Wanderlost: A Review

Leafing through the March 9, 2022, edition of The Christian Century I came across an article written by Jack Jenkins of the Religion New Service title "Immigration reform no longer united faith groups."  In the article, utilizing results from a February poll conducted by the Public Religion Research Institute, Jenkins describes how over the past decade or so support for things like a pathway to citizenship has moved from being uniformly supported by various faith groups and traditions, to something that adds to the numerous differences that they hold.

I was struck that I came across this just as a was finishing up Natalie Toon Patton's book Wanderlost:  Falling from Grace and Finding Mercy in All the Wrong Places. I note that because this volume, which traces her faith journey and her literal journeys after she is ex-communicated from an evangelical megachurch upon the occasion of her divorce, is at its best in the final chapters as she describes her own experiences with a family of Somalian refugees.

After a friend is detained with her family in a detention center in Bangkok, where the author lived with her husband and children, she describes in detail the injustices she experiences.  She wrestles with the theological implications of immigration policy and asks hard questions.  Many of which she doesn't pretend to be able to answer.  She also speaks of how from a perspective of privilege, we can often distance ourselves from the angst of such difficult situations by what some have called Band-Aid charity.  "We like to do good," she writes, "as long as we can keep suffering at arms' length."  (253)

While I found myself thinking some of the sections of the volume were less than fully inspiring, but her writing is always honest and clear.  And the last chapters, with their honest view of immigration issues, is worth the wait and makes most sense when seen in the larger context of the book.

Patton was not, and is not, a refugee in the literal sense of the word, but in many ways,
she was a refugee in terms of her faith journey.  She does find safe harbor in the end, partly due to the fact that she learns how to embrace the questions.

Disclosure of Material Connection:  I received this book free from the author and/or publisher through the Speakeasy blogging book review network.  I was not required to write a positive review.  The opinions I have expressed are my own.  I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255.

Times of Feasting, Times of Fasting

 

The rhythm of fasting and feasting is largely lost in much of Western society.  But there is a certain wisdom to it.  The contrast between times of plenty, even excess, is better appreciated when we also have times when we intentionally restrain our appetites.  Lent is just such a time.  

One of the benefits of fasting, of course, is that it allows us to more closely identify with those who have little.  Some who fast during Lent put aside what they might normally spend of a meal each day, or special treats, and then give the money to those in need.  Some use the time normally spent at meals to observe times of prayer, meditation and study.  One needn't be a Christian, or a person of any particular faith, to engage in times of fasting.

Perhaps this is the year to consider engaging in fasting.  Perhaps this us the year to learn from the contrast between feasting and fasting.  In many parts of the world, the days or weeks before Ash Wednesday, the start of Lent, are observed as festive times, most notably in New Orleans where Mardi Gras (Fat Tuesday) is marked by parades and parties.   a time for cleaning out all the fats before the Lenten time of fasting.  Hence the name, Fat Tuesday.  This year Ash Wednesday falls on March 2.  My congregation marks that important day with a worship service complete with ashes.  But before the days of fasting, the feasting and celebration of Mardi Gras!  So each year we hold Mardi Gras Sunday, complete with beads and a Dixieland Jazz Combo.  It is a grand time of celebration, followed only three days later by a time of somber reflection.  Such is life!

The Love of a Grandfather

 

I love being a grandfather.  And I have pictures on my cell phone and in my wallet to prove it!  But sometimes, for me at least, it is a bit confusing.  Let me explain.

When my oldest grandson Zachary, who is now in his twenties, started to talk, he had a very hard time pronouncing certain words, as do most children.  He had no trouble with Mom and Dad, and he managed to spit out his grandmother’s name, Oma, with ease.  But when it came to Grandpa, he just couldn’t wrap his little tongue around it.  But he could say Pepa.  And so it stuck.  To Zachary, and his brother Christopher, I am not Grandpa, I am Pepa.

 That was well and good, and seemed to work, that is until our other son’s oldest daughter was born.  As she started to talk, she decided that I should be called Pop Pop.  You’d think I was a wad of bubble gum or a glass of champagne.  But that too stuck.  And so my two granddaughters both call me Pop Pop.

Our third child, our daughter Elizabeth, and her partner Erica later adopted a pair of sisters.  I decreed that to keep things straight they should also call me Pop Pop.  That way, if I was interacting with a grandson, I'd remember I was Pepa, and if it was a granddaughter, I was assured I was known as Pop Pop.

Usually that’s OK as well, but when all six of them are together, they sometimes argue about what my real name is!  “No,” Megan used to say to her boy cousins, “he’s my Pop Pop!”  I’ve signed more than one birthday card with the wrong name—and you better believe I hear about it!

 You can see why I get confused!

 The truth is, however, I love both names—and I’ll love a third if that’s my fate!  For you see both of them remind me that these guys love me—and that I love them more than I would have ever imagined possible!  And in the end, loving and being loved is far more important to our identity than whatever else we may conjure up!

(Photo: Five of six grandchildren, taken four years ago.)

Light Through the Window, Light Through Your Life

 It starts as a pile of broken glass.  Sharp edges.  Odd shapes.  Not much different than what you might see in the colored glass bin at a recycling facility.  Then, using classic techniques developed through the centuries, the glass is arranged and bonded together, piece by piece, until an image begins to emerge.  One which capture's the designer's original intent.  Still, when it's completed and sitting on the shop bench, beautiful as it is, something is missing.  Its full glory is yet to be revealed.

But then the newly created stained glass window is taken and put in its frame and placed where it was intended to be all along.  A church door.  A balcony window.  A transom over an office entrance.  At the top of a stairway.

Years ago,

the church I was serving was installing some brand-new stained-glass windows.  As the installers of the new windows were putting on the finishing touches, I stepped into the narthex, the church entryway, to check on their progress.  It was late afternoon.

"They look great," I said to one of the installers.

"They do," he said, "they look so much better here than in the shop.  They need to be in context."

I nodded.

He then pointed to the cross design, surrounded by rays of yellow, orange and red.

"When the light hits that one," he said, "It will be on fire!"

And so it was!  For what was missing on the shop bench was light.  It changed from a pretty but dull picture into an amazing image of beauty and hope!  Its full glory was truly revealed.

And as it is with stained glass, so it is with us.  When we are in the right place--and that will be different for each of us--when we our broken pieces are assemble and exposed to the light of God's love, then we too become amazing images of beauty and hope!

(Photo:  Rose window at the Sanibel Congregational United Church of Christ)

I Read Banned Books

 As a subscriber to the New York Times, I get an e-mail each morning with the top stories in the news.  This morning, one of those stories was headlined:  "Book Ban Efforts Spread Across the US."  Frankly, it sent a chill up my spine.  It's nothing new, of course.  Banning books, especially in schools, has been going on for decades--centuries even!  In recent times, banned books have often been books about race, LGBTQ issues and stories about the Holocaust (as is the recent effort to ban Maus). 

When I was in what we called back in the sixties Junior High, I developed a taste for romance novels.  You know, the Harlequin-type stories about love lost and gained.  The ones with muscled men and voluptuous women on the covers.  Not porn--at least not technically--but hardly good literature.  But our local library had several shelve of them, and I started checking them out and devouring them.

One morning my mother got a phone call from our local librarian.  She was appalled that a thirteen-year-old boy was reading such things.  Did my mother know I was into such material?  Didn't she think it important that I restrict my reading to those volumes found in the children's room?

Much to her credit, my mother said, "No."  And in no uncertain terms told the librarian I was free to check out and read anything I might find in the library.  Even if it was rather lousy literature.  I, ultimately, wasn't going to harm me.  And probably, she said, I'd grow out of it.  Which I did.  In just a year or two I was reading Graham Green, John Steinbeck, Willa Cather, and more controversial writers like J. D. Salinger and Herman Hesse. 

I sometimes wonder if Mom had restricted my reading if I would have turned away from it altogether?  I don't know.  But I do know her permission allowing me to "read at will" resulted in a greatly expanded worldview.  

Banning books is not the answer--and Mom knew that fifty plus years ago. 
It's a lesson I'll never forget--and I hope others will soon learn.

I have a pin at home that says, "I Read Banned Book"--I guess (sadly) it's time to dig it out again.

A Matter of the Heart: A Word about Antisemitism

 

The recent incident in Texas points up yet again the importance of relations such as ours with Bat Yam.  For those who think antisemitism is a thing of the past, something confined to Nazi Germany, it was a frightening reminder that it still haunts our world.  I know it has proven very unsettling to my Jewish friends and neighbors.  And it is unsettling to me as well.

Annually our congregation is part of a pulpit exchange with our sister congregation Bat Yam--Temple of the Islands.  Bat Yam is a Reform Jewish congregation that shares our space.  We share a number of activities over the course of each year, some of which have been highlighted in previous posts on this blog.  And in many ways the highlight of our shared life was a trip we took to Israel which featured daily posts while we were traveling.  Many of our respective members have gotten to really know one another--and we all are better educated about the lives and faith of our counterparts.

I am not so naive as to think a relationship such as the one my congregation has with Bat Yam is the sole answer to antisemitism.  Certainly, tough laws and the faithful enforcement of them are important.  Being prepared to respond when there are life threatening circumstances is vital.  And speaking up whenever antisemitism or any other ugly bias surfaces is essential.  But long term the fear and hatred that lies at the root of antisemitism is a matter of the heart.  And hearts are truly changed only when we get to know each other at more than a mere surface level.  When I am able to see that you are at core a human being with many of the same concerns, interests, hopes and dreams as those that I have, then I can begin to treat you with respect, or at least with a sense of tolerance.

The reality is this:  my life is greatly enriched and expanded by the shared journey I am on with Bat Yam.  And so too the lives of my congregants.  For when we open our hearts to one another, we can be joined together in a powerful way.  Joined together as human beings, joined together with the Holy One.

Thoughts about God and a Close Call

This past Sunday an EF-2 Tornado ripped through our part of Fort Myers clocking winds up to 118
miles per hour.  It was a stormy morning throughout Southwest Florida, and the tornado here was not the only one registered.  But it missed out neighborhood, our community.  Not 200 yards from our home trees were felled, siding on buildings ripped off, even a roadside building with an icemaker in it was lifted off its foundation and dropped back down fifty feet away.  As I sit in my living room writing this I can hear the chainsaws clearing away fallen trees.  But though our community lost electricity due to damage to lines down the road, it was untouched.

I wasn't home.  I was on Sanibel, conducting worship.  It was stormy out there--lots of wind and rain and some thunder and lightning.  But no tornadoes.  Just the inconvenience of the internet going down in the middle of our livestream.  But Sanibel is well-known for its less than fully reliable internet.  My wife, though, was caring for my mother here in Fort Myers, and they took to the laundry room for shelter at one point.  But as I said, in the end the community was unscathed.

No doubt there are some within our neighborhood saying God spared us, God protected us, or something like that.  But that always bothers me.  Did God abandon, or worse yet punish, the hundreds of folks whose homes were damaged?  Did God look the other way as some thirty or so mobile or manufactured homes were totally destroyed?  I think not.  But that is the logical corollary to suggesting God spared us.

This is not a new conundrum.  Folks have pondered it for centuries.  And I'm not sure how to unravel it.  But for the moment, I am satisfied with suggesting that while God doesn't direct tornadoes or any other natural disaster, God does stand ready to support us when they occur.  And often that support comes in and through other people.