t start working aside other religious people to change the world, we will die in our little ghettos of belief.  We like being around people who are “like us”.  But young people who may even share our values aren’t coming here to be around people who go to church.  They are out in the world making a difference.  One of the organizations I work with, the Chalice Oak Foundation, a social justice group recently advertised for a new Executive Director, we got over 10 applications, all of them young people under forty, all changing the world and all but two having no religious affiliation at all.  Being around people just like us is killing us and our world.  We have to get beyond belief, and get into relationships with Jews and Muslims and Baptists and Buddhists and yes, even Mormons. On 9/11 many of us good meaning religious people will be out working for the common good; showing the world that we can love beyond belief.  Will you join us?

With Grace and Grit, John

Becoming Courage

Two Sundays ago, while the congregation of the First Unitarian Church of New Orleans was in worship, during that most sacred time of prayer and meditation, visitors who had come in wearing jackets and button up shirts, tore off their shirts revealing that they were part of the anti-abortion fundamentalist group Operation Save America.  Out of the sacred silence, they began yelling about how our church was a place of Satan, a church of murderers.  For you see, just a few weeks ago, the only planned parenthood clinic in New Orleans had used the church for its ground breaking ceremony since their building site was flooded by recent rains.

As the Rev. Deanna Vandiver, the church’s community minister who was leading worship that day told Rachel Maddow, the most amazing thing happened.  In the midst of that violation, the youth, who had just spent the week being trained in leadership, made a circle around the congregation with their backs to the protesters and started singing.  Over their voices, Rev. Deanna, asked the protesters to either join in singing or take their malice outside across the threshold of the church.

The protesters left and took their signs and went over to the religious education building a pushed their signs up against the glass windows of the nursery.  Again, our young adults who were caring for the smallest ones acted with courage, simply picking up the kids and moving them to an interior classroom.

Operation Save America decried the invasion publicly but on its onsite congratulated the protesters for their ‘dynamic witness’.  In the interview Rev. Deanna, said she was so grateful that her people were not willing to live in fear but were willing to stand on the side of love.  They acted from a place of compassion and respect even though that was not what they were feeling.  She went on to say that regardless of anyone’s belief about abortion to invade a church service was deny the fundamental right of our democracy, the right to peacefully practice our religion.

I want us to become courage.  Listen carefully to what Rev. Deanna said, which she spoke so calmly.  "Despite what they were feeling they acted out of compassion and respect."

I believe that in order to live a fuller spiritual life – and let me say that by spiritual life, I mean any practice that leads us to peace and greater understanding – we must act in a way that goes beyond our feelings.  Fear is the great Satan here.  Fear drives people to kill, fear drives them to abandon their families, their principles, their communities, even this one.  Courage rests in moving beyond fear and feelings towards the guiding principles of our free religion; compassion, trust and hope.

Courage is not the absence of fear, courage is reason over fear.  That is what was happening in that church when our youth led the way.  They took seriously what we teach them.  They stood on the side of love.

By calming our fears of what will happen to us, and trusting a little more in the good will of people, we are able to open ourselves up to the Spirit of Life and Love.  

We are not alone.  We are not alone here.  Not alone in our families. Not alone in our faith.  Rev. Deanna had a congregation, a youth group was there.  Courage rests in not being alone.  Either in the face of injustice or in the face of uncertainty and change.  

With Grace and Grit,  John

Fools and Heroes

Across the world millions of people play the lottery every day.  I have often wondered why this is, since the chance of winning the lottery are about the same whether you play or not.  So why do we play?  The easy answer is that we dream of a better life and it’s a cheap ticket, indeed what I often call “cheap hope”. 

 

What I have come to understand is that playing the lottery is wise fool’s errand.  With that playing our imagination soars.  Contrary to what many people think, those who play the lottery don’t just have their own welfare in mind.  How many times have I heard that the first thing someone would do if they won the lottery would be to help their church?  Hundreds of time.  In fact a recent Gallup poll showed that people would continue to work at their jobs, support their family and support community charities.  Is that so foolish?   I have nothing against playing the lottery.  In fact, I play it all the time - my kid’s birthdays - hoping for a little bit of return on the incredible investment each of them represents in my time and the rest of my working career.  I have actually won a few times but after you subtract what I had to play to win, I think I am only in the hole for about $500 over the last ten years.  Still I play the fool.

 

Fools are not stupid.  Historically a fool was someone who defied convention (even made a career at it) in order to show the hidden wisdom beneath conventionality.  In San Francisco one of our most important ministries is the Wise Fools, who dress in costumes and make fun of serious people on the street, pointing out the pomposity of business men and the reality of homelessness.  They come to brighten the day of those for whom the street is their home.  Foolishness is more akin to abandon.  More akin to the power to move beyond fear of embarrassment and embrace the possibilities of change whether it be on the street or in your church.

We have been celebrating the life of Pete Seeger these past few weeks.  There was a holy fool if ever one walked the earth.  He stood up to Joe McCarthy and sang songs against convention.  Pete kept to his principles and his fool’s errand singing for kids before he would bend to convention.

 

Perhaps foolishness is the currency of a hero’s quest.  A way to win the lottery of a better life for those we love and those in need.

 

With Grace and Grit, John

 

Jesus Saves

Just what is the spirit of life?  And why would I want it to come to me?  

While the hymn was written as a prayer I don’t think the spirit of life is code for God.  I don’t think this hymn is about getting something from a big daddy god in the sky.  Our appeal to the spirit is more subtle than that.  This reminds me of a story my catholic friend told me about the boy who kept praying to God for a bike. “Dear God, if you give me a bike, I will be good for two weeks”.  His mother scolded him that God doesn’t answer prayers like that.  So the next day the boy tried harder, “OK God, here’s the deal, if you give that bike I will be good for the entire month”.  His mother, once again chided him, “you can’t negotiate with God that way”.  A few days later his mother, a very devout catholic noticed that her statue of the Virgin Mary was missing, in its place was a sealed note in her son’s handwriting.  Wondering why he would have taken the statue and left a note, she opened it up.  It read “Dear God, if you ever want to see your mother again, deliver the bike by 9 pm or else”.

The spirit of life is not a bike or a statue or a god, but a power that is in us and among us.

Last Thursday I walked into a hospital room and I was sure death was waiting.  Two nurses stood over Mary holding her hands.  I introduced myself and they told me that she was near the end.  They had been unable to reach her family, although I knew her son Evan had been with her all night.  Marian was barely conscious, one eye staring off into the distance, already leaving her body and seeing the light beckoning beyond.  The nurses left and sat down beside her and held her hand as her breathing slowed.  She was not anxious or in pain, simply slowing down.  I prayed a pray of peace and release, remembering what a Franciscan monk had once to told me about prayer; it’s not praying to God, its praying for God to be present.  And then I stroked her head and told her it was ok to go.  I told her that Don, her husband who had died five years ago, was waiting for her on the other side, all dapper and handsome.  She of course could not answer me.  But I went on, recounting her amazing life; one of the first female social workers to work with abused kids in Los Angeles, one of the founders of Toberman Neighborhood Center, which awarded her a lifetime achievement award two years ago for her 40 years of support and fundraising.  I spoke the words of honor and release that were hers to hear.  I watched her breathing slowing further.  15 seconds, 20 seconds, thirty seconds, and then she stopped.  I waited for that last breath in, like the very first she took as a baby 87 years ago, but only her very last exhale remained.  The nurse came in, she had been following her on the monitor.  “She is gone” she told me.  I said “her body is gone, but her spirit lives on”.  “Did you know her?”  “I was her minister” I said, “she was a real hero, this little lady” and I recounted her work as a social worker, a fundraiser and a mother. 

All of that took 13 minutes from the time I walked into the room until her spirit passed over.  I had, by luck or fate, arrived just before her departure.  Perhaps she needed me to give her permission to leave.  I know Evan, her son, was upset at not being there, but this is very normal, especially with the strong of will.  We wait until our loved ones are gone to leave our bodies.

I tell you this not to sensationalize a tender moment but to talk about the Spirit of Life, that curious phrase named for our prayer before worship.  I believe, as did Carolyn McDade, the author of this little song that the spirit of life, is like the third person of the Trinity, the holy spirit of the divine sent into us at birth, enhanced by grace, and departed at death.  I have held the hands and bodies of over a dozen people who have died.  And I can always feel the spirit of life passing out of a body.  It’s not measurable to the touch but to the soul of those left behind.  The Spirit of Life, comes and goes and we are the richer for it.


With Grace and Grit,  John

Spirit of Life, Coming and Going

Just what is the spirit of life?  And why would I want it to come to me?  

While the hymn was written as a prayer I don’t think the spirit of life is code for God.  I don’t think this hymn is about getting something from a big daddy god in the sky.  Our appeal to the spirit is more subtle than that.  This reminds me of a story my catholic friend told me about the boy who kept praying to God for a bike. “Dear God, if you give me a bike, I will be good for two weeks”.  His mother scolded him that God doesn’t answer prayers like that.  So the next day the boy tried harder, “OK God, here’s the deal, if you give that bike I will be good for the entire month”.  His mother, once again chided him, “you can’t negotiate with God that way”.  A few days later his mother, a very devout catholic noticed that her statue of the Virgin Mary was missing, in its place was a sealed note in her son’s handwriting.  Wondering why he would have taken the statue and left a note, she opened it up.  It read “Dear God, if you ever want to see your mother again, deliver the bike by 9 pm or else”.

The spirit of life is not a bike or a statue or a god, but a power that is in us and among us.

Last Thursday I walked into a hospital room and I was sure death was waiting.  Two nurses stood over Mary holding her hands.  I introduced myself and they told me that she was near the end.  They had been unable to reach her family, although I knew her son Evan had been with her all night.  Marian was barely conscious, one eye staring off into the distance, already leaving her body and seeing the light beckoning beyond.  The nurses left and sat down beside her and held her hand as her breathing slowed.  She was not anxious or in pain, simply slowing down.  I prayed a pray of peace and release, remembering what a Franciscan monk had once to told me about prayer; it’s not praying to God, its praying for God to be present.  And then I stroked her head and told her it was ok to go.  I told her that Don, her husband who had died five years ago, was waiting for her on the other side, all dapper and handsome.  She of course could not answer me.  But I went on, recounting her amazing life; one of the first female social workers to work with abused kids in Los Angeles, one of the founders of Toberman Neighborhood Center, which awarded her a lifetime achievement award two years ago for her 40 years of support and fundraising.  I spoke the words of honor and release that were hers to hear.  I watched her breathing slowing further.  15 seconds, 20 seconds, thirty seconds, and then she stopped.  I waited for that last breath in, like the very first she took as a baby 87 years ago, but only her very last exhale remained.  The nurse came in, she had been following her on the monitor.  “She is gone” she told me.  I said “her body is gone, but her spirit lives on”.  “Did you know her?”  “I was her minister” I said, “she was a real hero, this little lady” and I recounted her work as a social worker, a fundraiser and a mother. 

All of that took 13 minutes from the time I walked into the room until her spirit passed over.  I had, by luck or fate, arrived just before her departure.  Perhaps she needed me to give her permission to leave.  I know Evan, her son, was upset at not being there, but this is very normal, especially with the strong of will.  We wait until our loved ones are gone to leave our bodies.

I tell you this not to sensationalize a tender moment but to talk about the Spirit of Life, that curious phrase named for our prayer before worship.  I believe, as did Carolyn McDade, the author of this little song that the spirit of life, is like the third person of the Trinity, the holy spirit of the divine sent into us at birth, enhanced by grace, and departed at death.  I have held the hands and bodies of over a dozen people who have died.  And I can always feel the spirit of life passing out of a body.  It’s not measurable to the touch but to the soul of those left behind.  The Spirit of Life, comes and goes and we are the richer for it.


With Grace and Grit,  John

Grace Comes In Many Ways

Grace comes unbidden in so many ways.  It can come as a gift or unexpected part we are asked to play.  Grace can also come to us through pain and struggle. Some years ago I was called to conduct a funeral for a teenager who had killed himself.  I don’t need to tell some of you here that this is an unimaginable pain.  

Where could we go after the death of a child?  Where do any of us go, where do you go my dear people, when someone you love is gone?  When life deals you a blow beyond words?  

More than two hundred people filled the church.  Friends of the family but more importantly friends of the boy; boys and girls themselves who were suffering the pangs of adolescence. I had told the family that the only way I knew to deal with this was to be open about what had happened, to be honest about the agony of his life and then allow for healing to occur.  His mother agreed but his father was not willing.  He was angry, hurt and afraid.  I threatened not to come.

As the mourners filed in I watched for the father.  I knew that he and his son had deep struggles.  I knew that the father blamed himself in part for his son’s suicide.  We waited.  The congregation was restless.  Finally, the mother said we would have to start without him.  The service lasted over two hours, it’s not so important what I said, although I did speak the truth of his death and the struggle he and his family had gone through.  I did remind everyone that this is an invitation for healing and dialogue.  As the mourners came up one after another, I noticed that the father had slipped into the back of the church.  Other parents, relatives and his friends began talking about what this boy had meant to them, how he was gentle, and kind and helpful and sensitive.  They talked about his smile and his laugh and about all those attributes that made his life such a gift.  Some told funny stories, we all managed to laugh in the midst of this tragedy.  And then his best friend got up.  He stood there for a few minutes, tears streaming down his face.  He spoke of his friend’s love for him and for his family.  He spoke of his struggle with his father, but also about how much he loved and admired his father. 

As the friend sat down, I noticed the father coming forward to speak.  He moved slowly and painfully.  He climbed the steps into the chancel and stood behind the pulpit.  I stood up to be beside him.  The silence was profound.  He spoke almost in a whisper about how sorry he was for pushing his son so far from him.  He apologized to his family and his wife for his part in this tragic struggle.  He said he hadn’t realized the man his son was becoming, and now he could see.  He was blind and now he could see.  And then he started to sob.  I held him there in front of two hundred people as the grief opened its mighty iron gates.  All his own pain from his father’s struggle, and his father before him. Generations of pain, flooded out of this one man.  After he sat down, I spoke about grace.  I said that this boy had not died in vain, we were all being invited to change our world, our relationships, our very way of being here today, right now.  I have used that language of invitation in every memorial service I have ever done since then.  In memory of that boy and his father.

With Grace and Grit, John

Embracing Risk

“You’re a drunk and a liar” he yelled at me.  For a moment I thought he was going to punch me in the face.  I shut my eyes and turned slightly.  But his anger was enough of a punch for me.  I was definitely awake now although I had no idea what time it was.  My soon to be ex-friend Bob in whose house I was then living was really, really mad.  Not that I though it was any big deal at the time.  I really thought I had turned off the iron, and so what if it fell on the carpet and made a little burn mark.  O.k. a big burn mark.  He had just asked me as I walked away from ironing my shirt whether I had turned the iron off.  “Yeah, yeah” I said.  I was more than a little hung-over.  When Bob smelled the carpet burning he ran over pulled up the iron and yelled something inappropriate for a Sunday morning and then turned on me.

“You had better get it together, here, John, because I am giving you two weeks to get out.  This isn’t working.  You have a lot to deal with and I’m not the one to help you.’  Well, isn’t that just great, I thought to myself.  Some friend you turned out to be.  Down and out on my luck and you turn me out.  Self-pity was also part of repertoire at the time.

Bob, who had just gone through a painful divorce, had actually done me a tremendous favor.  After all, I was the one, at four in the morning while delivering papers had seen his wife’s car parked in front of another man’s house after they had separated.  I had been the one that told him that I didn’t think she was coming back.  And she didn’t.  It almost crushed Bob, but then if his best friend couldn’t tell him, who could?  Bob did the best he knew how.  He cried. He mopped and then he got on with his life.  Soon it was my turn to suffer a break up in that little town in Northwest Iowa.  But unlike Bob, I didn’t do as well.  I cursed and felt sorry for myself when my first wife kicked me out and then, because my other best friend owned a bar in town, I drank.  A lot.  My business was failing and I was falling and Bob was yelling at me three inches from my face.  It was the wake-up call I needed.

He was right.  I was a drunk and a liar.  The first being more a cause of the second.  The drinking was a symptom of a great anger in my life, the greatest of my demons, and the lying which was mostly to myself, kept that demon alive.  This is what Bob, a failing middle age radio station advertising salesman, managed to show me.  Angels come in funny shapes.  He was telling me that it was time to change.  It took me another 20 years to face my anger and embrace a new me but I did.

 This Halloween I want to talk about why embracing risk in our lives is the best way to overcome the demons which haunt us.  I am, as some of you know, an entrepreneur by nature.  I embrace risk naturally.  Which is funny because in real life, I don’t like fast cars, scary movies or amusement rides.  But I do enjoy making change happen.  Sometimes, fatally for me at times, just for the sake of change.  I can become quickly bored if my work is too status quo.  I like big ideas but I depend on others to keep them going.  In some ways, this was the demon that faced me when Bob threw me out of his house 30 years ago.  I had started the first solar energy company in northwest Iowa.  It was a moderate success.  All the more so because I did this when I was 25 years old.  But big ideas take time, money and patience.  And I was short on all three.  So within two years, the risk I had so enthusiastically embraced, started to head south.  My first wife and I grew apart.  Sales start to slump and before long it had all fallen apart.

The first rule in embracing risk is double your anticipated rate of change.  It takes twice as long to make most dreams happen.  Ministry has certainly taught me that.

How do we see first of all that change is necessary and second of all have the courage to change?  Change is necessary when we see our world darkly.  More people begin to contemplate changing their lives over the dark holiday season than any other time of year.  That’s when I finally realized that I was a drunk and a liar.  And I had lost everything, it all started to make sense.  Oh, I am afraid of failure so I keep starting new projects so I can never fail.  Oh, I am afraid of intimacy so I avoid my marriage until it falls apart.  I had to learn to embrace a deeper and more personal risk.  My 23 years as a minister has been learning to  do just that. 

The courage to embrace risk, comes slowly.  But let me say up front that I believe the secret to courage is follow the path laid before you.  This is the essence of Taoist teaching: by following what is before us and choosing to embrace the uncomfortable we change in the right way. I very rarely turn down a request to serve.  This is my way of embracing risk and facing the demons of fear.  When asked to serve, try to serve.

The Job of Animals

I have had dogs for my entire life. My father loved dogs, my mother not so much. We took them with us everywhere we went growing up, so much so that slobber on the windows of our cars was how I thought all cars should be. 

As a young boy we had a Shepard mix named Henry. Henry was loyal to the core. When I started going to school in rural upstate New York, Henry’s job was to walk with me the quarter mile down our old road to the bus stop. The road the bus came on was not too busy, and I had been taught to stay back until the bus pulled up. One day while in first grade, while waiting for the bus at the end of the road, I was distracted by two squirrels playing in the trees and I managed to step out a bit into the road. Henry was barking. I thought at the squirrels. I would later learn he was barking at me. He was warning me to get back because he could tell there was a car coming. I wasn’t listening. So he did the only thing he knew how, he pushed me with his body. He saved my life. Unfortunately, the car hit him and he died almost instantly. The driver stopped in shock. He had not seen either me or my dog. He put Henry gently in the trunk and drove me and my dog back up the road to our house. It was one of the most traumatic moments of my life. And I remember it to this day. It may very be why I have dogs today, even though they require so much care. I realized then, that they have a vocation in our lives, and in mine, Henry’s was to protect my life with his.

Domestic animals have long served us and we have not always been kind in return. Whether through breeding or the Creator’s design, animals have a job to do. To feed us, cloth us, guard us or provide loving companionship. It is now well proven that having a pet in your life helps you heal faster and live longer. Many hospitals including our local hospitals here bring animals into patient’s rooms to help with healing. If you go down to the Torrance Memorial Hospital and walk in to the entrance hall from the parking structure you will see portraits of dogs. Those are hospital service dogs; all of them still visiting each week to help us humans know love.

I have tried to live my life by the simple mantra to “be the person your dog thinks you are”. I am not sure I can say that of cats; more likely “be the servant I expect you to be”.

None of what we call civilization would be possible without animals. Long before fossil fuels, animals did the plowing, the pulling, the feeding, the riding, the daily chores of a million, million human souls. Wild animals provide the very ecosystem w which sustains us; from the food chain to the scavengers who create room for more life.

And in return? We have not done well by our cousins. Not well at all. For here is the shifting ground we should consider: It’s not what job animals can do for us but our relationship with animals that matter. After all we ARE animals as well. “The hubris that we are above other animals, denies our own nature” says Kimberly French; from our sexuality to our emotions. "We are more conscious perhaps (after all we are the only animals that is anxious about being alive) but we have a job to do with animals as much as animals do jobs for us. We really aren’t so different." (Kimberly French “Our Animal Contradictions” UU World, Fall 2013)

Blessings be to all animals who we join in the work of the world.

With Grace and Grit, John

Which Truth Will Set You Free?

The bible proclaims that the “truth will set us free”.  I have always asked “really?” If it does, the question is which truth will actually do the freeing?  The truth that proclaims that Jesus died for your sins and that the only way unto the father is through him, or the truth that in my father’s house there are many mansions, implying there is room for all to be loved by God.  These two and many more are all part of this great spiritual truth of humanity; that our perception of truth and reality is far more important than the so called facts of life.  Reality as an expression of our senses in the world, is often over rated in my opinion.  I have seen far more liberation and solace come from such odd truths as the resurrection than from those who view the world as it really is; a place full of hurt and anger. 

Many years ago I attended a funeral for a young father and his two school age children who had died in a freak car accident.  His wife and mother to her dead children seemed inconsolable at the front of this larger Missionary Baptist Church.  There were over a thousand mourners attending, in the sanctuary and video casting to rooms throughout the building.  Since I was clergy and a good friend of the senior minister,  I sat behind the pulpit and could see the wife and mother in the  front row.  As the service progressed the parishioners were wailing such sorrow as I have never heard before.  But when the preacher began talking about how that little family had been saved in Jesus and how they were going home to God, the mood shifted so dramatically you would have thought someone turned on the lights in a dark room.  The woman’s face brightened her shoulders straightened and within ten minutes, the service went from hell to heaven.  A sense of liberation had come over the people, one truth, the truth many of us here question, set this woman and an entire congregation free.  Don’t tell me that Christianity is nonsense.  It might not make sense to some of us, but it can and does free souls from sorrow, anxiety and pain.

And it can just as easily imprison us as well.  We have had people come to our church deeply wounded from a fundamentalism so severe that they thought they were bound for hell.  At the very least they were bound up in their fears they were going to hell.  In one case, a woman, who had left her husband and the cult church they were part of was shunned by the entire congregation, her only connection to the outside world was our church.  She worked desperately to free herself here among us.  To find a religion that welcomes seekers of truth, not prisoners of truth.

With Grace and Grit, John

Our Nation's Soul

I have to admit that the fourth of July is not my favorite holiday.  I have never enjoyed loud noises, and now that we live in the heart of a harbor town, the fireworks are all around us.  I must also admit to being ambivalent to the marshal message of our independence day, not the deep and abiding enlightenment principles our country was founded upon – life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness – but rather the bombs bursting through air, and the march of imperial armies through the oil fields of the Middle East. We never seem to move beyond “God Bless America” to “Bless the Whole World”. 

And yet there is something also magical about our country.  On the fourth of July night, we went down to the harbor to watch the fireworks.  One little boy, of Asian Indian descent, was just beside himself with joy.  I don’t know if he had ever seen fireworks before but he was just bursting.  “Wow, look at that, it’s a smiley face”  “Look at the one, it’s a planet, no, two planets”  “This is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”  “America is great! Look at this!”  “America is the biggest country in the world” he yelled.  His mother must have corrected him “Ok, America is richest country in the world”  Corrected again. “Ok America is a fine country.” America is a fine country.

At its best America embodies ideals not often found in any of us, much less an entire nation. Ideals such as fairness, equality, liberty and hope.  As Jacob Needleman, the philosopher wrote in his work Soul of the Nation “America was once the hope of the world. But what kind of hope? More than the hope of material prosperity, although that was part of it; and more than the promise of equality and liberty, although that, too, was an important part of it. And more than safety and security, precious as these things are. The deeper hope of America was its vision of what humanity is and can become — individually and in community. . . . America was once a great idea, and it is such ideas that move the world, that open the possibility of meaning in human life….It is this goal of bringing people together under the guidance of conscience that lies at the heart of the idea of democracy in its uniquely American form."

Our collective soul- and by soul I mean that inner sense of self that has and discerns meaning in the world – is built on the ideal that we can fashion a future for ourselves; that we are, at least in part, the creators of our own destiny.  This is what lies at the heart of our best selves: the ability to imagine and then act on a better, more fair, more liberal future.  It lies also at the heart of our heritage as fierce individualist who decide what they believe is best, courting so dangerously with prudent values that are critical of any attempt to forestall that freedom.  Here I think conservatives miss the point of individual freedom: it’s not the freedom to do whatever we want, own a gun, ride without a helmet or buy monster sized sugary soft drinks.  Rather it’s the freedom to become what you are: a musician, a business owner, gay, straight, a theist or atheist.  It’s our ideal of freedom, liberation and self-determination that drives us collectively, just as it drove our ancestors.

From whence comes this soul, this interior freedom and service to others? Our founders, whether Christian or Unitarian, believed in a moral order based on the natural order of life.  That natural form of life included for our founders the inalienable right to freedom; a freedom of expression and a freedom to act within the confines of civic safety.  Jefferson’s line in the preamble to the declaration of independence, that these rights include life, liberty and pursuit of happiness, reflects the moral order of our nation:  A right to life, the right to liberty and the pursuit of happiness (a modification on John Locke’s pursuit of property), and in that order.  And although our economy is severely straining this order, it is still there in principle, if not always in practice.  Needleman makes a salient point about pursuing happiness:  We always assume it’s our happiness, but it could just as well be the happiness of others.

My mother, bless her soul, used to tell me I could be whatever I want to be (except a lawyer, a republican or an Episcopalian), not that I have any issues with those good people, as long as I was happy.  Only later would I realize my happiness was wrapped up in yours. I want all of us to imagine for a moment what this freedom has meant to you.  When were you faced with a life changing moment and had the freedom to change your life’s course?  Was it just your choice or were others involved?

We so often don’t appreciate that our nation’s soul includes the responsibility to give back to our collective good.  We have lost much of that understanding at the national level.  I believe it is still alive and well in the communities but it is harder to find.  Our little dog ran away twice last week.  The first time, she was found by a couple of contractors working on a house down the street.  They had tied her up and, even though she had a collar with our phone number on it, they were intending to take her with them. Finders keepers.  It was only when Frances kept calling and she kept barking that she tracked her down.  Even then these men were reluctant to give her back until Frances paid them a little “reward”.  The next day the dog got out again, this time some neighbors found her and called us.  In the meantime, other neighbors came out and got in their cars and were looking for her.  When we got her back, I tried to offer a reward to our neighbors who had found her but they would have none of it.  “This is what America is about” he told me.  Indeed it is. 

With Grace and Grit,  John

Necessary Virtues

Blaise Pascal once observed that the truly virtuous are those who recognize both their capacity to be selfish and their capacity to help others and then try to live honestly in the space between them.  But knowing what is right from wrong is only part of our salvation, the more difficult part is to challenge the institutions that keep us from doing the right thing.  It makes a difference if we buy from Wal Mart which openly discriminates against women, it makes a difference if we cheat on our taxes, which, while disagree with our government is the foundation of our democracy; it makes a difference if we give enough to those causes in need which represents our best aspirations.  It makes a difference.  The virtues of courage, honesty, mindfulness, and generosity are not only wise but necessary.

Doing right connects the intimacy of who we are to the ultimate concerns of our lives.  Next year, our church  will once again be participating in Habitat for Humanity.  We have been asked to be part of what Habitat for Humanity is calling an Interfaith Build.  This will be a new home from the ground up.  We will have the chance to go out together on multiple Saturdays next spring and actually join with others and build a house.  Building has always been an exercise in virtue and wisdom for me, if nothing else in the virtuous people you meet.  Once such man I met this year was Norman.

Norman is a young man, late thirties, married with two kids.  He went to USC but has been doing construction for Habitat for many years.  I asked him why he did this work when he clearly could do something else and make a lot more money.  Norman shared with me that as a boy he grew up in Laos Nigeria, his father was an international oil consultant.  He went to school at a Catholic mission school.  One of the nuns taught him a lesson he would never forget:  all around you there are people hungry for work and food, many of the young people will live by stealing. What she said next surprised him: “They can’t do much to change their world, but you can.  You will have the power to help others.  That is the most honest work there is.” Then and there he decided to dedicate his life and his resources to change the world.  A holy man with a hammer.

We won’t save the world, but we can save a little piece of it, and by so doing our world is just a bit more renewed.  Renewal begins with being intentional about doing good.  You don’t have to turn your life over to God as my new friend Norman has done but you can be more intentional about living your values.  Relying on the Good of the world is necessary to put our virtue of love and courage into practice. Respond with courage and hope.  Necessary virtues all.

With Grace and Grit,  John

Lessons From My Father

My father, Ward Ely Morehouse, died on June 30th, 2012, almost a year ago today.  I was not there when he died.  He was swimming in his favorite New England pond when he suffered a massive heart attack.  The paramedics revived his heart but he was in a coma and died twelve hours later.  I have shared with you before that I was in Yellowstone NP the day he died, and, at the precise moment he was having his heart attack I told Frances to pull over the car so I could jump bidden by some  unseen force into the glacier lake.  Only latter would I learn that the urge to jump into the water happened at the moment he was leaving this earth.

My father was a noble and complex man.  Like so many of his generation he was emotionally distant, which is not to say that he didn’t feel, he did, deeply and often with tears.  He just didn’t express those feelings often, preferring a stoic response to life.  And for good reason, a child of the Great Depression, his father was often absent as a wayward Academic and his mother, who suffered from debilitating depression, was often institutionalized.  My father learned early on that emotions were best kept to oneself.  I am not like my father in that regard.  I express myself openly – sometimes a little too openly from this very pulpit.  I have also been tempered by living with six daughters and my beloved Frances.  Secrets are not part of our family system.

But despite his distance, he gave me the wisdom of virtues, seen and unseen.  Honesty, optimism, loyalty, hard work, vision and flexibility.  In honor of my father and all fathers, those biological and those who have held the mantle, I offer these lessons to you today for your consideration.

Honesty.  When I was seven years old my best friend, Tommy Walczak and I broke into a neighbor’s house.  It was a summer cottage actually, for at the time, most of those who lived around us were only part time residents.  I don’t remember why we did it but we did.  I remember making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.  We thought we covered our tracks but something about the torn screen door gave it away.  Our neighbors, Julius and Lillian Kahn (the founders by the way of Coach Leather, long before it was so high end) pretty much figured it out and came to my dad.  He called me into his study, a wondrous room in the basement, piled high with canyons of paper.  He asked me if I had broken into the house.  He looked me straight in the eye.  I thought about lying but decided that was just stupid.  He knew and I knew he knew.  After I admitted I had, he asked me why.  I don’t remember what I said, and it didn’t matter really.  He decided that I   needed to make amends. And so I had to earn money from him to repair the screen and, worse yet, I had to apologize to the Kahns.  They were so kind about it all.  They tried to look all serious and such but inside they were touched that I had come at all.  Julius reminded me of this story years later before he died. This is what my father taught me: I may be wrong.  I make mistakes.  But I know admitting those mistakes and holding to the truth is far and away the best policy.  As Mark Twain once quipped ‘tell the truth and  you don’t have to remember anything’.

Optimism.  I am prone to occasional bursts of undue fatalism.  Not unlike my dear mother who lived by the proposition that if you think the worst you will either be proven right or pleasantly surprised.  But I get my normal state of optimism from my father.  Until the day he died, my father believed the world could be better than it is.  Don’t get me wrong, there were plenty of times when he thought that it was going to hell in a hand basket (a curious alliterative locution, originating in the baskets used to catch decapitated heads).  But more often than not, my father saw himself tilting like Don Quixote himself at windmills.  A quaint reference to a man who dedicated five decades of his life to challenging the abuses of corporations.  On accepting a lifetime achievement award from the people of Bhopal in 1994 for his efforts to bring Union Carbide to justice for the gassing deaths of thousands, he spoke of a new day unfolding in a world where people would come before profits (see http://www.uuworld.org/life/articles/157847.shtml)

I have inherited this lesson on a smaller scale.  I have spent my career building communities of hope and change.  This is the third church I have sought to lead to a larger vision through hope and optimism.  We have had a few bumps but I contend we are better and stronger now than ever before and we are really only just beginning.

Loyalty.  I am described by those who know me as loyal to a fault.  I learned loyalty from my father.  In 1972, just as Richard Nixon was opening up relations with Red China, a scholar by the name of Jack Chen, who had written a scathing indictment of the communist party, had applied for political asylum in the US.  My father, who knew Dr. Chen from his early days working for the Asia Society, offered him a job as a consultant to the New York State Department of Education, a requirement for asylum.  Despite intense pressure from the Chancellor to fire Dr. Chen, my father held his ground.  He was accused of harboring a communist, called one himself and ultimately resigned his post to begin his full time work as a writer and activist.  I too have supported colleagues who were unpopular and stood beside staff raises often at the expense of my own.  I have turned down other churches because I felt compelled to finish the work I began.  In 22 years of ministry, I have only taken one month of sabbatical.  Ministry is our life and our calling.  When I accepted the call to be your minister I took it very seriously.  In part, this is a statement of my faith, indeed my family’s faith as a seventh generation Unitarian.  Like my father, I am bound by the covenants, the promises, I make, just as we as members of this church are bound by covenant to support the church with our time, talent and treasure.  A covenant, this bond of loyalty, as my colleague Victoria Safford puts it is “a living, breathing aspiration, made new every day.  It can’t be enforced by consequences but it may be reinforced by forgiveness and by Grace, when we stumble, when we forget, when we mess up.” (see  http://www.uuworld.org/ideas/articles/285904.shtml)

Hard work.  My father had a hand in building every house he ever lived in.  For him it was a source of pride and a hearkening to his philosophy of the Thoreauan ideal of self-reliance.  I grew up working along his side, not happily mind you, but I did.  I work a sixty hour work week and see ministry as a mission not a job.  I am mission driven.  I don’t count hours or units of time, I count lives changed.

Flexibility.  My father was always late for trains, planes, and boats, sometimes arriving seconds before the door was closing.  He had a very hard time adjusting to a post 9/11 world where so much of your transit time was taken with the theatre of the absurd we call the TSA.  I am not like him when I travel but I am trying.  I am more like my mother who wanted to be there hours before we needed to leave.  When I asked my father why he did this he told me, “there is always another plane”.  It’s a bit of wisdom that.  While inconvenient, there is always another way to get there from here.  My father taught me to experiment with truth, in the words of his hero Mahatma Gandhi.  If one idea fails try another.  This is part and parcel with his lesson to be honest.  I have been known to change my mind about what is the best direction to go as a church.  I have been criticized for that.  But what I have learned, especially in an organization as complex as a church, is that we have to be nimble and willing to change if we are to survive and grow.

Finally, I learned to have and hold a vision.  You may not always get there, in fact, we most often fail, but we need to hold up a vision, for without vision the people perish as it is written in Ecclesiastes. My father had a vision of a world of justice wherein people come before profits.  He had a vision of progress buttressed with deeply held liberal values.  When I asked him why he voted with the Green party or the Liberal Party and not the Democrats he told me that he would be betraying his vision to do so.  Having and holding a vision is matter of principle.

I miss my father very much.  But he lives on in me, my children and their children.  Lesson learned.

Happy Fathers Day,  John

Living Complete

I grew up in half-finished houses.  In many ways my family lives up to its name: We are the Morehouses, those in more houses, all of them far from complete.  In fact, our home in San Pedro is the most complete home I have ever lived in.   In large part because Frances is a doer and not just a dreamer.  She dreams one day and it’s done the next. 

 But growing up there were always bare studs in some addition, a pile of sheet rock, a box of nails, half-finished foundations, as if to call us on to work until we die.  The fact is we never finished any home I lived in until now.  It seemed to be a badge of honor for my New England family to not finish what they had started.  That sage of Concord, Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote “People wish to be settled; only so far as they are unsettled is there any hope for them.”  By that standard I grew up around a whole lot of hope.

Our lives will end without being finished. There is wisdom in accepting that we are finite beings living in a finite world, and that is somehow very  freeing.  

This all came home to me when we went to see a financial planner.  She asked me how much longer I planned to work.  “I don’t know, forever?” I answered, “after all a lot of people depend on me”.  She said “Let me re-phrase that.  How much longer do you think you will be able to work?  You are at your working prime right now” she told me, “but twenty years from now, not so much.  What if you get sick?  Or lose your, er, mental capacity?”  Now she was scaring me.  But it was a real moment of theological truth for me.  I wasn’t going to work until I dropped, not that I wouldn’t try, but eventually, I just won’t be able to.  We all have to stop, even my Dad who retired at 80!  We are finite beings and isn’t that really a good thing?

If all I did was try to keep working, and made no room for the next generation, when would my ability to share wisdom cease to be more important  than just being in the way?  Our living is made complete when we step out of the way to let others finish what we have started.  That is what I have learned.  And whatever happens beyond this life now is not for us the living to worry about.  The point is to live and let live and then to steward others behind us to take our place at the hammers and nails of life.

With Grace and Grit,  John

After Each Storm

We hardly need reminding that life is precious and fragile.  On Friday I attended the funeral for 43 year old man who died from a staph infection.  He left behind his wife and their three little children.  This family had been members of my church before moving away.  It is hard to imagine the grief his wife and children are feeling.  His widow's storm, her grief is so immense that she can only breathe for now.  Still she is surrounded with love and family and friends.  For now it is enough but not by much. And then, as if that wasn’t enough, Dave Rickard a UUA consultant  and dear friend who was just with my church two weeks ago, died suddenly.  What is it that gives us the strength and peace of mind to weather such storms as these and those so much greater in our own lives? In three words: Time, Imagination and Friends.

For everything there is a season, turn, turn, and we have turned once again.   Those who do choose to stay through real weather storm seem to be of two kinds.  The first are the young adults too young to appreciate nature’s power.  The second are the older ones who think they have the right stuff.  There are times when it is important to stay through the storm.  When what we gain by the trial is greater than the suffering of it.  All of the great saints endured some storms.  There are times when we need to struggle to the other side.  And there are times, most like this one wherein we have little choice.  Time heals but it also calls us on.  It was Hippocrates, that great Greek philosopher of medicine who wrote, “Healing is a matter of time but it is also an opportunity”.  In every memorial service I conduct I make note of the opportunity this passing has for us the living.  For those of us left after the storm has passed, there is an opportunity to share the same compassion that was shown to us during it all.  It’s more than just making us stronger; it’s about stretching our capacity for love through the tragedy itself.

I must admit that as a younger man I had less understanding of aging and death.  I do now.  I understand and I appreciate what a struggle and blessing time in body can be.  As we become older we fuse with time and trouble, Confusion is really just fusion of a body failing with a mind free to wander and remember.  And in that memory we understand the power of just living, and it is enough. (James Hillman The Force of Character)

It’s very freeing really.  Once we accept the fact that we are going to die we can get on with living in the time we have, storms and all. Here I apply what I call my “theology of persistence.”  As the psychologist Albert Ellis put it so poetically “the art of love is largely the art of persistence.”  To understand the place of the Holy in our lives we have to wait until after the storms of life to find the meaning in living.  Meaning is more often found after a storm, at the end of the dark night than before it.  This is why I sign off so often with the paradox of grace and grit; grace for the everyday miracles of being alive, grit for staying alive long enough to make it mean something.

With Grace and Grit,  John

Finding Inner Peace

I am actually by nature anxious about the world. I worry that we won’t have enough to go around.  I worry about my children.  I worry about you all as well.  My entire spiritual practice is built around trying to find and hold peace at the center of my life.  I meditate, I walk, I read, and I breathe, deeply.  I have come a long way.

Recently I heard a story from my colleague Rev. Denis Paul about a boy who was very anxious.  It was his first day in first grade, in a new school.  He had hurried to get to class and had forgotten to go to the bathroom before he left home.  He knew he had to go but he didn’t want to be singled out, so he tried to hold it in.  His new teacher, kind soul that she was, saw him fidget.  Just then, without any warning he could feel his leg warm with the very accident he so wanted to avoid.  He hadn’t been able to hold it in.  He was mortified as the yellow pool gathered under his desk.  He knew he would be the laughing stock of the whole school.  

Just as he was about to raise his hand the teacher, picked up the fish bowl from her desk, walked purposely down the aisle and pretended to trip dropping the fish bowl, water, goldfish and all, at the feet of the boy.  Water went everywhere including onto his lap and all over the floor.  The teacher apologized profusely and other kids went to get towels and helped to clean it up.  Someone saved the gold fish.  And suddenly the boy, went from the potential of deep shame to heroic victim. 

It’s not so far from a scared little kid who has an accident in the first grade to being a community leader if we understand that at the center of life is peace; glory and grace be to that impulse which still beats within us. As Lao Tzu put it so poetically:  “The one with outward courage dares to die; the one with inner courage dares to live.”

With Grace and Grit,  John

In His Memory: A Easter Meditation

When I searched for Easter at the library, the first three sources listed had to do with bunnies and children’s stories.  Not that those aren’t important. Chocolate and lambs and eggs and bunnies are all ancient symbols of fertility in keeping with the original intent of Easter, the pagan celebration of the earth goddess Ostre whose holiday was appropriated by Christians in the second century. Easter can be confusing.  Some of you remember the little Unitarian girl who was attending a Lutheran pre-school.  The teacher asked her little class what the holiday of Easter was all about.  One little boy raised his hand and “Isn’t that the day we have fireworks?”  “No” replied the teacher “that is the fourth of July.”  Another boy raised his hand “Isn’t Easter when we eat turkey?”  “No” again said the teacher “that is Thanksgiving” Growing more impatient, she heard from two other children, about Christmas and Halloween.  Finally the UU girl raises her hand, “I know” she says “Easter is when Jesus died on the cross, was placed in the tomb, and on the third day the stone was rolled away, and he emerged and if he saw his shadow there would be six more weeks of winter.”

Bunnies and groundhogs aside the Christian meaning of Easter is clear: Jesus has risen! Easter is the primary story in much of the Christian church. This morning, I want you to lay aside your own skepticism as to the factual truth of this event and journey with me into the powerful metaphors it has to offer. The Christian Easter story is a powerful one. The march of Jesus into Jerusalem, the show down at the temple, the last supper, his betrayal, his arrest and his trial are all powerful symbols of our own lives. I ponder the brutal crucifixion and those who stayed by his side (all of the women if you remember), I think of his cry of anguish and the death. I think about the tomb he was laid in, and the huge stone that was placed over the entrance.  After the Passover feast the women went to the tomb to anoint his body only to find the great stone guarding the entrance rolled away and man….dressed in white…and he said unto them “Do not be amazed; you seek Jesus of Nazareth who was crucified. He has risen, he is not here…” (Mark 15-16). 

We actually don’t know what happened to Jesus and his body.  Crucifixion was a brutal tool of execution and oppression by the Roman Empire.  Jesus died on the cross, not as atonement for our sins, but for his radical and seditious message that the first shall be last and the last shall be first in the coming Kin-dom of God.  It is highly unlikely that the Roman authorities gave him a trial before the Jews, even more unlikely that his body was laid in empty tomb.  Much more likely, Jesus was dropped into a common grave, in the so called Potter’s field which was occasionally set on fire to dispose of the corpses.  Much more likely is the lament in the Gospel of John by Mary Magdalene, his closest disciple who cried.  “They have taken my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him” (John 20:13).  Her anguish, so familiar to so many of us, is the anguish of a world lost in her love for the man who showed such promise.  I can imagine Mary wailing that Proverb of Ashes from the Book of Job to the disciples: “Your words are only proverbs of ashes; nothing but clay.”  A fitting agony in a field of carnage, at the base of a cross which had taken the life of the one she so loved.

So the question becomes this on Easter Sunday:  If Jesus body is lost to history, a proverb of ashes, what did his life mean?  What was truly resurrected in his memory?

I would offer you this:  Jesus embodied the hope that all will be well again.  That suffering will pass and life restored in this or another to come.  I offer you the possibility that we are made new by being together through our struggles towards a new day, a new season, a life yet to be lived.

Happy Easter, John

Jesus Saves

Much of Christianity today is marred with the belief by the general public that Christians only care about whether your soul is going to heaven or going to hell.  The fact of the matter is that many Christians believe in the more welcoming message of Jesus; that those who are suffering will find peace especially if we do our best to bring the world of love into being.  Too often we equate Christianity with the hate filled messages of the Westborough Baptist Church which believes that homosexuality is a sin punishable by hell fire for eternity.  Sadly these misguided adherents picket the funerals of people they don’t even know and proclaim the deceased if gay is going to hell.  That emphasis on the saving nature of Jesus – either you believe and are saved or you don’t and you are dammed – is a much later development in Christianity.  Many, if not most Christians I know, believe in a kinder Jesus, a Jesus that shows compassion and radical acceptance.  Christianity is in the process of recovering this older version of Jesus.  “For many younger Christians the “born again” experience is only a beginning. What follows is a long term process of applying the teaching of Jesus into the here and now” wrote David Kirkpatrick in the NY Times (“The Evangelical Crackup?” 10/28/07)

Still this punitive message of Salvation isn’t without history. 

Jesus and Satan had a discussion as to who is best at writing theology. This goes on for a few hours until they come to an agreement to hold a contest, with God as the judge.

They sit themselves at their computers and begin. After having each read 437 books they are pretty sure of their ability to write their papers. They type furiously for several hours straight. Seconds before the end of the competition, a bolt of lightning strikes, taking out the electricity. Moments later, the power is restored, and God announces that the contest is over.

He asks Satan to show what he has come up with. Satan is visibly upset, and cries, "I have nothing. I lost it all when the power went out." "Very well, then," says God, "let us see if Jesus fared any better."  Jesus opens his word processing program and there is his paper - in all its perfectly sourced glory. Satan is astonished.

He stutters, "B-b-but how? I lost everything, yet Jesus' paper is still there! How did he do it?"

And God replied, "Jesus saves." (thanks to Katie Culbert, for her paper “Jesus Saves” Meadville Lombard Theological School, March 2013)

In fact, Jesus saves is an older understanding of Christianity one brought about from the idea of original sin promulgated by Augustine in the fourth cent.  The earlier message was one of forgiveness and re birth, the lamb and the baptism, the heroic in the face of adversity.  The early churches were small communities held in people’s homes.  The service included a baptism, a cleansing of those who are new, a washing of the feet of the strangers, much like the new pope will do this Thursday in an Italian prison.  The first pope to ever do this.

This kinder Christianity of the first and second century was made real by desperation so many felt at the hands of a brutal empire.  Tax rates for peasants were upwards of 60% of their earnings and harvest.  Rents from the rich extracted the rest.  There was no health care, pension or disability of any kind save what families could do for those in need.

Jesus brought a new message of redemption and with it an early religious movement bent on reversing the social order:  the first shall be last and the last shall be first.  He proclaimed that the kingdom of God was coming to earth, “like the son of man on the clouds of heaven” meaning for everyone.  We too often jump to the later Christian understanding of a harsh and punishing God who sends babies to hell because they have not been washed in the blood of Jesus but the early Christian movement and the Christianity that I believe is being resurrected is very different.  Imagine the poignancy of hundreds of poor Palestinian Jews lining the dusty road into Jerusalem shouting “Hosanna” literally “save us” to a gaunt young man seated on a donkey riding straight faced into the center of the city, eyes set with firm determination to face his death.  His donkey rode across a road of palm leaves (thus today Palm Sunday) a traditional sign of royal honor meant to lessen the dust of the road.  Here was the ‘messiah’ literally the anointed one who would bring forth the kingdom of God on earth.  Its been up to us to bring about this kin-dom ever since.

With Grace and Grit, John