Exclusive

 It was an interview, almost 75 years ago, back when television was young. They put a poet on CBS News and asked him to sit for an interview. The poet was no ordinary wordsmith. It was Carl Sandburg, three-time winner of the Pulitzer Prize. He was a man who loved words, who juggled words, and who adjudicated words. Edward R. Murrow was the interviewer, an ever-present Camel cigarette in his hand. After a bit of small talk about Sandburg’s work, Murrow gave him this question: what is the ugliest word in the English language? Sandburg looked him over, then started working over the question. “The ugliest word, what’s the ugliest word?” He rolled the question over his tongue. “Ugliest? Ugliest word? Hmm…the ugliest word.”

Then, rather abruptly, he gave his answer. “The ugliest word is exclusive.” Edward R. Murrow blew a bit of cigarette smoke, then asked the question, “Why? What makes that the ugliest words?” The reply: “That word ‘exclusive’ shuts out a large portion of humanity from your mind and heart.”

It is a word that has often been used to make people feel special. We live in an exclusive community. We vacation in an exclusive resort. We are inducted in an exclusive society. We are offered an exclusive deal. It’s not so ugly if you are one of the insiders, if you count yourself among the brightest and the best, the richest and the most privileged. You might be tempted to boast, “I am a member of an exclusive club.”

Yet, that, precisely that, is why the poet named it the ugliest word. Because it separates you from the rank and file. It presumes to lift you above everybody else.”

Is there anybody in the dominion of God better than all the others? No, not one. All of us drink from the water of Christ’s mercy. All of us. That’s why we need to work together.

One of my teachers told the story of growing up in Appalachia. “We didn’t think we were poor,” he said, “because there was always somebody worse off than us.” It made him feel better, a little better. One day, his church group announced they would make up fruit baskets and deliver them to the poor families in town. Fred felt good about that. It would lift his spirits to do something kind for somebody else.

The fruit baskets, mostly apples, were put together. The group split up in a few different cars and headed out to the poor sections of town. Fred held his basket on his knee. He knew what he would do. He would sneak up to the front door, put down the basket, knock hard, and then run away. It was guerilla charity, he said. Unload the basket and leave.

So, he approached a run-down clapboard house. Lawn was overgrown. One of the bedroom windows was broken. A single lightbulb on inside the home. He thought to himself, “Oh, these poor folks are really going to enjoy this bruit basket. I’ll bet nobody has done something nice for them in a long time. I’ll drop the basket on the porch, knock on the door, and run away. Good plan.

He leaned down to place the basket when the front door opened abruptly. He stood up, shocked. This was not the original plan. A grizzled sharecropper took the basket in his wrinkled knuckles. He brightened in a broken smile, then said, “How kind of you! Thank you ever so much.” Then he paused, held out the basket, and said, “Would you like one of these apples? They look delicious.”

The kid froze. This was definitely not in the plan. He was supposed to give away the apples, not take one. The old man stood there, waiting. So, Fred took one of the apples. Took a big bite. Indeed, it was delicious. “Ever since that moment,” he said, years later, “I realized we all eat from the same basket. All of us, from the same basket.” Just as God intends for it to be.

Epiphany

TWELFTH NIGHT/EPIPHANY

     I read this line in a interview with Christian Wiman in Christianity Today:  "Jurgen Moltmann once wrote that all theology, especially a theology of hope, had to be conducted 'in the earshot of the dying Christ.'"  Joy is what it is because death--and suffering--is what it is too.  The two are inseparable in theology and in life.

     I also read NY Times Book Review about first time novelist Ayana Mathis. Her novel titled The Twelve Tribes of Hattie, opens up the life of a black woman who came north with the Great Migration.  The reviewer admires the book, but clearly doesn't love it because, by her estimation, there's simply too much grief and sadness. 

     The Twelve Tribes of Hattie is exactly the kind of novel I like, even love--historical fiction that burrows into the lives of real human beings in a different--mostly American--time and place.  But I'm not reading this one because I've come to the age where I don't want to indulge sadness. I'm not interested in happy faces either, but long, depressing literary work, no matter how glorious in style, simply doesn't hold much appeal right now; I'm 61, and I've seen enough of that myself, and I'm going to see more, I'm sure.

     This weekend is Epiphany.  Today, even in our house, the Christmas tree gets tossed out by the mailbox, and if it isn't windy, gets picked up with the garbage and recycling.  It's a calendar date that we really can't avoid, even if we don't know the tradition or the liturgy.  Life occurs always within the earshot of the dying Christ.

     And we can't avoid Twelfth Night because it is, for better or for worse, a significant chapter in our own stories, as important and wonderful and promising as the day that tree went up in early December.  Just as surely, it must come down, and it has.

     Sounds awful, I know--but think of it this way:  Easter is 'a'comin. Think of it this way:  there's always Easter.

Christmas music

We are two blocks from Court Street, far too close in December because the downtown pole speakers play Christmas muzak all over the street, and consequently all over the surrounding area. We hear it whether we want to or not. Fortunately, windows are shut down tight or “White Christmas” would find its way inside, like those pesky lady bugs that just now are dying, thanks to the cold.

I could stand outside in beautiful first snow and hear far more than I wanted to know about Mommy kissing Santa Claus underneath the mistletoe.

I love Christmas music. In my life, I must have been part of a thousand gatherings were “Joy to the World” brought the assembled to their feet. I never tire of it. “Lo, How a Rose e’er Blooming” is as gorgeous as it is haunting, and that last line of the refrain of “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing” is enough to conjure up all the very best images of all my Christmases past. My wife and I play Christmas music on our Sonos speakers in the center of the living room. A week before Christmas, Handel’s Messiah is on most all the time.

I’m no Scrooge, is what I’m saying, but I found the downtown speakers constant blaring of seasonal music—most of it secular—horribly annoying.

Christmas itself is so familiar, so intimate, that it seems almost like a buddy from whom we expect so much that we can’t help but somehow be letdown. Christmas is so close to us that a whole lot of us have a love/hate thing with the whole season. Yuletide brings out the best in us—and the worst. Ask any retail clerk.

It isn’t perfect, and everybody knows it. But that having been said and despite the Wal-Mart excesses of Black Friday, the whole season is an immense blessing for all of us—no matter what our faith.

I’m still, always, happy for the season. I love the golden glow our wreath casts nightly over the snow on the front porch. I love the bear nativity scene that comes out of nowhere and sits on our lampstand table. I love the tree decorations, little tokens of where we’ve been throughout our married life. I love buying gifts for people, lots of them. I love the story. I love the love he’s brought—Jesus Christ that is. At Christmas, we’re all kids.

One of every winter’s greatest disappointment is Christmas being over. For a moment, even through the muzak, God’s perfect beauty shines forth in sometimes very imperfect ways; but what it brings is, well, joy to the world.

All Saints

All Saints

As I write this reflection, eleven people in a Pittsburgh synagogue are dead, gunned down by an anti-Semitic man with an assault rifle. On Wednesday, a white man shot and killed two black people at a Kroger supermarket in Jeffersontown, Kentucky. Earlier, he had tried to enter a predominantly black church minutes before the fatal shooting. 

Over the past few days, at least a dozen prominent American Democrats, including two former presidents, have been the targets of assassination attempts.  Even a cursory glance at international news headlines yields stories just as horrific: dozens dead in Eastern Syria; millions starving in Yemen; widespread killings, kidnappings, and communal violence in central Nigeria.  In the midst of life, we are in death.  

This week, Christians around the world celebrate All Souls and All Saints.  In a world that fears, cheapens, and desecrates death, the Church invites God’s people to linger at the grave in grief, remembrance, gratitude, and hope.  In a world that mistreats and abuses countless men, women, and children, the Church affirms the value of every single soul, every single life.  In a world that privileges the individual, the Church honors the deep interconnectedness of God’s family across time, culture, history, and eternity.  Yes, it’s true: in the midst of life, we are in death.  But All Souls and All Saints remind us of a deeper truth: in the midst of death, we are promised life.

What breaks our hearts?  What splits us open in sorrow?  What enrages us?  Can we mobilize into those very spaces?  Can we work for transformation in our places of devastation?  Can our sorrow lead us to justice?

This week, as we gather to honor All Souls and All Saints, as we take time to remember, to mourn, and to celebrate those who have gone on before us, I hope that our faith can be our guide.  I hope honest expressions of sorrow will give us the permission, the company, and the impetus we need, not only to do the work of grief and healing, but to move with powerful compassion into a world that sorely needs our empathy and our love. Yes, we are in death, but we serve a God who calls us to life.  Our journey is not to the grave, but through it.  The God who weeps is also the God who resurrects. 

So we mourn in hope.