1/7/19

One of the things I like about Central Lutheran Church is how self-aware they are as a community, how inclusive they are, and how much care they have for everyone, especially marginalized groups, whether it's Palestinians in Gaza or the homeless we see and meet everyday on the street. I found this prayer of confession and forgiveness from yesterday, for example, particularly honest and meaningful:

Just and righteous ruler, we bring you our good intentions and our poor follow-through. We want to live in the light, yet we continue to dwell content in the shadows, where less seems to be demanded of us. We desire to break down barriers and stand in solidarity with all of your people, but sometimes we fear the loss of privilege and comfort. We pray for peace and yet tolerate whatever violence seems to offer us protection. Forgive our duplicity and restore us to single-minded devotion to your compassionate will, through Christ. Amen.

Sometimes I mean so well, but fall so short. Sometimes I do what's right, and sometimes I do nothing because it's easier. But compassion is what helps me break down the barrier between self and other so that I'm more and more aware of, and receptive to, the suffering of others. Compassion is what helps give rise to a desire to help ease that suffering. Compassion is what I must remember to constantly develop and return to. What this prayer means to me is that, confronting the evils and suffering in life is a duty that we all share with one another, and it's up to us to continually strive to actualize our cooperative and compassionate nature and make our world truly the best possible.

11/22/18

On the way to work this morning, I was asked by three different people if I had any money. The first started to tell me they'd just gotten out of jail, but I was in a hurry to catch the max and all I had was a $20 bill, so I said, "Sorry, can't help" and rushed off. The second was at the max stop, asking if I had any change or a cigarette. Again, I said no, sorry, and he started a conversation with another man waiting for the max. The third was also at the same stop. He came up and said, "Hi, Happy Thanksgiving." I returned the hello, and he proceeded to tell me a story about having cancer and how chemo was making him shit himself and asked me for money for a room. I looked at him, and so many things raced through my head, everything from being annoyed at constantly being asked for money on my way to work at 5:30 in the morning to thoughts of compassion for people who have such impoverished and difficult lives. Even if he just wanted money for drugs or alcohol, living on the streets is hard. Nevertheless, part of me thought, "I work hard for the little I have. Hell, I'm on my way to work on a holiday right now! Screw these people!" But another thought, "Do I really want to live in a world where nobody trusts anybody else or is willing to help another person because they don't care or just think everyone is up to no good?" And then I recalled something I'd read the day before, a homily from the late Theophane Boyd in Sundays at the Magic Monastery: Homilies from the Trappists of St. Benedict's Monastery about 'staying awake' to the preciousness of every person and to when God, in the form of the injured person on the side of the road in the parable of the Good Samaritan, shows up in our lives. Maybe it was that, or the fact that I work in the Providence cancer treatment centre, but I gave the third man all the money I had knowing that he could very easily be bullshiting me, but also knowing that if I refused a third time, I was turning my back on my own goodness and asleep to/closing myself off from others. He looked surprised at what I'd handed him, then thanked me, saying that he could see I was hesitant and questioning his story, but that he appreciated how I didn't judge him. And that last part surprised me. Because at that moment, I'd made a decision not to judge him, and he saw that. And for a brief moment, my guard was let down and I saw a glimpse of what Boyd was trying to convey about letting 'him' in and how easy it is to not see others, let alone love them as ourselves. But how many times do I simply say no? How many times do I just keep on walking right past the injured person on the side of the road? How many people a day do I say no to, or get short with, or say 'that's not my problem' to? Far too many.

11/5/18

The upcoming election brings to mind a quote from Henri Nouwen I read from Here and Now that truly applies to both my approach to spirituality and politics:

To make compassion the bottom line of life, to be open and vulnerable to others, to make community life the focus, and to let prayer be the breath of your life—that requires a willingness to tear down the countless walls that we have erected between ourselves and others in order to maintain our safe isolation. This is a lifelong and arduous spiritual battle because while tearing down walls with one hand, we build new ones with the other. After I had left the university and chosen a life in the community, I realized that, even in community, there are numerous ways to play the controlling games of individualism. Indeed, true conversion asks for a lot more than a change of place. It asks for a change of heart.

It really spoke to me the first time I read it, and reflects the heart of what New Testament scholar and theologian Marcus Borg calls Jesus' politics of compassion, whose works I recently discovered:

The dream of God as we see it in Jesus—his alternative social vision—is usefully crystallized in three complementary ways. First, I call it a "politics of compassion." For Jesus, compassion was more than a virtue for the individual. It was the basis of his criticism of the social system of his day. Compassion was also the paradigm or core value of his social vision: Jesus' understanding of God as compassionate led to a social vision grounded in compassion. It stood in sharp contrast to the core value of the social vision of elite theology, which was a politics of holiness and purity centered in the temple and legitimating the social order. Compassion as a core political paradigm suggests a political order that is life-giving, nourishing, and inclusive.

Second, the most effective shorthand nonbiblical language known to me for the dream of God and its opposition to elite theology and politics has been supplied by Walter Wink. Elite theology and politics lead to "domination systems." The opposite is 'God’s domination-free order." This—"God's domination-free order"—is the dream of God. . . .

Third, one may speak of Jesus’ social vision with one of his most frequently used phrases: "the kingdom of God. . . ." The kingdom of God is what the world would be like if God were king, rather than Herod or Caesar. In such a world, the poor would be fortunate, the mighty put down from their thrones, the rich sent away empty-handed. Domination systems would be replaced by God's domination-free order. (The God We Never Knew)

It was this kind of approach to spiritually from a Buddhist POV that initially got me interested in politics and pointed me towards a politics of compassion rather than a politics of purity, and what then got me to appreciate the radicalism embodied in the story of Jesus.

Our political order seems anything but life-giving, nourishing, and inclusive right now because the god of capitalism is the profit motive, Mammon in the abstracted-flesh, rather than compassion and love. I believe it was this realization behind these words from Oscar Romero dated 1/21/79:

No one can serve two lords.
There is only one God,
and that God will either be the true one,
who asks us to give things up when they become sin,
or it will be the god of money,
who makes us turn our back on the Christian God.

Perhaps it's a utopian dream, but I long for a world that mirrors that of the early Christian community depicted in Acts 4: 32-35:

The community of believers was of one heart and mind, and no one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they had everything in common. With great power the apostles bore witness to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus, and great favor was accorded them all. There was no needy person among them, for those who owned property or houses would sell them, bring the proceeds of the sale, and put them at the feet of the apostles, and they were distributed to each according to need.

11/4/18

I'm a big fan of Thomas Merton's writing, and I think this quote from Faith and Violence is as relevant now as it was when he wrote it in 1968:

The real moral issue of violence in the twentieth century is obscured by archaic and mythical presuppositions. We tend to judge violence in the terms of the individual, the messy, the physically disturbing, the personally frightening. The violence we want to see restrained is the violence of the hood waiting for us in the subway or the elevator. That is reasonable, but it tends to influence us too much. It makes us think that the problem of violence is limited to this very small scale, and it makes us unable to appreciate the far greater problem of the more abstract, more global, more organized presence of violence on a massive and corporate pattern. Violence today is white-collar violence, the systematically organized bureaucratic and technological destruction of man.

The theology of violence must not lose sight of the real problem, which is not the individual with a revolver but death and even genocide as big business. But this big business of death is all the more innocent and effective because it involves a long chain to individuals, each of whom can feel himself absolved from responsibility, and each of whom can perhaps salve his conscience by contributing with a more meticulous efficiency to his part in the massive operation.

[...] Modern technological mass murder is not directly visible, like individual murder. It is abstract, corporate, businesslike, cool, free of guilt-feelings and therefore a thousand times more deadly and effective than the eruption of violence out of individual hate. It is this polite, massively organized white-collar murder machine that threatens the world with destruction, not the violence of a few desperate teen-agers in a slum. But our antiquated theology myopically focused on individual violence alone fails to see this.It shudders at the phantasm of muggings and killings where a mess is made on our own doorstep, but blesses and canonizes the antiseptic violence of corporately organized murder because it is respectable, efficient, clean, and above all profitable.

In contrast, he points towards a theology of love that must seek to deal with evil and injustice without compromising with them, and which "will have to take note of the ambiguous realities of politics, without embracing the specious myth of a 'realism' that merely justifies force in the service of established power." And more importantly, "Theology does not exist merely to appease the already too untroubled conscience of the powerful and the established. A theology of love may also conceivably turn out to be a theology of revolution. In any case, it is a theology of resistance, a refusal of the evil that reduces a brother to homicidal desperation."

9/11/18

I feel as if I'm lost within myself,
 and I'm lost without you.
I feel adrift in the sea of my own life,
 sailing aimlessly with no stars to guide me back
home.
Your heart feels so far away,
 and I'm searching the world for it,
  because its love is what gives mine
form.
Without it,
 I don't truly exist,
  like a nameless phantom or a distant memory in danger of being
forgotten.
Only you see me.
And if you turn away,
 I'm afraid I'll cease to exist.
Cast forever into the endless darkness,
 far from the light of your face.

9/9/18

I haven't written much in a while, mostly because I feel as if I've lost my voice. Part of it has to do with my personal life, my job, my relationship, and everything in between. I feel so busy these days, like I'm being stretched thin. At work, especially, I've been feeling overworked and underpaid for months. It seems like we're always constantly shorthanded and doing extra work, and I'm physically and mentally exhausted at the end of each day. And working every other weekend, I don't have the opportunity to go to church as often as I'd like. It's like my spiritual life has taken a backseat to everything else.

Speaking of church, another issue has been the unfolding sex scandals and cover-ups plaguing the Catholic Church, as well as the continued marginalization of women and progressive, young voices, and the entrenched clericalism that's frankly put me off of the whole thing. It's hard walking into a church wondering if the person saying mass is a good one, and worrying that if I give money, it's going to help support people doing bad things and covering it up or lobbying against laws making it easy for victims of predators to sue. I don't really trust any priest, and when your faith revolves around the Eucharist, it's a hard thing to get past. And if that wasn't enough, I'm confronted by Catholics wrapping their bigotry, disdain, and even hatred of others behind words like love, and it's just too much. I know some wonderful Catholics, but the institution itself seems rotten to the core.

As a result, I've been going to Catholic churches less and less, and visiting Lutheran churches more and more. At first, I was just out of curiosity and convenience. I wondered what their services were like, and there was one just a few blocks from my girlfriend's parents' house, so I visited and was surprised how similar it was to Catholic ones. Then I decided to check out one near my place, Central Lutheran, with a female pastor who I'd first met while volunteering at Pride a couple of years ago. The people are nice, the church is deeply involved in social justice work, and the pastor, Amanda Zentz-Alo, is really inspiring. She was one of the 21 clergy members arrested at an ICE protest in August (none of them Catholic). She also spoke out against the treatment of immigrant families at a rally I attended in June on behalf of the Interfaith Movement for Immigrant Justice.

I wish more members of the clergy were willing to do things like this and to lead their faith communities to take a stand with them. When I read about the things Jesus did and say, I'm often disappointed by those who represent him because it all seems so far removed from his example. But when I see people who don't just say some nice, safe words in their place of worship on Sunday but go out to other places, like the Keep Families Together rally, and say things that need to be said, and go to protests and put themselves in the middle of the struggle against oppression and injustice, I start to believe in the things Jesus did and said.

I really enjoyed going to Central Lutheran Church today. It was one of the best services I've ever been to. I wish every place in life was filled with the same spirit.

8/26/18

Visited Central Lutheran Church today (an active participant in the Interfaith Movement for Immigrant Justice), and they used the immigrant apostle's creed, which I really liked and thought I'd share:

I believe in Almighty God, who guided the people in exile and in exodus, the God of Joseph in Egypt and Daniel in Babylon, the God of foreigners and immigrants.

I believe in Jesus Christ, a displaced Galilean, who was born away from his people and his home, who fled his country with his parents when his life was in danger. When he returned to his own country he suffered under the oppression of Pontius Pilate, the servant of a foreign power. Jesus was persecuted, beaten, tortured, and unjustly condemned to death. But on the third day Jesus rose from the dead, not as a scorned foreigner but to offer us citizenship in God's kingdom.

I believe in the Holy Spirit, the eternal immigrant from God’s kingdom among us, who speaks all languages, lives in all countries, and reunites all races.

I believe that the Church is the secure home for foreigners and for all believers. I believe that the communion of saints begins when we embrace all God’s people in all their diversity.

I believe in forgiveness, which makes us all equal before God, and in reconciliation, which heals our brokenness. I believe that in the Resurrection God will unite us as one people in which all are distinct and all are alike at the same time. I believe in life eternal, in which no one will be foreigner but all will be citizens of the kingdom where God reigns forever and ever.

Amen.

It expresses the idea that we're all one people, and that we should tear down all of the superficial barriers separating us and causing us to harm one another out of fear, exploitation, and ignorance.