The November issue of DisciplesWorld is to include an article by California pastor and writer Katherine Willis Pershey. In it she will consider how 30 years ago, Jim Jones managed to lead more than 900 people to their deaths while his congregation, People’s Temple, was still listed in the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) Yearbook and Directory. I hope you'll read this issue when it comes out (see link under my links on the left of this article).
Promotional copy describes the article this way:
"Pershey explains that what happened in 1978 doesn’t reflect what the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) is really about. Yet, the Disciples’ ability to tolerate theological diversity and its commitment to congregational autonomy enabled Jones to lead the Peoples Temple Christian Church to its unfathomable end.”
I haven't seen the article. It's unpublished as I write this. I have confidence the editors will do justice to the fuller topic in a whole collection of articles. However, I respectfully differ with the promotional statement: “Yet the Disciples’ ability to tolerate theological diversity and its commitment to congregational autonomy enabled Jones to lead the Peoples Temple Christian Church to its unfathomable end.”
It was an “unfathomable end,”all right. No one could have imagined that People’s Temple would commit what Jones called “revolutionary suicide” en masse. Even the state and federal authorities, backed by the criminal justice system did not anticipate and prevent this “unfathomable end.” Good choice of words there.
However, I take exception to the choice of the words “tolerate” and “congregational autonomy” to describe Disciples theology and polity. In fact, I would argue that misunderstanding ourselves in this way only contributes to the potential of this kind of tragedy.
First, Disciples do not have “a commitment to congregational autonomy”... While this phrase comes up at times among us, it is not helpful for anyone to imply that "autonomous" accurately reflects the documents, polity or policies of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ). We are a covenantal community of believers, with accountability and responsibility to and for one another.
Further, Disciples do not “tolerate theological diversity”. We value theological diversity as part of our effort to more clearly understand our transcendent Creator. “Tolerate” implies an uncritical acceptance of everything that calls itself theology. The idea that we would tolerate or embrace Jones’ theology (especially after it shifted radically when the group moved to California) inaccurately portrays reality – then, or now.
Jones charmed political leaders, celebrities, news media and others, into believing he was a force for good. In fact, much of his ministry made a difference in the lives of people, particularly the poor in the San Francisco area. Not surprisingly, Disciples, like much of the public, admired his early ministry as well. But plagued by the human condition of hubris, Jones left not just Disciples behind, but Christianity as well. With 20,000 followers at one time, observers and historians argue that he let power get the best of him.
As his popularity grew, he began to engage in unacceptable activities like drug abuse and sexual misconduct with his members — all of which were outside the bounds of Disciples’ ethical standards for clergy. These abuses are not “tolerated” among Disciples, nor would we call them expressions of “diversity.” Abandoning Christianity would also leave Jones outside the most basic theological connection to Disciples: Faith in Christ. Jones excluded himself from fellowship with Disciples.
Unrevealed to even his followers until they were in South America, sexually transmitted disease ravaged Jones’ his mind, further exacerbated by his use of LSD and other drugs. By then, Jones' standing was under review as allegations surfaced regarding his misconduct. But because Jones was out of the country, the church -- like state and federal authories -- were not empowered to bring him to face his accusers.
But as it turned out Jones didn't really NEED Disciples standing. He needed the cooperation and misplaced faith of his people to trust what was a savagely twisted mind. In the case of a critical mass of his followers (especially those who were armed), sadly, he got both.
Yes, the congregation was listed in the Disciples Yearbook -- apparently, a Disciples congregation in name only.
The Disciples way of being in the world expects believers to think for themselves -- in covenantal conversation with each other and the Gospel. We value diversity, because in the context of “group think” it is important for those who raise questions also to be heard. Jonestown proves that sometimes one can convince the 900 of even mass suicide. But in the midst of the 900, there may still be one, who challenges the status quo and lives to tell about it.
One of the people to resist Jones at the 11th hour — a woman who was less savvy, less educated, less powerful in every way imaginable when compared to Jones – said that she had known for a long time things were not right. But the odds were 900 to one; what could she do? When the call came to attend what would be the final rally, her housemates obeyed. She did not. Instead, praying for protection from the Jesus that Jones had long since abandoned, she hid under her bed. Armed guards searched for her, but did not find her. When she crawled out hours later, she was, in her words: “the onliest one alive.”
The promotion piece for this issue of the magazine asks, “Can it happen again?”Actually, it has -- not among Disciples, but cults that have fallen prey to a charismatic, misguided leader crop up all too frequently. Yes, it can happen again. But maybe it would be less likely among Disciples if every congregation in the Yearbook understood this:
1. The Disciples’ commitment to consider diverse theological views holds us mutually accountable -- constantly testing our human understanding, as we seek to follow a God who defies our narrow definitions. (Tolerance alone is merely an excuse for holding narrow views.)
2. Disciples congregations make a covenantal commitment to each other that binds us in responsible relationship to each other. We are one body, bound by more than a Yearbook listing. (Autonomy is counter-covenant.)
These distinctions, had they been clear, might have helped People’s Temple members who felt there was no way out to understand that against all odds, they were not alone.
Perhaps these distinctions were clear to more than that one frightened woman under the bed. Jones claimed 20,000 followers at the height of his popularity in California. Yet, he only managed to kill 900 of them.
Meanwhile, for that woman under the bed, the odds tipped in her favor when they went from 900 vs. one, to 900 vs. one + One.
Copyright 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
I'm still here
My last post is dated November 2005. A lot of water under the bridge since then -- literally -- and a lot closer to home than New Orleans. Yet here is my blog, still telling a years-old story as if it had just happened. As if there had not been wars and floods and earthquakes (even one right here in Indiana) and watery storms all over the globe too numerous to even name. As if I had never reached the "closing circle" of camp and come home before Christmas 2005. As if even my life had not continued after Houston.
It's a little creepy, really.
I keep getting automatically generated emails that tell me that I have had NO HITS to my site. I have tolerated these emails for a couple of years, mostly because I'm just too lazy to figure out how to make them stop.
No hits? No kidding.
But I also tolerate them because it has a pleasant ring to read "no hits." In baseball they celebrate no hits as an achievement (if you happen to be the pitcher, that is). In my case, it's not just an inning, or even a game. I've had no hits for months on end. Top that!
But today, I read a blog by a friend who is on her own adventure (mission?) in India. It reminded me how much more connected I felt when I was able to share what was going on in my mission in Houston. My utter frustration that I was not changing the world over night... my complete humility in the face of the overwhelming need around me... It was all a little easier to deal with just by writing it down... but also because I felt like someone might actually read it.
Today, my friend's post, oddly enough, reminds me that my mission isn't really geographically limited. If it happens in Delhi or Houston, it happens here, too. And finding some connections in the face of those utter frustrations -- even finding connections to share joys -- makes the adventure a little sweeter.
Besides, even no-hitter pitchers have to bat. They have to switch sides and try to connect; try to swing that skinny little bat at that tiny round object hurled at 90 miles an hour, until CRACK, it's a hit and they're off running for base.
So, I'm back -- or more appropriately, I'm still here. We'll see what happens, but I think I would welcome a few hits.
Copyright 2008
It's a little creepy, really.
I keep getting automatically generated emails that tell me that I have had NO HITS to my site. I have tolerated these emails for a couple of years, mostly because I'm just too lazy to figure out how to make them stop.
No hits? No kidding.
But I also tolerate them because it has a pleasant ring to read "no hits." In baseball they celebrate no hits as an achievement (if you happen to be the pitcher, that is). In my case, it's not just an inning, or even a game. I've had no hits for months on end. Top that!
But today, I read a blog by a friend who is on her own adventure (mission?) in India. It reminded me how much more connected I felt when I was able to share what was going on in my mission in Houston. My utter frustration that I was not changing the world over night... my complete humility in the face of the overwhelming need around me... It was all a little easier to deal with just by writing it down... but also because I felt like someone might actually read it.
Today, my friend's post, oddly enough, reminds me that my mission isn't really geographically limited. If it happens in Delhi or Houston, it happens here, too. And finding some connections in the face of those utter frustrations -- even finding connections to share joys -- makes the adventure a little sweeter.
Besides, even no-hitter pitchers have to bat. They have to switch sides and try to connect; try to swing that skinny little bat at that tiny round object hurled at 90 miles an hour, until CRACK, it's a hit and they're off running for base.
So, I'm back -- or more appropriately, I'm still here. We'll see what happens, but I think I would welcome a few hits.
Copyright 2008
Monday, November 28, 2005
Wednesday at Camp
I always dread Wednesday at camp – that day when the new wears off and all the happy campers start to get on each other’s nerves. On Wednesday at camp, it’s too soon to know how much you will miss this place and these people – yet too late to live on the euphoria of irrational expectations.
I came to Houston anticipating great things. I was called to Houston for three months to help offer hospitality to brothers and sisters who survived Hurricane Katrina. It is a task of biblical proportion: help these people find housing, get their lives back in order and renew their self-reliance – all 200,000+ of them.
I attribute my lofty hopes to being blessedly out of touch with reality. But it’s Wednesday-at-camp time for me, now, and reality is setting in.
I’m a little crabby.
When I was a kid, my mother knew about this personality trait in me. When she wrote my name in my underwear and sent me to summer camp, she gently told me there would come a day in the week when I would want to just pack up and leave, even if I had to walk home.
I ignored her and she didn’t press her point – probably because she knew I would never GO to camp if I didn’t believe something amazing was about to happen, and she needed the week off as much as I did.
She also stipulated that camp was an all-or-nothing proposition. No teary “come get me” phone calls home. No bailing before the bitter end.
Bail? Who me! I could hardly wait to start! I was going to have a blast. And I did – until Wednesday.
I’m older now, so when I came to Houston, I said all the right stuff:
“The people we serve will have much more impact on us than we will have on them.” I knew that was true. I said it with all sincerity.
But I never leave home without my accursed blessing: a zipper-lock plastic bag of irrational hope that I am about to change the world. I tuck it right in under my name-emblazoned underwear.
As I rolled into Houston, I looked around at the enormity of the task before us, grinned and said, “Sure enough, it’s a huge problem. Let’s get busy.”
But Wednesday at this camp is the bottom of the ninth, down by three, bases loaded, two outs, two strikes; I swagger up to the plate, point toward left field, and swing with Babe-Ruth-confidence at the final pitch. Time slows as I helplessly watch the ball sink below my waist-wrenching swing. I hear the painful smack of the baseball in the hard leather mitt of the catcher. Then time roars back to normal speed, and the crowd is groaning. It’s not supposed to be like this. No runs scored. Not even a base hit.
The words of Mother Theresa echo in my head, “God does not call us to be successful. God calls us to be faithful.” I suppose that commentary would help me endure the torturous limitations of my humanity if I didn’t know I was working for the Creator of the Universe.
So I find myself praying – whining, really: “Would a little success be so hard? What if you just entrusted me with a little power to change the world – just for a day? Couldn’t I do a world of good? What if I could just make a difference in the lives of even half of these people? OK. How about 10 percent? Just 10 percent? Just let me impact the lives of 20,000 people. Isn’t there something in this for you, too? I’d give you all the credit, you know. Like those football players that catch impossible touchdown passes, then point toward the heavens, and drop to one knee for a prayer of thanksgiving. I could do that. I would do that!”
But it never seems to work like for me. No grand slam, no touch down, no cheering crowd, no credit-where-credit-is-due point to heaven as I drop to one knee in humble thanksgiving. Not even an interview with the local paper about how it takes all of us working together to truly help others… Not so much as a chance to quote Mother Theresa.
No, for me, it’s more like: “Go to Ninevah; do as I tell you, and when you’re done, go find a little shady spot I made for you to rest (but don’t get too comfortable there).”
I've learned that surviving camp on Wednesday means recognizing that this point in the week is quicksand. The more I struggle, the worse it pulls me under. I really have to just let myself be a little grumpy, maybe even a little sad, so when the time comes I can enjoy that last swim and that last hike. I have to let go of my expectations in order to see what this experience really has to offer.
See, camp doesn’t end on Wednesday, as my mom can tell you. It ends on Saturday at Closing Circle, where we all reflect on the fact that in a mere matter of days we have made life-long friendships. In mercifully few nights on a lumpy mattress, we have learned amazing new things about God and ourselves.
Likewise, if I’m really lucky, before this Houston assignment is over, I will notice that God once more has protected me from my narrow idea of success. As I say goodbye, I’ll cry, and hug everyone I’ve learned to love. I’ll realize that once again, I touched that magical place inside of myself where God lets me believe anything is possible.
Because it is.
I came to Houston anticipating great things. I was called to Houston for three months to help offer hospitality to brothers and sisters who survived Hurricane Katrina. It is a task of biblical proportion: help these people find housing, get their lives back in order and renew their self-reliance – all 200,000+ of them.
I attribute my lofty hopes to being blessedly out of touch with reality. But it’s Wednesday-at-camp time for me, now, and reality is setting in.
I’m a little crabby.
When I was a kid, my mother knew about this personality trait in me. When she wrote my name in my underwear and sent me to summer camp, she gently told me there would come a day in the week when I would want to just pack up and leave, even if I had to walk home.
I ignored her and she didn’t press her point – probably because she knew I would never GO to camp if I didn’t believe something amazing was about to happen, and she needed the week off as much as I did.
She also stipulated that camp was an all-or-nothing proposition. No teary “come get me” phone calls home. No bailing before the bitter end.
Bail? Who me! I could hardly wait to start! I was going to have a blast. And I did – until Wednesday.
I’m older now, so when I came to Houston, I said all the right stuff:
“The people we serve will have much more impact on us than we will have on them.” I knew that was true. I said it with all sincerity.
But I never leave home without my accursed blessing: a zipper-lock plastic bag of irrational hope that I am about to change the world. I tuck it right in under my name-emblazoned underwear.
As I rolled into Houston, I looked around at the enormity of the task before us, grinned and said, “Sure enough, it’s a huge problem. Let’s get busy.”
But Wednesday at this camp is the bottom of the ninth, down by three, bases loaded, two outs, two strikes; I swagger up to the plate, point toward left field, and swing with Babe-Ruth-confidence at the final pitch. Time slows as I helplessly watch the ball sink below my waist-wrenching swing. I hear the painful smack of the baseball in the hard leather mitt of the catcher. Then time roars back to normal speed, and the crowd is groaning. It’s not supposed to be like this. No runs scored. Not even a base hit.
The words of Mother Theresa echo in my head, “God does not call us to be successful. God calls us to be faithful.” I suppose that commentary would help me endure the torturous limitations of my humanity if I didn’t know I was working for the Creator of the Universe.
So I find myself praying – whining, really: “Would a little success be so hard? What if you just entrusted me with a little power to change the world – just for a day? Couldn’t I do a world of good? What if I could just make a difference in the lives of even half of these people? OK. How about 10 percent? Just 10 percent? Just let me impact the lives of 20,000 people. Isn’t there something in this for you, too? I’d give you all the credit, you know. Like those football players that catch impossible touchdown passes, then point toward the heavens, and drop to one knee for a prayer of thanksgiving. I could do that. I would do that!”
But it never seems to work like for me. No grand slam, no touch down, no cheering crowd, no credit-where-credit-is-due point to heaven as I drop to one knee in humble thanksgiving. Not even an interview with the local paper about how it takes all of us working together to truly help others… Not so much as a chance to quote Mother Theresa.
No, for me, it’s more like: “Go to Ninevah; do as I tell you, and when you’re done, go find a little shady spot I made for you to rest (but don’t get too comfortable there).”
I've learned that surviving camp on Wednesday means recognizing that this point in the week is quicksand. The more I struggle, the worse it pulls me under. I really have to just let myself be a little grumpy, maybe even a little sad, so when the time comes I can enjoy that last swim and that last hike. I have to let go of my expectations in order to see what this experience really has to offer.
See, camp doesn’t end on Wednesday, as my mom can tell you. It ends on Saturday at Closing Circle, where we all reflect on the fact that in a mere matter of days we have made life-long friendships. In mercifully few nights on a lumpy mattress, we have learned amazing new things about God and ourselves.
Likewise, if I’m really lucky, before this Houston assignment is over, I will notice that God once more has protected me from my narrow idea of success. As I say goodbye, I’ll cry, and hug everyone I’ve learned to love. I’ll realize that once again, I touched that magical place inside of myself where God lets me believe anything is possible.
Because it is.
Friday, November 18, 2005
Home
I could hear the smile in his voice. Todd Williams, pastor of New Covenant Christian Church in Houston, called to say he had just put a 17-year-old boy on a bus home. The trip ends a two-and-a-half year street-life chapter for the boy, who hung out in the near-downtown neighborhood where I work.
Badly beaten the night before, this young sojourner had finally had reached his limit. He tracked down Todd in the Starbucks on the Montrose. He wanted to go home.
Todd said it was hard to see his young friend in that shape. But he was happy to call the boy’s mother. She just cried.
“The fatted calf is really in trouble,” Todd told me. What a Thanksgiving homecoming that will be.
Home. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.
My circumstances will be different, but I’ll head home for a Thanksgiving break in just a few days, and fall into the welcoming arms of my family, too. But most of the New Orleans diaspora here in Houston don’t hold out the same hope.
I heard from Week of Compassion Director Johnny Wray today, too. As he drove over the viaduct into New Orleans, he described what he saw. There was no smile in his voice.
“This is just a mess,” he said. And Johnny has seen some messes. “I’m not even in one of the bad parts.” Making New Orleans inhabitable again is a long-term project, fraught with challenges that are yet to be discovered. Rebuiding in time for the holidays? Not an option. Even rebuilding before federal funds run out for evacuees just got less likely.
In the nation's capital today, FEMA reaffirmed its statement that evacuees living in hotels must move out by Dec. 1. The deadline for this move has been named before, and then moved back. This time, it isn’t budging, FEMA says. The Mayor of Houston is steamed.
But why? Hotels cost more than apartments. Hotels are not set up for whole families. Hotels usually are not equipped for storing or cooking food. In fact, if you ask people living in hotels, they will tell you it sucks to live in a hotel. So why wouldn't Mayor Bill White want to move them out?
The fact is, White has moved more people out of hotels in Houston than the number of hotel-sheltered evacuees in all other cities combined.
Cramming those last 20,000 seekers into a stretched-wafer-thin apartment system would be hard enough over a matter of months. But two weeks – interrupted by a major national holiday? Furthermore, some hotels are not waiting for the deadline to rid themselves of these guests who have outstayed their welcome. Emboldened by the announcement, some administrators are simply declining to re-up the stays of some of these occupants. They have to get out now.
But FEMA had a second announcement:
FEMA plans to reduce from 12 to three the number of months’ rent it will cover for evacuees. Never mind how long it takes a family to bounce back after utter destruction. Let’s just ask: When was the last time an apartment was willing to settle for a three-month lease?
This story has barely made the news. I heard it on the local National Public Radio channel. Then I hunted for details online. ABC and UPI had picked it up, at least in local markets. Plenty of others ignored it completely. But this news won't escape the attention of the local faith community.
With nowhere to go, and with temperatures dropping to annual lows at this time of year, evacuee families are showing up at churches again, looking for help. Todd sent one homeless kid back to his family today. But what happens when the whole family is on the street? It's not a problem that can be solved with a phone call and a bus ticket.
Home. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.
I celebrate the blessed reunion that's coming for the young boy and his parents.
As for the New Orleans evacuees, I'm afraid the fatted calf is looking way too smug.
Badly beaten the night before, this young sojourner had finally had reached his limit. He tracked down Todd in the Starbucks on the Montrose. He wanted to go home.
Todd said it was hard to see his young friend in that shape. But he was happy to call the boy’s mother. She just cried.
“The fatted calf is really in trouble,” Todd told me. What a Thanksgiving homecoming that will be.
Home. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.
My circumstances will be different, but I’ll head home for a Thanksgiving break in just a few days, and fall into the welcoming arms of my family, too. But most of the New Orleans diaspora here in Houston don’t hold out the same hope.
I heard from Week of Compassion Director Johnny Wray today, too. As he drove over the viaduct into New Orleans, he described what he saw. There was no smile in his voice.
“This is just a mess,” he said. And Johnny has seen some messes. “I’m not even in one of the bad parts.” Making New Orleans inhabitable again is a long-term project, fraught with challenges that are yet to be discovered. Rebuiding in time for the holidays? Not an option. Even rebuilding before federal funds run out for evacuees just got less likely.
In the nation's capital today, FEMA reaffirmed its statement that evacuees living in hotels must move out by Dec. 1. The deadline for this move has been named before, and then moved back. This time, it isn’t budging, FEMA says. The Mayor of Houston is steamed.
But why? Hotels cost more than apartments. Hotels are not set up for whole families. Hotels usually are not equipped for storing or cooking food. In fact, if you ask people living in hotels, they will tell you it sucks to live in a hotel. So why wouldn't Mayor Bill White want to move them out?
The fact is, White has moved more people out of hotels in Houston than the number of hotel-sheltered evacuees in all other cities combined.
Cramming those last 20,000 seekers into a stretched-wafer-thin apartment system would be hard enough over a matter of months. But two weeks – interrupted by a major national holiday? Furthermore, some hotels are not waiting for the deadline to rid themselves of these guests who have outstayed their welcome. Emboldened by the announcement, some administrators are simply declining to re-up the stays of some of these occupants. They have to get out now.
But FEMA had a second announcement:
FEMA plans to reduce from 12 to three the number of months’ rent it will cover for evacuees. Never mind how long it takes a family to bounce back after utter destruction. Let’s just ask: When was the last time an apartment was willing to settle for a three-month lease?
This story has barely made the news. I heard it on the local National Public Radio channel. Then I hunted for details online. ABC and UPI had picked it up, at least in local markets. Plenty of others ignored it completely. But this news won't escape the attention of the local faith community.
With nowhere to go, and with temperatures dropping to annual lows at this time of year, evacuee families are showing up at churches again, looking for help. Todd sent one homeless kid back to his family today. But what happens when the whole family is on the street? It's not a problem that can be solved with a phone call and a bus ticket.
Home. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately.
I celebrate the blessed reunion that's coming for the young boy and his parents.
As for the New Orleans evacuees, I'm afraid the fatted calf is looking way too smug.
Saturday, November 12, 2005
Tuesday before Thanksgiving
The phone rang a couple of weeks ago. It was Paul David Longstreth, a soft-spoken jazz piano player, displaced by Hurricane Katrina. He got my name from his dad, a Disciples pastor in Houston with the same name as his son. Young Paul David expressed the gratitude his jazz colleagues feel toward the City of Houston and the cultural community.
“Things have been quite good for us,” he told me. “We have been set up in some really good gigs. We have work. We have been warmly received.”
I would learn later that he was still working out the details of where he would live – and how he might re-establish a recording studio where he could teach, record and continue his artist’s living. His most treasured tool of the trade, a grand piano, is wrapped in plastic and sitting in his New Orleans house, where he prays the soundboard will not warp before he can move it to Houston.
But Paul David had no complaints. In fact, he was calling because he and his band buddies had been watching TV. They were disturbed by what they were seeing as a result of the Pakistan earthquake. They were appalled that so many people were suffering, dying and would soon be facing bitter winter weather, with little or no shelter.
“We can’t pay back what the City of Houston has done for us,” Paul said. “But maybe by using our talent to raise money for survivors of a different disaster, we can play it forward.”
On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving this year, more than a dozen jazz artists will fill the vaulted ceilings of a local church with saucy sounds of the “Play it Forward,” benefit concert dedicated to defiance of disaster. People with names like “Sista Teedy” and “Barbecue Swingers” will play their hearts out for Abduls and Afras, Mohammeds and Mirvats.
It’s not just the random act of kindness of one group of disaster survivors to another that touches me. It’s the way people who haven’t yet settled in look up and see another’s need, and pause to play a song of hope in their honor. It’s the way the generosity of one giver begets generosity in another.
The City of Houston seems to be out on a limb with its generous Hurricane relief. To all those who can show proof of residency in New Orleans (a driver’s license or utility bill showing an address), Houston issues vouchers for one year’s rent, $2,300 or so in a stipend and utilities paid directly by the City.
By contrast, Dallas, boosted by private donations, ventured as far as to offer two months’ rent to survivors who made their way to that metropolis. They had no assurance FEMA would reimburse their assistance.
The fight isn’t over with FEMA about how much of that investment in humanity the Federal government will repay to Houston. But Mayor Bill White didn’t wait for assurance of repayment. He stayed focused on the most important thing: integrating new neighbors into community life so they can get on with life, and ultimately contribute to the community.
Houston knows it will cost more in the long run if the City extends a miserly welcome.
With a year to get one’s feet on the ground, a survivor has a fighting chance of recovery. For the City, that translates as less homelessness, less abject poverty, less depression, less physical and substance abuse, less violent crime, less joblessness… you name it.
The plan is driven by a wisdom that contrasts starkly the “shoot to kill” order for “looters” who days before Katrina-driven desperation simply had been citizens of New Orleans. Mayor White knows helping people is preferable to shooting them.
For their part, people like Paul David do not get hung up in entitlement, nor do they spend much time pondering the wisdom or folly of the City’s generosity. They just take the vouchers for the humane gift they are – and they multiply what they have received and reward the world with their extravagant response.
Conservative Muslims in Houston do not really approve of jazz music. But they will not decline this holy gift – because it is hard to imagine a more sacred expression of Thanksgiving.
“Things have been quite good for us,” he told me. “We have been set up in some really good gigs. We have work. We have been warmly received.”
I would learn later that he was still working out the details of where he would live – and how he might re-establish a recording studio where he could teach, record and continue his artist’s living. His most treasured tool of the trade, a grand piano, is wrapped in plastic and sitting in his New Orleans house, where he prays the soundboard will not warp before he can move it to Houston.
But Paul David had no complaints. In fact, he was calling because he and his band buddies had been watching TV. They were disturbed by what they were seeing as a result of the Pakistan earthquake. They were appalled that so many people were suffering, dying and would soon be facing bitter winter weather, with little or no shelter.
“We can’t pay back what the City of Houston has done for us,” Paul said. “But maybe by using our talent to raise money for survivors of a different disaster, we can play it forward.”
On the Tuesday before Thanksgiving this year, more than a dozen jazz artists will fill the vaulted ceilings of a local church with saucy sounds of the “Play it Forward,” benefit concert dedicated to defiance of disaster. People with names like “Sista Teedy” and “Barbecue Swingers” will play their hearts out for Abduls and Afras, Mohammeds and Mirvats.
It’s not just the random act of kindness of one group of disaster survivors to another that touches me. It’s the way people who haven’t yet settled in look up and see another’s need, and pause to play a song of hope in their honor. It’s the way the generosity of one giver begets generosity in another.
The City of Houston seems to be out on a limb with its generous Hurricane relief. To all those who can show proof of residency in New Orleans (a driver’s license or utility bill showing an address), Houston issues vouchers for one year’s rent, $2,300 or so in a stipend and utilities paid directly by the City.
By contrast, Dallas, boosted by private donations, ventured as far as to offer two months’ rent to survivors who made their way to that metropolis. They had no assurance FEMA would reimburse their assistance.
The fight isn’t over with FEMA about how much of that investment in humanity the Federal government will repay to Houston. But Mayor Bill White didn’t wait for assurance of repayment. He stayed focused on the most important thing: integrating new neighbors into community life so they can get on with life, and ultimately contribute to the community.
Houston knows it will cost more in the long run if the City extends a miserly welcome.
With a year to get one’s feet on the ground, a survivor has a fighting chance of recovery. For the City, that translates as less homelessness, less abject poverty, less depression, less physical and substance abuse, less violent crime, less joblessness… you name it.
The plan is driven by a wisdom that contrasts starkly the “shoot to kill” order for “looters” who days before Katrina-driven desperation simply had been citizens of New Orleans. Mayor White knows helping people is preferable to shooting them.
For their part, people like Paul David do not get hung up in entitlement, nor do they spend much time pondering the wisdom or folly of the City’s generosity. They just take the vouchers for the humane gift they are – and they multiply what they have received and reward the world with their extravagant response.
Conservative Muslims in Houston do not really approve of jazz music. But they will not decline this holy gift – because it is hard to imagine a more sacred expression of Thanksgiving.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Zero to 100
A friend from church wanted to be sure that in the midst of my three months in Houston I still got to spend some time with my family. Right after the board meeting at my church, when my assignment was announced, she slipped me her business card with a note handwritten on it: "Good for one roundtrip airline ticket... call me."
This week, I cashed in the gift for a rendezvous with my people in the mountains of Tennessee. I can no more say how grateful I was for the opportunity to see my family, than I can share how hard it was to wave good-bye as they dropped me off at the airport when our visit ended.
Long ago, Lori made up a family wave/chant: "Peace, love and save the whales." I waved it to the back of my departing family car. It's still our family goodwill wish and reminder of our call to make a difference in the world – just in different places on the planet for now.
I still have good days and bad days with the Neighbors to Neighbors program. One day, we make respectable progress and I am delighted. Another day, we hit the wall. Those are harder days. Our success translates into lives touched, so it matters that we do well. But there also is the selfish reality: The cost to be in away from home is personally significant enough that I REALLY want every moment to count.
Ironically, my father-in-law offered wisdom about that for me as our weekend trip came to a close.
Ken is a brilliant business man, and a remarkable strategist. He has a generous spirit, and respects faith commitments, although he's not big on the church scene. Ken and I don't always see things exactly the same way in the political arena. Yet we manage to love some of the same people passionately, so we find plenty of common ground.
That said, I don't expect Ken to fully understand why I'm in Houston. After all, there are days when I wonder, too. But he is kind enough to keep criticism of that decision – if he has any – to himself.
In fact, he wished me luck as we were parting company in Tennessee.
Those final moments with my family naturally left me feeling particularly intolerant of the hard days in Houston. I mumbled something about the pace needing to pick up soon or I would be "cutting this mission short."
Ken's a handsome man, with a winning smile. He flashed a wide grin at me.
"You can't really go from zero to 100 in the time you want to, can you?"
Ken is driven. He goes for the things he values and he often gets them. He is not a person I would describe as laid back. But the sparkle in his blue eyes told me that life also has taught him not just the difficulty, but also the value of patience.
With my mind still drifting to hikes in the Tennessee woods with my family, I checked in with my colleagues at work in Houston. I wasn't expecting much. When I left, it felt like we were standing around waiting for something to happen. We had planted seeds, but we were still waiting for the crop to grow.
However, on Friday, right after I left, apparently some sprouts had pressed through the soil. Two big apartment complexes representing more than 250 families (with an average of about three members per household) were newly signed into the program.
We did high fives all around, before the other shoe fell: There was, as yet, no congregational match.
But patience was about to pay off – again.
At its best, being a congregation in this process is akin to adopting a child. You fill out the paper work, prepare everything, then you wait. And when the call comes, it's usually not at the most convenient time. But you go. You're just happy to final meet.
I had been nurturing a cluster of congregations from nearly the first day I arrived. I picked up the phone and within moments had a commitment for them to take on the new apartments that were signing into the program.
Against the 20,000 goal we have set for the Neighbor to Neighbor program, 250 families may not seem like much. But this progress offers hope that our program is building steam.
And as someone wise once told me: "You can't really go from zero to 100 in the time you want to..."
Maybe it's just a cosmic joke, but my name, "Patricia," means "patient one."
This week, I cashed in the gift for a rendezvous with my people in the mountains of Tennessee. I can no more say how grateful I was for the opportunity to see my family, than I can share how hard it was to wave good-bye as they dropped me off at the airport when our visit ended.
Long ago, Lori made up a family wave/chant: "Peace, love and save the whales." I waved it to the back of my departing family car. It's still our family goodwill wish and reminder of our call to make a difference in the world – just in different places on the planet for now.
I still have good days and bad days with the Neighbors to Neighbors program. One day, we make respectable progress and I am delighted. Another day, we hit the wall. Those are harder days. Our success translates into lives touched, so it matters that we do well. But there also is the selfish reality: The cost to be in away from home is personally significant enough that I REALLY want every moment to count.
Ironically, my father-in-law offered wisdom about that for me as our weekend trip came to a close.
Ken is a brilliant business man, and a remarkable strategist. He has a generous spirit, and respects faith commitments, although he's not big on the church scene. Ken and I don't always see things exactly the same way in the political arena. Yet we manage to love some of the same people passionately, so we find plenty of common ground.
That said, I don't expect Ken to fully understand why I'm in Houston. After all, there are days when I wonder, too. But he is kind enough to keep criticism of that decision – if he has any – to himself.
In fact, he wished me luck as we were parting company in Tennessee.
Those final moments with my family naturally left me feeling particularly intolerant of the hard days in Houston. I mumbled something about the pace needing to pick up soon or I would be "cutting this mission short."
Ken's a handsome man, with a winning smile. He flashed a wide grin at me.
"You can't really go from zero to 100 in the time you want to, can you?"
Ken is driven. He goes for the things he values and he often gets them. He is not a person I would describe as laid back. But the sparkle in his blue eyes told me that life also has taught him not just the difficulty, but also the value of patience.
With my mind still drifting to hikes in the Tennessee woods with my family, I checked in with my colleagues at work in Houston. I wasn't expecting much. When I left, it felt like we were standing around waiting for something to happen. We had planted seeds, but we were still waiting for the crop to grow.
However, on Friday, right after I left, apparently some sprouts had pressed through the soil. Two big apartment complexes representing more than 250 families (with an average of about three members per household) were newly signed into the program.
We did high fives all around, before the other shoe fell: There was, as yet, no congregational match.
But patience was about to pay off – again.
At its best, being a congregation in this process is akin to adopting a child. You fill out the paper work, prepare everything, then you wait. And when the call comes, it's usually not at the most convenient time. But you go. You're just happy to final meet.
I had been nurturing a cluster of congregations from nearly the first day I arrived. I picked up the phone and within moments had a commitment for them to take on the new apartments that were signing into the program.
Against the 20,000 goal we have set for the Neighbor to Neighbor program, 250 families may not seem like much. But this progress offers hope that our program is building steam.
And as someone wise once told me: "You can't really go from zero to 100 in the time you want to..."
Maybe it's just a cosmic joke, but my name, "Patricia," means "patient one."
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Mutant Maniacs
We humans. We live on a planet that reminds us just how small we are: We're ants. Yet we persist in thinking so highly of ourselves.
We're tiny mutants bred to believe we are in charge of something; that we have some God-given responsibility for a planet that simply sighs and one of our cities disappears in the vapor.
Yet here on this spinning rock in the absolute middle of Nowhere, we pack our sack lunches and head off to work, whistling like idiots. We get out of bed, savor a good cup of hot, black coffee, and read the daily reminder of our insignificance:
The Earth is shattered beyond recognition in Pakistan.
The Gulf Coast can't quite stand up again after hurricane after hurricane.
Rather than hide under the bed, we pass a little basket at church. We take up an offering for Week of Compassion. In fact, in the face of this recent season of sorrow and destruction in the world, we might even cash in a CD, and just send the whole amount to Johnny Wray. We know he's a great steward of our resources. He'll make sure it gets somewhere to help someone.
If intelligent life forms ever visited this planet, then surely they stepped back gingerly when they saw us, and shook their heads in pity that we just don't get the cosmic reality in which we live.
We think we can make a difference.
I just love that about us.
You'll find a link to the Week of Compassion website if you scroll down on the right-hand column of this blog. If you missed the offering basket on Sunday, it's not too late.
Go ahead. Throw in with the lunatics.
We aim to make a difference.
We're tiny mutants bred to believe we are in charge of something; that we have some God-given responsibility for a planet that simply sighs and one of our cities disappears in the vapor.
Yet here on this spinning rock in the absolute middle of Nowhere, we pack our sack lunches and head off to work, whistling like idiots. We get out of bed, savor a good cup of hot, black coffee, and read the daily reminder of our insignificance:
The Earth is shattered beyond recognition in Pakistan.
The Gulf Coast can't quite stand up again after hurricane after hurricane.
Rather than hide under the bed, we pass a little basket at church. We take up an offering for Week of Compassion. In fact, in the face of this recent season of sorrow and destruction in the world, we might even cash in a CD, and just send the whole amount to Johnny Wray. We know he's a great steward of our resources. He'll make sure it gets somewhere to help someone.
If intelligent life forms ever visited this planet, then surely they stepped back gingerly when they saw us, and shook their heads in pity that we just don't get the cosmic reality in which we live.
We think we can make a difference.
I just love that about us.
You'll find a link to the Week of Compassion website if you scroll down on the right-hand column of this blog. If you missed the offering basket on Sunday, it's not too late.
Go ahead. Throw in with the lunatics.
We aim to make a difference.
Saturday, October 08, 2005
Bingo!
If you play Bingo with Ms. Rita Mae Brousseau, get it right. Wins can be had with five in a row vertically, horizonally or diagonally -- OR by scoring all four corners of the card.
"Now tha's regular Bingo," she says, dropping the T for extra emphasis. Ms. Brousseau (not her real name) knows. She called the Bingo games back in a New Orleans casino. Pity the poor soul that calls the game at the assisted living center in Houston where she lives now.
I'm not sure even God would argue with Ms. Brousseau -- about Bingo, or much of anything else.
We all breathed easier when she won the last of the four Bingo games we played today as a mixer for the Neighbors2Neighbors gathering. Three nearby churches each sent a handful of members to meet Hurricane Katrina survivors.
No one is likely to ever mention again the fact that Ms. Brousseau didn't win outright. She tied for the final prize with another resident. As the group talked about a compromise -- a way to break the tie -- Ms. Brousseau crossed her arms on her chest and stuck out her bottom lip in defiance. She shook her head and set her jaw. The other winning resident, a man seated next to her, noted the futility and relented:
"She can have it."
"It" was a country art door hanging -- an ugly country craft scarecrow that sat on the bottom of the wreath as if it were in a swing. But Ms. Brousseau wanted her winnings, no matter how tasteless.
I had this pained feeling that Ms. Brousseau survived Hurricane Katrina and the horrors that followed the storm precisely because she appears to be made of steel.
"Let me give you a tip about people from New Orleans …" she said to me a couple of times. I figured I could use all the tips I could get, so I listened carefully. She would set me straight, and then send me off to get her something else: a soda or a piece of cake. I just did as I was told.
Ms. Brousseau is on dry land, in enviable living quarters, with most of her physical needs met. Because of her advanced age and medical needs, she was among the first Katrina survivors to be placed in more permanent housing.
I wonder when the soft bed, regular meals and connections with a network of caring people will compromise the levees around her heart -- levees that for now hold back a flood of unexpressed agony.
The Mental Health Association of Greater Houston showed up at the Interfaith Ministries offices this week. They told us that most disaster survivors will hit the emotional wall at about the same time that the Neighbors2Neighbors effort reaches them.
We interface with survivors when basic needs are met and the scraping-to-survive impulse can rest. Then comes the emotional response to the loss, said the MHA director of public education and training.
MHA desperately wants to train Houstonians in Neighbors2Neighbors to recognize signs of trouble. They also want to provide information about how to refer the new neighbors for professional assistance when they are ready.
That kind of help thrills us. We've already set up the first training.
The MHA representative and I met late last week, while we both attended a meeting of the care providers. With more people needing help than can be handled in centralized care centers, the mental health care community -- which ranges from school counselors to psychiatric associations -- is developing a new computer-aided network. Ideally, this network will match Katrina survivors in need with providers willing to provide them free care.
Like Neighbors2Neighbors, the network's challenge is to match those in need with those who are willing to help fill the need -- but their challenge is not only geographic. They must match each need with the right kind of care. And the variables are mind-boggling. It's a problem made for a network of computers.
Information technology companies currently are developing updatable data-base driven networks as a free service. If the networks can be impelemented successfully, the software companies and the City of Houston stand to gain plenty. Not only will the IT firms have big, new clients as part of the network, but the network can be yoked in service to all of Houston's neediest citizens.
Vertical, horizontal, diagonal matches -- from all four corners of Houston.
BINGO, Ms. Brousseau! We're all winners in that game.
"Now tha's regular Bingo," she says, dropping the T for extra emphasis. Ms. Brousseau (not her real name) knows. She called the Bingo games back in a New Orleans casino. Pity the poor soul that calls the game at the assisted living center in Houston where she lives now.
I'm not sure even God would argue with Ms. Brousseau -- about Bingo, or much of anything else.
We all breathed easier when she won the last of the four Bingo games we played today as a mixer for the Neighbors2Neighbors gathering. Three nearby churches each sent a handful of members to meet Hurricane Katrina survivors.
No one is likely to ever mention again the fact that Ms. Brousseau didn't win outright. She tied for the final prize with another resident. As the group talked about a compromise -- a way to break the tie -- Ms. Brousseau crossed her arms on her chest and stuck out her bottom lip in defiance. She shook her head and set her jaw. The other winning resident, a man seated next to her, noted the futility and relented:
"She can have it."
"It" was a country art door hanging -- an ugly country craft scarecrow that sat on the bottom of the wreath as if it were in a swing. But Ms. Brousseau wanted her winnings, no matter how tasteless.
I had this pained feeling that Ms. Brousseau survived Hurricane Katrina and the horrors that followed the storm precisely because she appears to be made of steel.
"Let me give you a tip about people from New Orleans …" she said to me a couple of times. I figured I could use all the tips I could get, so I listened carefully. She would set me straight, and then send me off to get her something else: a soda or a piece of cake. I just did as I was told.
Ms. Brousseau is on dry land, in enviable living quarters, with most of her physical needs met. Because of her advanced age and medical needs, she was among the first Katrina survivors to be placed in more permanent housing.
I wonder when the soft bed, regular meals and connections with a network of caring people will compromise the levees around her heart -- levees that for now hold back a flood of unexpressed agony.
The Mental Health Association of Greater Houston showed up at the Interfaith Ministries offices this week. They told us that most disaster survivors will hit the emotional wall at about the same time that the Neighbors2Neighbors effort reaches them.
We interface with survivors when basic needs are met and the scraping-to-survive impulse can rest. Then comes the emotional response to the loss, said the MHA director of public education and training.
MHA desperately wants to train Houstonians in Neighbors2Neighbors to recognize signs of trouble. They also want to provide information about how to refer the new neighbors for professional assistance when they are ready.
That kind of help thrills us. We've already set up the first training.
The MHA representative and I met late last week, while we both attended a meeting of the care providers. With more people needing help than can be handled in centralized care centers, the mental health care community -- which ranges from school counselors to psychiatric associations -- is developing a new computer-aided network. Ideally, this network will match Katrina survivors in need with providers willing to provide them free care.
Like Neighbors2Neighbors, the network's challenge is to match those in need with those who are willing to help fill the need -- but their challenge is not only geographic. They must match each need with the right kind of care. And the variables are mind-boggling. It's a problem made for a network of computers.
Information technology companies currently are developing updatable data-base driven networks as a free service. If the networks can be impelemented successfully, the software companies and the City of Houston stand to gain plenty. Not only will the IT firms have big, new clients as part of the network, but the network can be yoked in service to all of Houston's neediest citizens.
Vertical, horizontal, diagonal matches -- from all four corners of Houston.
BINGO, Ms. Brousseau! We're all winners in that game.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
The Gospel Truth
I love pipe organ music. I can sit on an old, hard pew for a long time to hear the majesty of Bach echo from the stones of a well-built cathedral. I love the way it can shake me in my seat, or whisper to me as I pray.
So, I gladly visited an Episcopal Church on Sunday. I knew they would not disappoint in the music department.
But Rector Jim Nutter climbed into the pulpit at Palmer Memorial Episcopal Church with a hard word for his flock last Sunday. He told the parable from Matthew of the owner of the vineyard who leases his property to tenants, then leaves. The owner sends his servants to collect part of the proceeds of the vineyard and they kill the servants. He does it again and they react the same way. He sends his son, knowing they will respect him, and the tenants kill the son, as well.
Then Nutter broke the news to us: We are the tenants in this story.
Palmer Memorial got an earful about the ravages of confusing “ownership” with “stewardship.” Christians are not owners; they are stewards of everything in our possession. Nutter was bold to point out that ownership leads to turf wars and stinginess and death. Stewardship leads to community and sharing and life, he said.
God doesn’t come collecting part of the proceeds of our lives because God has need of them. God receives our offerings so that we might learn to give – so we might be more like our giving God.
We have confused ownership and stewardship in the church because we have, somewhere in our lives, missed the message that we are loved unconditionally. Without that understanding, we buy into a theory of scarcity, rather than a gospel of abundance. We need to learn we have enough so we can let go of owning and claiming and acquiring.
We must NOT indulge this pathology, Nutter warned, because so much hangs in the balance: our lives and the lives of all those around us.
Then Nutter dropped the edginess in his preaching and talked to us. He sidled in beside us on the pew and said that together we would try to relearn grace – unconditional love, for our sakes and for the sake of the rest of the world.
With little time to reflect on what I had heard, I drove over to New Covenant Christian Church to worship with my new Disciples friends.
When I arrived, pastor Todd Williams was strumming his brand-new guitar. Ready to participate in the pretty music, 2-year-old Isabell waddled up to the programmable electric keyboard and pounded on the wanna-be ivories.
Rainbow paraments adorned the makeshift office setting, creating a worship space.
“Toto,” I thought. “We are not in Kansas anymore.”
Homeless people sat in the back, where they could lean on something and finally sleep; nights are far too dangerous for that. A young woman who had lived on the streets a few months earlier, grinned and snacked on Pop Tarts as Todd bragged that she was about to graduate from a trade school with a new lease on life. New Covenant had paid the tuition. A middle-class family, that carried its justice commitments right out of the door with them on Sunday morning, also occasionally hauled off the laundry of their homeless brethren, so it could be cleaned and returned ready to wear again. They bounced in with hugs for everyone, including visitors like me, and made a discreet delivery of breakfast burritos to a few of the people they knew probably hadn’t eaten in a while.
Promptly at 11 a.m., worship started. No prelude. No processional. No vestments. No silver chalices. No kneeling benches. No marble. No hymnals. No podium to climb for the preacher; and no pipe organ.
But something felt familiar as Todd Williams moved behind the lectern with a hard word for his flock.
He read a passage from Isaiah 7; gamely spitting out names no one else could pronounce from countries no one had heard of. But when he got to the last line in the morning’s text, he said it twice: “Stand firm in your faith and wait on the Lord.”
He unpacked the story of the passage. The oppressed group in the story wanted to rise up against the oppressors. But God knew they would not prevail in the fight. God also knew that down the road a bit, when the current leaders were dead and their tongue-twisting-named sons were in charge, it would be a different matter. Wait for God’s moment and prevail. Stand firm in your faith and wait on the Lord.
Wait? I glanced around at this oh-so-unlikely congregation. Waiting for this group might mean the difference between life and death. They had nothing, with a capital N. Wait?
Then the gospel wafted in, and the Christ candle flame flickered a bit.
Williams sidled into the chairs beside us and said that together we would need to relearn the power of unconditional love to transform us, and the rest of the world. We would stand firm in the faith that God would never abandon us. We would defy the gospel of scarcity and embrace the gospel of God’s abundance, for our sake and for the sake of the rest of the world.
Isabell wandered up to the pulpit and Williams picked her up.
Maybe it’s not the organ that shakes me in my seat, or whispers to me as I pray. It’s the gospel.
So, I gladly visited an Episcopal Church on Sunday. I knew they would not disappoint in the music department.
But Rector Jim Nutter climbed into the pulpit at Palmer Memorial Episcopal Church with a hard word for his flock last Sunday. He told the parable from Matthew of the owner of the vineyard who leases his property to tenants, then leaves. The owner sends his servants to collect part of the proceeds of the vineyard and they kill the servants. He does it again and they react the same way. He sends his son, knowing they will respect him, and the tenants kill the son, as well.
Then Nutter broke the news to us: We are the tenants in this story.
Palmer Memorial got an earful about the ravages of confusing “ownership” with “stewardship.” Christians are not owners; they are stewards of everything in our possession. Nutter was bold to point out that ownership leads to turf wars and stinginess and death. Stewardship leads to community and sharing and life, he said.
God doesn’t come collecting part of the proceeds of our lives because God has need of them. God receives our offerings so that we might learn to give – so we might be more like our giving God.
We have confused ownership and stewardship in the church because we have, somewhere in our lives, missed the message that we are loved unconditionally. Without that understanding, we buy into a theory of scarcity, rather than a gospel of abundance. We need to learn we have enough so we can let go of owning and claiming and acquiring.
We must NOT indulge this pathology, Nutter warned, because so much hangs in the balance: our lives and the lives of all those around us.
Then Nutter dropped the edginess in his preaching and talked to us. He sidled in beside us on the pew and said that together we would try to relearn grace – unconditional love, for our sakes and for the sake of the rest of the world.
With little time to reflect on what I had heard, I drove over to New Covenant Christian Church to worship with my new Disciples friends.
When I arrived, pastor Todd Williams was strumming his brand-new guitar. Ready to participate in the pretty music, 2-year-old Isabell waddled up to the programmable electric keyboard and pounded on the wanna-be ivories.
Rainbow paraments adorned the makeshift office setting, creating a worship space.
“Toto,” I thought. “We are not in Kansas anymore.”
Homeless people sat in the back, where they could lean on something and finally sleep; nights are far too dangerous for that. A young woman who had lived on the streets a few months earlier, grinned and snacked on Pop Tarts as Todd bragged that she was about to graduate from a trade school with a new lease on life. New Covenant had paid the tuition. A middle-class family, that carried its justice commitments right out of the door with them on Sunday morning, also occasionally hauled off the laundry of their homeless brethren, so it could be cleaned and returned ready to wear again. They bounced in with hugs for everyone, including visitors like me, and made a discreet delivery of breakfast burritos to a few of the people they knew probably hadn’t eaten in a while.
Promptly at 11 a.m., worship started. No prelude. No processional. No vestments. No silver chalices. No kneeling benches. No marble. No hymnals. No podium to climb for the preacher; and no pipe organ.
But something felt familiar as Todd Williams moved behind the lectern with a hard word for his flock.
He read a passage from Isaiah 7; gamely spitting out names no one else could pronounce from countries no one had heard of. But when he got to the last line in the morning’s text, he said it twice: “Stand firm in your faith and wait on the Lord.”
He unpacked the story of the passage. The oppressed group in the story wanted to rise up against the oppressors. But God knew they would not prevail in the fight. God also knew that down the road a bit, when the current leaders were dead and their tongue-twisting-named sons were in charge, it would be a different matter. Wait for God’s moment and prevail. Stand firm in your faith and wait on the Lord.
Wait? I glanced around at this oh-so-unlikely congregation. Waiting for this group might mean the difference between life and death. They had nothing, with a capital N. Wait?
Then the gospel wafted in, and the Christ candle flame flickered a bit.
Williams sidled into the chairs beside us and said that together we would need to relearn the power of unconditional love to transform us, and the rest of the world. We would stand firm in the faith that God would never abandon us. We would defy the gospel of scarcity and embrace the gospel of God’s abundance, for our sake and for the sake of the rest of the world.
Isabell wandered up to the pulpit and Williams picked her up.
Maybe it’s not the organ that shakes me in my seat, or whispers to me as I pray. It’s the gospel.
Saturday, October 01, 2005
First Things First
It's odd, being in Texas. I mean, I grew up in Oklahoma, where we didn't waste a lot of respect on our southern neighbors – not that they cared a whit what we thought of them.
But here I am, submitting myself to the hospitality of people who have the reputation for an arrogance that is, as they say, bigger than Dallas. Texas gave us the Bush dynasty and Tom DeLay. Need I say more?
Well, yes. I am learning I didn't know all there was to know about Texans.
Now I am not about to deify these folks, so don't flip to the next blog. But you might be surprised.
Thursday, a guy I'm working with pointed out that he and I probably hail from opposite ends of the human spectrum (he had no idea how far apart). It was his way of saying he is a conservative. I tried to look surprised.
But he said that working at Interfaith Ministries of Greater Houston with Jewish, Christian and Muslim conservative and liberal laborers had taught him one thing. Our faith systems lead us to the same conclusion: people shouldn't go hungry or be mistreated or live without shelter. It was his way of welcoming me – of naming the bridge that connects us, rather than all that might divide us.
I can work with that.
When I packed my car to come down here, I knew it might be – well, politically challenging. I think that reality gave me more pause than road hazards – like no gasoline or power or running water. I could carry provisions for temporary inconveniences. But it's hard to fully prepare to live in a state that won't let my spouse make the call on whether to unplug my life support if I find myself hospitalized here. It's hard to know I am living where the Red Cross would turn my family away from a family shelter – even after we'd been through a devastating flood – on grounds that we are not "really" a family. And no court here would call that criminal.
When I left home, I felt a little like Jonah going to Ninevah... Oh, God, no. Not Texas! It's not that I'm more obedient than Jonah. Just more selfish. I mean, I learned a long time ago that running from God's call is futile. So it's easier to just take Highway 59 South, with an extra tank of gas in the trunk, than to be puked up by a whale in Galveston Bay. This way, at least I get to bring a laptop.
What I am learning from Texans is that the stereotypes are true -- and false. Besides what I have come to expect from Texas (George and company, for example), there are some amazing people here.
Take for example, Houston Mayor White, who has this hard-line "help our fellow Americans" attitude... It's not that politically correct version. It's the put-your-resources-where-your-mouth-is variety.
When Rita hit, White cancelled events at the George R. Brown Convention Center, which already had suffered economic losses when the center was converted for hurricane relief after Katrina.
When covention planners balked, Mayor White simply said, "They'll just have to sue us. We have to put the needs of these people first."
You've got to like that in a government leader.
Perhaps he can help Dubya – and his mother – see the people of this crisis, and the next one, in a different light. Or maybe tomorrow's headlines about White will make me run to Galveston looking for a whale ride home. But I was pleased that at least his rhetoric seemed humane. Even if the federal government failed miserably in the case of Katrina, local authorities like White have helped restore some of our confidence.
My great frustration with the federal response to Katrina reached fever pitch one day, when I was considering coming to Houston. In fact, this may have been the tipping point for my decision to accept this call.
National Public Radio reported that a "shoot-to-kill" order had been issued for looters in New Orleans.
This decision apparently was made AFTER we had seen live broadcasts of the SuperDome and Convention Center fiasco. This was AFTER the clarity of the bigotry – and outright racism – that had led to that nightmare. Shoot to kill people who are trying to survive when we failed to help them?
I called my U.S. Legislative team members.
"Hello. My name is... " I started, carefully advising them that I was a voter, then spelling my name. I gave my address, slowly so they could get it down... I reported what I had heard about the shoot-to-kill order. Then I suggested in my most logical tones, what seemed most obvious to me, but apparently had not occurred to my government:
"If we HELP these people we will not have to KILL them."
The Democrat Congresswoman's aide got it. The Democrat Senator's aide got it.
The aide for the other Senator (whose party will go unnamed) tried to argue with me.
I'm afraid I came a little unglued. Partly because of the inherent emotion of this whole affair and partly because in the twisted world in which I currently live, people like this have fulltime jobs and I … well, let’s just say I have enough flexibility in my schedule to be able to volunteer for three months of disaster relief work in Houston, Texas.
"I believe you are operating under the mistaken notion that I called to learn about your opinion on this matter," I told him, still trying to remain calm. "Actually, I called to let my Senator know how I feel about this. Would you please just deliver my message?"
Silence, then he said: "What did you say your name was?"
(How do you spell that thudding sound of your palm striking your own forehead? Thwump?)
Later, I was reading Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, where Anne Lamott quotes some wise old dude who once said, "We can practice being right... or we can practice being kind."
But it was too late.
Practicing being kind takes -- well, practice. So, I'll keep working on it.
In his own way, that's exactly what my conservative Texas Christian co-worker was doing: practicing kindness.
Right after he confessed to being a conservative with a heart, he launched into that "I know you're liberal but let's get to know each other better anyway" conversation you have when you are trying to personalize the common ground...
"So, are you married?"
I paused. Practice kindness... hmmm.
"I have a partner," I said, trying not to sound apologetic yet still sensitive to his perspective.
He slid down in his chair with both hands over his face, laughing at the irony.
"We have three children," I added, so I could slip that in while he was still laughing.
He lost his balance and fell on the floor.
By the time I leave here, he may not be waving a rainbow flag from his cubicle. I damn sure I won't be waving a Lone Star one... But I am willing to wager that we will have had some honest, maybe painful, but genuine conversations about the wideness of God's love and mercy. And I know that we will both pray and work without ceasing to help the people who look to us for help. Because Houston's Mayor is right:
"We have to put the needs of these people first."
But here I am, submitting myself to the hospitality of people who have the reputation for an arrogance that is, as they say, bigger than Dallas. Texas gave us the Bush dynasty and Tom DeLay. Need I say more?
Well, yes. I am learning I didn't know all there was to know about Texans.
Now I am not about to deify these folks, so don't flip to the next blog. But you might be surprised.
Thursday, a guy I'm working with pointed out that he and I probably hail from opposite ends of the human spectrum (he had no idea how far apart). It was his way of saying he is a conservative. I tried to look surprised.
But he said that working at Interfaith Ministries of Greater Houston with Jewish, Christian and Muslim conservative and liberal laborers had taught him one thing. Our faith systems lead us to the same conclusion: people shouldn't go hungry or be mistreated or live without shelter. It was his way of welcoming me – of naming the bridge that connects us, rather than all that might divide us.
I can work with that.
When I packed my car to come down here, I knew it might be – well, politically challenging. I think that reality gave me more pause than road hazards – like no gasoline or power or running water. I could carry provisions for temporary inconveniences. But it's hard to fully prepare to live in a state that won't let my spouse make the call on whether to unplug my life support if I find myself hospitalized here. It's hard to know I am living where the Red Cross would turn my family away from a family shelter – even after we'd been through a devastating flood – on grounds that we are not "really" a family. And no court here would call that criminal.
When I left home, I felt a little like Jonah going to Ninevah... Oh, God, no. Not Texas! It's not that I'm more obedient than Jonah. Just more selfish. I mean, I learned a long time ago that running from God's call is futile. So it's easier to just take Highway 59 South, with an extra tank of gas in the trunk, than to be puked up by a whale in Galveston Bay. This way, at least I get to bring a laptop.
What I am learning from Texans is that the stereotypes are true -- and false. Besides what I have come to expect from Texas (George and company, for example), there are some amazing people here.
Take for example, Houston Mayor White, who has this hard-line "help our fellow Americans" attitude... It's not that politically correct version. It's the put-your-resources-where-your-mouth-is variety.
When Rita hit, White cancelled events at the George R. Brown Convention Center, which already had suffered economic losses when the center was converted for hurricane relief after Katrina.
When covention planners balked, Mayor White simply said, "They'll just have to sue us. We have to put the needs of these people first."
You've got to like that in a government leader.
Perhaps he can help Dubya – and his mother – see the people of this crisis, and the next one, in a different light. Or maybe tomorrow's headlines about White will make me run to Galveston looking for a whale ride home. But I was pleased that at least his rhetoric seemed humane. Even if the federal government failed miserably in the case of Katrina, local authorities like White have helped restore some of our confidence.
My great frustration with the federal response to Katrina reached fever pitch one day, when I was considering coming to Houston. In fact, this may have been the tipping point for my decision to accept this call.
National Public Radio reported that a "shoot-to-kill" order had been issued for looters in New Orleans.
This decision apparently was made AFTER we had seen live broadcasts of the SuperDome and Convention Center fiasco. This was AFTER the clarity of the bigotry – and outright racism – that had led to that nightmare. Shoot to kill people who are trying to survive when we failed to help them?
I called my U.S. Legislative team members.
"Hello. My name is... " I started, carefully advising them that I was a voter, then spelling my name. I gave my address, slowly so they could get it down... I reported what I had heard about the shoot-to-kill order. Then I suggested in my most logical tones, what seemed most obvious to me, but apparently had not occurred to my government:
"If we HELP these people we will not have to KILL them."
The Democrat Congresswoman's aide got it. The Democrat Senator's aide got it.
The aide for the other Senator (whose party will go unnamed) tried to argue with me.
I'm afraid I came a little unglued. Partly because of the inherent emotion of this whole affair and partly because in the twisted world in which I currently live, people like this have fulltime jobs and I … well, let’s just say I have enough flexibility in my schedule to be able to volunteer for three months of disaster relief work in Houston, Texas.
"I believe you are operating under the mistaken notion that I called to learn about your opinion on this matter," I told him, still trying to remain calm. "Actually, I called to let my Senator know how I feel about this. Would you please just deliver my message?"
Silence, then he said: "What did you say your name was?"
(How do you spell that thudding sound of your palm striking your own forehead? Thwump?)
Later, I was reading Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, where Anne Lamott quotes some wise old dude who once said, "We can practice being right... or we can practice being kind."
But it was too late.
Practicing being kind takes -- well, practice. So, I'll keep working on it.
In his own way, that's exactly what my conservative Texas Christian co-worker was doing: practicing kindness.
Right after he confessed to being a conservative with a heart, he launched into that "I know you're liberal but let's get to know each other better anyway" conversation you have when you are trying to personalize the common ground...
"So, are you married?"
I paused. Practice kindness... hmmm.
"I have a partner," I said, trying not to sound apologetic yet still sensitive to his perspective.
He slid down in his chair with both hands over his face, laughing at the irony.
"We have three children," I added, so I could slip that in while he was still laughing.
He lost his balance and fell on the floor.
By the time I leave here, he may not be waving a rainbow flag from his cubicle. I damn sure I won't be waving a Lone Star one... But I am willing to wager that we will have had some honest, maybe painful, but genuine conversations about the wideness of God's love and mercy. And I know that we will both pray and work without ceasing to help the people who look to us for help. Because Houston's Mayor is right:
"We have to put the needs of these people first."
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