Pentecost

We built a Church my second year in Malawi. I was twenty-one years old, Catholic, not a missionary. But my volunteer teaching contract had already exposed me to more pain, more joy, and more eye-opening, soul-expanding experience than I had bargained for. With no television, computer, telephone, video games or anything else to tempt and distract me away from real encounters with poverty, friendship, celebration and, well, God, I needed worship.

The nearest Catholic Church was a four kilometer walk across maize fields and woods. Services were in Chichewa, the local language, but my visits caused such a stir that I dreaded them. It’s not that people weren’t kind and welcoming – they were, in more ways than I could handle – to such an extent that I felt put on display and found it hard to settle into the kind of contemplative meditation that I treasure in the Catholic Mass. I was the only non-Malawian present, a clear outsider, and people fell over themselves to make sure I was comfortable, obliging me to sit on a scavenged chair in the center of the ramshackle building, checking on my well-being, smiling and watching me for the entire mass. Protests went unheard. Throughout the service, people craned around, children stared and pointed, and I felt I had ruined the celebration for everyone.

Had I been older, I might have stayed with that Church and rode out the novelty until people accepted that I was just another parishioner. But I was already doing that at my school, and I craved a place to worship where I wouldn’t be such an outsider.

My roommate, also a Christian but not Catholic, suggested we try a new Church she’d heard about in the capital city Lilongwe. We had motorbikes so the 25 km ride would be manageable. The congregation was meeting in a rented room, and she had heard that it included Malawians and expatriates. She assured me that, although it was nominally Baptist, there were attendees from all different Christian backgrounds.
We rode in with some trepidation on our first Sunday, dust flying behind us, signaling our need for prayer and community. Sure enough the congregation was welcoming and diverse, and still majority Malawian. I had never attended a Baptist service before, but enjoyed the music, prayer and sense of common reaching for God. The congregation had raised enough money for a Church building, and ground was just being broken.

Over the course of the next few months, we continued to worship, plan and build. I contributed little I admit, having no expertise in building, and no knowledge of the needs of a Church. I helped clear debris, and assisted with planting when the time came. Funding was provided by generous donors from the States. But all ideas were welcomed, including mine. I would still attend the Catholic Church from time to time – the mass had meaning for me, and I missed it. But I considered the Baptist Church my home.

The Church took shape rapidly, but what truly left an imprint on me, was the coming together of all these people from different nations and faiths, with a common desire for worship and community. Many of us were from different denominations, and this enterprise required understanding, listening, patience and tolerance. It worked.
I didn’t agree with all the theologies I heard. No doubt many people disagreed with me too. But we didn’t stop conversing.

As we approach Pentecost, I’m reminded of those days of sharing. After that experience, I found myself seeking out other denominations, and taking the time to listen and learn. There are hidden truths in each of our churches, clarity of vision, a commonality of purpose that we need to remember.

On the day of Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit descended on the apostles and Mary, they burst forth in conversation, in desire for community, for building the kingdom of God beyond denominations, beyond languages, beyond barriers of all kinds. The Holy Spirit still calls us to this, to build a Church for all, embracing difference, invoking Christ.

Prayer Walks; Prayer Talks

“The person of prayer is not a person of private agendas” (Joan Chittister)*

What is prayer?

Is it the desperate call of last resort to One who is everywhere? Is it the recitation of set words over and over again, in a meditative state of relaxation? Is it the ongoing conversation in our heads with a Divine being that we neither see nor touch? Is it the emotional ecstasy provoked by beautiful music and fellowship? Or is it the quiet flooding silence of knowledge of being in the presence of God?

Prayer of course is all these things. Intensely personal, always soul-building, prayer is often a neglected practice in today’s world. We may forget that prayer is the embodiment of our lived connection with God at all times, not only in the pews.

And this is key: prayer cannot be disconnected from life and action, from justice and peace. Though prayer can provide comfort, it can never become idle and selfish, nothing more than a panacea to personal pain, deaf to the pain of creation.

Prayer walks. Prayer talks. Prayer emboldens us to follow conscience, take risks, suffer ridicule, for the sake of God, for the sake of humanity. Prayer drives us to speak for truth and act for peace. Prayer lives in heart, mind, soul and body, calming us, driving us, bringing us together. One world, one God, one beating compassionate heart.

A dull prayer life reflects a dulled life, one separated from the condition of one’s neighbor, one living for the self, not the community. If we feel no need to pray, could it be because we have detached ourselves from the unpleasant problems and issues of our world? Could it be that we have turned away from the poor, the marginalized, the needy, the forgotten?

Martin Luther King Jr knew this. So did Gandhi. So did Mother Teresa. We all search for meaning in our lives, but too often we look only within. We need to do both, seeking the presence of God within, and the presence of God in a world where the voiceless are relentlessly crucified by violence and greed. We cannot do otherwise. When we find something outside ourselves to care about, something to work for, not for personal gain but for the good of all, we find prayer easy, necessary and fulfilling.

What might that be? Food for the hungry? Shelter for the homeless in our community? Peace in the Middle East? Nuclear Disarmament? When we pray meaningfully we find ourselves drawn to help build in some small way the Kingdom Jesus described in the Beatitudes, one where the poor, the mourning and the hungry are truly blessed.

Prayer brings us inner peace, and urges us to spread peace, to be a voice for eternity, for love, for all that is truthful and meaningful in our world.

*The Breath of the Soul, Novalis, 2009

Torturous Truth

Does the end ever justify the means? This past Wednesday I had the strange sense of waking up in an altered universe. While waiting for the washroom to be free (two teenagers in the house), I checked out the online edition of the New York Times, and immediately wondered if I was still in some kind of bizarre waking dream. The Times had posted a serious article entitled ‘Bin Laden Raid Revives Debate on Value of Torture’.

First of all there were the words Torture and Value within two spaces of each other. Then there was (finally, at long last) the admission that the US uses torture, but with no sense of moral outrage. (The Times actually, unbelievably, has had a policy of not referring to waterboarding as ‘torture’). Then there were the pompous Bush era politicians self-justifying. And finally the word ‘revives’, as in ‘revives the debate’.

What debate? I don’t recall the last ‘debate’ on torture. I pretty much thought every reasonable American opposed torture. They certainly didn’t like it when American prisoners-of-war were tortured in Japan in the 1940s. They didn’t approve of the Nazi torture of Jews. So how is it alright now? I doubt that it is for the majority of Americans.

What truly scared me was the accepted premise at the start of the piece that if torture works it would be alright to use it. According to the article, the only question on which the use of torture should be weighed is on its effectiveness, not its morality.

Well. I’ve been working in education for a quarter of a century now, and the strap was banned long before I started. I thought it was immoral. Maybe someone just decided it was ineffective.

And it is. All torture is. I’m pretty sure the Catholic Church proved that beyond a shadow of a doubt with the Inquisition. The threat of torture and death provoked even Galileo to go back to teaching that the earth was the center of the universe, even in full knowledge that it was not. People under duress will say anything to make the immediate pain go away: Torture me and I’ll tell you whatever you want to hear. The years it took to find Bin Laden despite the torture of countless unprosecuted (and often innocent) detainees in Guantanamo Bay simply cements the fact.

But torture’s lack of effectiveness remains a smokescreen for a deeper truth. Torture is immoral. Torture is wrong. And that is all that matters.

I realize that it’s difficult for the educated mind to accept absolutes. I too relish shades of grey. But educated people in particular should be able to accept a few moral imperatives. Does no one study Kant anymore? The ends do not justify the immoral means. The ends never justify the immoral means. It’s simple, clear, absolute.

In Christian terms this might read as “Do onto others as you would have them do onto you,” or perhaps, “Love your enemies as yourself.” Now, who said that? Oh, yes, just some ancient itinerant preacher from Galilee who lived as a member of a conquered population, and who ultimately suffered torture from whipping, a crown of thorns, and death on a cross. Fortunately, maybe, the Romans hadn’t thought of waterboarding.

Bin Laden and the Problem of Hate

What does it mean to create a compassionate world? What does it mean to live as children of God, as Christ followers who do not celebrate the destruction of the enemy, but instead strive to live in love? What does it mean when Jesus says, “Love your enemies”?

Like so many others I was disturbed by the public celebration of Osama Bin Laden’s death. It’s not that Bin Laden fit anyone’s idea of a good person. It’s not that I don’t recognize the evil that he wrought in the world. But his killing once again marks our failure to convert war into peace, anger into compassion, and hate into love. It’s not cause for celebration. It’s cause for sorrow.

Yes, one person can do much evil in the world. Like Hitler, like Pol Pot, Bin Laden fomented hate and destruction. But no one acts alone. Destroying the one does not solve the problem of hate, nor should it mask our inability to maintain true peace in the world. Killing spirals into more killing, creating an ongoing cycle of destruction that eventually seems normal, so much so that it infiltrates our movies, stories and games, and becomes our structure for understanding the world. Ask any media savvy teen.

Hate caused Bin Laden and his followers to mindlessly destroy people he’d never met, who became no more than tokens in his war against the West. Hate propelled the West to retaliate, to kill more innocents in Iraq, Afghanistan and Pakistan, regardless of the cost both in terms of money and humanity. Hate works with violence and greed to decimate the weak, the poor, the mourners, in short the beatitude people that Jesus names and blesses in the Sermon on the Mount. Hate dehumanizes the other until their face no longer matters, their dreams have no value, and the innocence with which they were born becomes an irrelevant and forgotten part of a life that retains no dignity.

Hate produced 911, and hate was on display at the many celebrations that were held in the wake of the announcement of Bin Laden’s death. That feeling, juxtaposed behind the flags, the chants and the songs, is not lost on those of us who live outside of the US. Nor is it lost on so many American citizens, many of whom lost relatives and friends in 911, who cannot understand why these strangers, their fellow citizens, would think that the death of Bin Laden would somehow create restitution for the death of their loved one, who remains dead, lost, out of reach, gone.

I am heartened by the many, many Americans who have spoken up to criticize the celebrations. The death of Bin Laden is not some extreme Super Bowl celebration. It is one more piece of a tragedy that continues to encompass our world, one founded in hate, dehumanization, and nothing any religion should recognize as Godly.

Finding Lost Hope: Happy Easter!

In hope, peace and joy we enter the season of Easter. After the forty days of Lent, after the solemnity and sacredness of Holy Week, after Jesus’ horrific death on the cross, finally, finally, we experience the explosive joy of Easter morning.

Easter is about resurrection and transformation. It’s about discovering what we thought lay dead and lost in our lives, and regarding it anew. Easter tells us all futures are possible, no ending is final, and no sorrow everlasting.

It surprises me, given that Jesus made no secret of his coming resurrection, that none of his earliest disciples truly expected him to come back to life. They hid after his death, understandably cowering from the might of the Roman army that had killed their leader.

Only the women, holding to the tradition of anointing the dead, visited Jesus’ tomb early on the third day. And when Mary Magdalene reported Jesus risen, the men still did not believe her. (Some things don't change!) “But when they heard that he was alive and had been seen by her, they would not believe it” (Mark 16:11).

Disbelief and cynicism infect humanity. We undermine our hopes all the time. We tell ourselves that the things we desire are impossible and out of reach. We accept finality, limitations, barriers and obstacles despite the word of God, despite the call of Christ. We fear setting ourselves up for failure and so retreat behind the closed doors of society’s expectations.

Easter teaches us to forget human limitations. It cries out to humanity to abandon all fear, forego all norms and reach for dreams and stars. All is possible with God. Anything can happen. We are reminded of the days before grief and failure weighed us down. We are thrown back to the aspirations of our childhood and fantasies of our youth before the world taught us that we weren’t good enough, couldn’t do it, weren’t worth it.

Because ultimately, on Easter morning, Jesus teaches us that we are worth it and always have been.

We will suffer. That is a given. The wonder of Easter is not that suffering is eliminated for humanity (it isn’t), or that our lives will be obstacle-free. If anything, we are called to address barriers to peace and justice in our lives, and bear the cross of creating a better world. But the cross is not the end. We are also pointed to a future beyond pain, sorrow and fear, a new day of hope and possibility where justice, peace and love can prevail. Faith in God opens us up to faith in ourselves.

This Easter I invite you to embrace your blessings and dream your dreams. Reach for God. Find the Spirit within. Love life and live lovingly. Happy Easter!

Good Friday Reflection

How quickly betrayal happens. The sharp word out before we think, the little put-down, the laugh, the hesitation when reassurance is called for.

I broke my Lenten promise to give up pop this week. I ordered a diet coke in a restaurant without even thinking, and drank it when it came.

Is that how it was for Judas? Selling his friend without a thought, without reflection, the action done, the cold hard coins in his hand before he even realized it? Then the remorse, enough to drive him to suicide. And for Peter? Denying his friend, his Lord, three times before the cock crowed, and running away mortified and ashamed. Peter does not stand at the cross, or go to the tomb.

Good Friday brings us face-to-face with our human frailty. Humans fail. Humans err. Humans sin.

But even as we ponder our inevitable falls, Good Friday reminds us that God will not fail us, or give up on us, or let our failures be the last word on who we are. Forgiveness and reconciliation remain ours for the choosing. And God’s love is ours whether we ask for it our not.

The cross exposes the horror of our world in all its thoughtlessness and cruelty. But it also points us to a love that transcends all horror, all pain and all suffering. Even as we recognize ourselves in the ones who crucified Jesus, we also recognize that we can do better, we can reach higher, we can stand at the foot of the cross.

Knowing ourselves as we truly are is the first step to transforming ourselves into what we are called to be. And that is God’s people, a people of justice, hope, faith and love.

On Fasting

I hate fasting. Let me be clear about that from the start. I don’t look forward to it, and I don’t enjoy it while I’m at it. But every year during Lent I overcome all my rationalizations and trivializations, and run a fast for the students at my school.

Why, you may ask, would anyone want to torture teenagers so? (Don’t answer, parents!)

Fasting is a traditional observance for Catholics, as it is for people of many other denominations and religions. For some, fasting on Fridays, or at least avoiding meat, is a way to remember Jesus’ sacrifice on the cross. One prepares the mind and body for the celebration on Sunday of the resurrection. During Lent in particular, Christians make sacrifices and fast in order to model Jesus’ forty days in the desert, making space in their lives for reflection.

But what, the modern person may inquire, is the point of all that deprivation? After all, surely we are beyond the age where we might think that fasting will bring some magical indulgence or benefit to the participant like an outdated rabbit’s foot or lucky coin.

People fast for a variety of reasons and some, I admit, may be suspect. I offer here only my own perspective.

Fasting makes me aware of my connectedness not only to my own body but to the world as a whole. When I fast, I acknowledge that food is a gift from the earth, not something to be treated casually. I give myself time to reflect on the connection between the way I treat this planet, and the way I live my life. It’s an unavoidable reflection, brought on every time my stomach rumbles.

More than this, fasting reminds me that I belong to the privileged group of humans who every day have enough to eat. In my life, I do not wonder if I will eat. I only wonder when I will eat and what I will eat. By fasting I offer an act of solidarity toward all those who struggle to maintain their existence. These are the poor and marginalized, the beloved of God. The money I save on groceries goes to them.

The fast that I run with the youth involves more than simply giving up food. The teenagers engage in activities that open their eyes to issues of injustice, poverty and environmental distress. We watch relevant videos. We play games. We engage in role play and creative arts. This year we focused on the School of the Americas Watch, as well as the relationship between the military-industrial complex and the degradation of water, earth and people in so many parts of the world including Canada.

During our fast we hunger together, grow together, pray together and endure together, mindful that we are exercising a freedom to choose or not to choose food that many people on our planet do not enjoy. And the teenagers every year inspire me with their wisdom, their steadfastness and their concern.

Even if God doesn’t need humans to fast, humanity needs humans to fast. In so doing, we offer an act of peace toward the earth, toward each other and toward God.