PleaseGrace

I preached this piece as a sermon on January 28, 2024. Two days before, a synagogue in the town where I live received a bomb threat.

Imagine with me for a moment that it is Sunday morning, 9:00.  You are out in your driveway picking up the paper, or taking the dog out, when your neighbor, who is doing the same thing, says, “Would you like to come over for a cup of coffee?”  “That’s a very nice offer,” you say, “and I’d love to, but can I take a rain check?  I’m going to church in a bit.”  “Church?  Never heard of it,” your neighbor responds.  “What do you do there?”

Given where we are right now, perhaps the question sounds as foolish as the answer is obvious.  What do you do at church?  In all fairness to your neighbor, however, a couple things worth considering.  First, it may be that even among us who are here today, we don’t know the answer to the question.  The fact is, when we woke up this morning, we didn’t think about not coming.  Coming to church is simply what our parents taught us to do, because it’s what their parents taught them to do. 

Arguably, traditions change, some not to be passed along anymore.  But among those that are still standing the test of time—on wobbly knees, perhaps, but nonetheless still standing—is church-going.  So here we are, some of us because it’s tradition.

But lest the traditionalists forget, tradition does not speak for itself.  To tell your neighbor, “I go to church because it’s what my parents taught me to do,” still doesn’t tell your neighbor why you go to church.  It only tells your neighbor that you do what your parents taught you to do.  The question is, why do you go to church, what do you do there that make you want to be there?

It’s an important question to be able to answer because, among the other things worth considering today is that, in being here, we are part of the minority.  That’s right.  It turns out, in the United States at least, church-going isn’t tradition any longer.  A recent survey by the Pew Research Center shows that the largest religiously affiliated group in the country now are the Nones, those who, when asked to check what box their religion is, checked none.[1]  Back in 2007, Nones made up 16% of the religious landscape in the U.S., but today that number has risen to 28%, making them more prevalent than Catholics, white evangelicals, and certainly more prevalent than mainline church-goers like us.  In other words, on the whole, there are more people across the United States who stayed home from church this week than who went.  Making you the minority. 

In saying this, though, I wish to be clear about something: not all minority status is the same.  There are those throughout history, and still today, who, on account of their gender, sexual orientation, skin color, national origin, or religion are not being given the rights or treated with the dignity owed to every human being.  In courts and on our streets all over the world, and especially here in the U.S., this is true for refugees, Muslims, Jews, members of the LGBTQ community, the economically dispossessed, and our black brothers and sisters.  Just this past week in my own town of Attleboro, a man was arrested for openly threatening to bomb and kill members of a local Jewish synagogue.  This is true. 

It’s just not true for us. 

We may be part of a new church-going minority this morning, but make no mistake about it, as a group we are not suffering, we are not being oppressed.  We may feel our numbers slipping at times, we may feel our budget tightening, we may mourn the fact that what felt important to our parents does not feel so important to our children, but the fact that we are gathered safely and freely tells us that something more is still going on here.  What is it?  Is it our American flag here at the front?  Is that what makes it possible for us to gather safely and freely?  No, that can’t be it.  It may well be there was an American flag inside the synagogue in Attleboro all this past week.  There was an American flag inside the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh back in 2018 when a gunman shot and killed 11 worshipers inside, as there was inside Mother Emmanuel, a historic black church in Charleston, South Carolina in 2015, when another gunman, a professing white supremacist, opened fire and killed 9 people in a Bible study.  An American flag inside a house of worship can be a sign of many things—a reminder that in the march for freedom, we still have miles to go before we rest.  What we must not allow the flag to be is a poor excuse for freedom.

So, what is it?  If it’s not the flag that allows us to be here safely and freely, then what is it?  Whether we care to have it said about us or not, I dare say it is our white privilege that protects and keeps us—a minority when it comes to being religious in America today—still in the majority.  And it is this majority status we must contend with as minority church-goers.  Because when you’re in the minority, you’re in a unique position.  You’re the fish swimming upstream, the dissenting voice in the crowd, the one going to church. 

It seems reasonable then to expect we would have an answer to our neighbor’s question, “Church?  What do you do there?”  In showing up here today I assume we know we are part of the minority and that we have calculated the risk involved with being so.  Which means, I assume we know that we have come to swim upstream, and that our answer will reflect accordingly.  Church?  What do you do there?

One answer to the question might be that we come to church to get baptized.  That’s not bad.  We come to church to get splashed with water that, like the rain, falls down on everyone, reminding us that if this is what God is like, then God is for neither the majority nor the minority, God is for the whole of creation.  In baptism we remember who we are: unbelievably special to God, just no one any more special than another. 

You remember what John the Baptist said to Jesus when Jesus went to him to get baptized.  John was down at the river, a long line of people waiting their turn, when John looks up and sees Jesus in line.  “What are you doing here?  This isn’t for you, you don’t need this,” John tells him. 

Then Jesus came from Galilee to John at the Jordan, to be baptized by him. John would have stopped him, saying, “I need to be baptized by you, and do you come to me?”  But Jesus answered him, “Let it be so now, for this is the ultimate right.”

Matthew chapter 3, verses 13-15, translation mine

For John, baptism was all about repentance, about owning up to the mess we’ve made of things, as we make a 180 and choose to get right with God.  Naturally then, John didn’t think Jesus needed to be baptized.  “You’re already right with God.  If anything, Jesus, you should be baptizing me.”  But Jesus tells John, “Get it straight, we all want to be right, just as we all want a better world.”  Your neighbor who burns their trash wants to be right.  Your mother-in-law whose political views make your blood boil wants to be right.  Our current President, and whoever our next President is going to be, they want to be right.  Holy-rollers and high-rollers want to be right.  We all want to be right, and we all want a better world.  But we we’ll never get there without first standing in line together.

It’s a good reason to come to church, to get in line so you can be splashed with water and remember that you are unbelievably special to God, just not any more special than anyone else. 

If remembering who you are isn’t enough to bring you back here again next week, though, another good reason to come to church is to be remembered.  I am fond of saying that, for all the planning that goes into getting ready for church every Sunday—creating, formatting, and printing a bulletin, writing a sermon, prepping Sunday School lessons and crafts, rehearsing choir anthems, lining up readers, deciding on conversation topics and games for youth group, not to mention just getting ourselves and the kids up on time, dressed, fed, and out the door, through the rain, and into the car—the moments I tend to cherish most are the ones none of us could have planned for.  Like the moment I overhear someone ask another person at the back of the sanctuary, “How’s your daughter doing?  I remember you saying a while back that she was going through a rough patch.”  To which the other person replies, “You remembered I said that?  I didn’t think anyone was even listening.”  Or a moment like last week when I caught a glimpse of Bill, 90 years old now, helping Patrick, 7 years old now, carry his juice to the breakfast table.  Or the moment some middle-aged man texts me at 10 o’clock at night on a Sunday to tell me how the holiest part of his day turned out to be 10 minutes he got to sit quietly in the pew listening to someone read “The Very Hungry Caterpillar” to the children.  Or that moment when someone accidentally drops their communion bread on the floor and the person next to them breaks their already small piece in half to share with them. 

I’ve been thinking about this, about all the things that can happen just by us coming to church, and I asked Annie to read for us Mark chapter 1.  Jesus is in the synagogue when a man with an unclean spirit comes up to him. 

And when the Sabbath came, he entered the synagogue and taught. They were astounded at his teaching, for he taught them as one having authority and not as the scribes. Just then there was in their synagogue a man with an unclean spirit, and he cried out, “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are, the Holy One of God.” But Jesus rebuked him, saying, “Be quiet and come out of him!”

Verses 21 – 25

Whether Jesus knew this man would come up to him, or that the man would even be there, we don’t know.  Mark says only that Jesus is in the synagogue because it is the sabbath.  And this is what you do on the sabbath—you go to the synagogue.  So, maybe it stands to reason that Jesus has seen this man before, that they have been in worship together for many years.  But there’s something about this sabbath, and this moment, that is different, that makes the man cry out for attention in a way he has never done so before.  What is it?  What is different?  It is that Jesus is the one preaching.  On all the other sabbaths it has been the scribes doing the preaching.  When they preach, no one really notices what is said because it’s all been said so many times before.  Color in the lines, children should be seen and not heard, God rewards a hard worker, and other lies meant only to protect the privileged.  Hardly enough to scare off any demons.  But today, Jesus is preaching, and he preaches, we are told, “with authority.”

I have no idea what that means.  In 2023 in America, I have no idea what “authority” means.  The opposite of being able to scare off demons, these days it seems to mean the power to bring them on.  But I believe you do, I believe you have what it takes to preach with authority like Jesus—to treat your listeners with the dignity their humanity deserves as beloved children of God, to make them feel safe enough to want to risk becoming new, to send their demons running—because I have heard you do it many times before.

Can I just say, whatever you do, don’t stop now.

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[1] https://www.npr.org/2024/01/24/1226371734/religious-nones-are-now-the-largest-single-group-in-the-u-s

One day last week I was sitting in my office in the middle of the afternoon when the phone rang.  The voice on the other end told me that something awful had happened.  “Can you come?” they asked.  I got in my car and drove to where they were, gathered with about a dozen family members in a hospital waiting room, buried under the weight of an unexpected, tragic loss.  For about 30 minutes we sat in a circle, crying, no one really saying much, until one person turned to me to say, “Could you offer a prayer?” 

Now, that should be an easy request for me.  The fact is there’s a reason I got the call that day.  When the world is spinning off its axis, the person in my shoes is expected to be able to step up and do something.  Stop the spinning, or at least keep us from passing out.  Or so I tell myself.  But that day, I just wasn’t myself.  Something had happened that morning.  It was a small thing, nothing more than a criticism from a passerby, but when I walked into that waiting room, it still had me by the throat.  Nonetheless, I (bravely?) said, “Of course, I’d be glad to offer a prayer.” Everyone closed their eyes and bowed their heads.  In my memory, what came out next was something like alphabet soup after it’s been thrown to the ground by a toddler and licked up by the dog.  Letters all mixed up, the only vowel remaining, U, so the only thing you can say is, umm, uh. 

Somehow, after about 90 seconds of verbal vomit, I remembered what Ann Lamott once said, that the only two prayers you need are, “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” and “Help me, help me, help me.”  Yes, let’s try that, I told myself.  “God, whoever, wherever, you are, thank you for hearing us.  Now help us.”  To which an aunt, sitting two spots over to my left, blurted out, “Amen.”  Only, I wasn’t done with my prayer. But what do you do when someone says Amen?  You say Amen too and be done with it.  So that’s what I and everyone else in the room did.  We said Amen and opened our eyes.

At that point, the only thing I could think to do was get out of there as quickly as possible.  I stood up, thanked the family for welcoming me, said peace be with you, and walked out. 

On my way back to the parking lot, I ran into someone else I knew and stopped to chat for a minute next to the vending machines.  While standing there, the aunt from the waiting room just happened to come by to get some crackers.  “Thank you for coming today” she said to me.  “It means a lot to us that you came right over.”  “Anytime,” I said to her.  Calking a smirk, I added, “I got to tell you, though, you really threw me off back there when I was praying and you said Amen.  I wasn’t quite done yet.”  Putting her hand on my arm, she gave me a tender smile.  “Sorry about that, but you sounded like you could use some help.”    

You understand, this is a story about the difference between those who are willing to help but can’t, those who are able to help but won’t, and those who can help and do. It is also a story about grace, which can be of help to everyone.  

For Christmas Eve, 2023.

Into this world, this demented inn
in which there is absolutely no room for him at all,
Christ comes uninvited.

But because he cannot be at home in it,
because he is out of place in it,
and yet he must be in it,
His place is with the others for whom
there is no room.

His place is with those who do not belong,
who are rejected by power, because
they are regarded as weak,
those who are discredited,
who are denied status of persons,
who are tortured, bombed and exterminated.

With those for whom there is no room,
Christ is present in this world.

Thomas Merton, 1915 – 1968

It’s an experience we’ve all had.  The uninvited guest.  Even if you don’t think you’ve ever had an uninvited guest, you have.  Because the uninvited guest doesn’t always have to be a person showing up unannounced at our door.  It could be a person showing up unannounced on the playground at school.  An otherwise good friend, but because they are unannounced, because the game we are playing only calls for 4 people and we already have 4, this friend is suddenly uninvited. 

It could be that brother or sister who, whenever they come to town, always wants to stay at your house.  You have 3 other siblings also living in town, but it’s Christmas and you know they’re going to be calling to ask, got any room in that inn of yours?  And you do.  And though you really do love your brother or sister, and find true pleasure in their company, and would leave a key under the mat for them, you didn’t actually invite them to stay with you.  But that’s family, and you know what they say about family—there are no guests.  Which I guess means you can never be uninvited.  You can only choose where to stand for the family picture.

It could also be that the uninvited guest isn’t a person at all.  I heard a story from a woman this past week about how she took in a dog from a shelter recently.  The shelter had to close suddenly and they needed a home for all the animals, and she, loving dogs and not being able to bear the thought of one without a home, took one in.  It all happened so quickly, though; much more quickly than it normally would.  She didn’t have a chance to spend much time with the dog before taking it home with her, or to learn much about its likes, dislikes, and behaviors.  Does it like to play fetch?  Does it enjoy swimming?  Does it jump, cuddle, bark, or bite?  This wasn’t a newborn puppy she was taking in.  The training window was long closed for this one.  What this woman was doing was akin to adopting a teenager on the eve of their 18^th birthday or taking back a prodigal after they’d run away from home with everything and come back with nothing.  There was no way for her to know how taking in this dog was going to go.  She’d have to take a chance on the power of invitation. 

A couple days later, the dog attacked and killed the woman’s cat.  She was heartbroken about it, and understandably so.  But that wasn’t the worst part.  The worst part was that she was made to feel dumb and wrong by those who told her she should have known better.  How can doing the right thing turn out so wrong?  she said to me.  If you can answer that question then see me after the service and I’ll give you the woman’s name and phone number, because all I could think to tell her was, Doing the right thing is never wrong.  It’s just hard.

Invitation is hard.  There are some who would say it’s getting harder all the time, but I think it’s always been hard.  It’s hard because, try as we may, there is no way to know how it’s going to go when we open the door of our hearts, homes, schools, businesses, and churches to one another and say, come on in, and welcome.  And so, we are left having to make judgments and decide early on what it might cost us to be trusting, kind, and generous. 

Will doing the right thing turn out right, or will it turn out wrong?

Not knowing the answer, it is no wonder, I suppose, that we build walls at our borders and fences around our property.  This way the uninvited guest won’t even reach our door, let alone knock on it, have us open it, and discover that we were wrong about them.  They have come only to steal, kill, and destroy.  

Not knowing the answer, it is no wonder, I suppose, that neighbors have become to each other like something even less than uninvited guests.  We have become like the missiles crossing back and forth over Bethlehem even tonight.  We have become like signs in the front yard, placed there only to discredit whatever the sign in the front yard next door says.  We have become like objects—cold, hard, unfeeling, suspect to each other.   

Will doing the right thing turn out right, or will it turn out wrong? 

Who is daring enough to find out?  Tonight, we celebrate One who is.  Tonight, we celebrate One who comes uninvited into this world, this demented inn, where there is absolutely no room for him at all.  God comes in the baby Jesus because God must be in this world.

Only you can choose what to believe about this one, but God is love, and it is always love’s way to go where love has yet to go, and there to do what love does.  To fill empty virgins with life.  To feed the hungry with good things.  To humble the mighty with truth.  To show up uninvited if only to surprise us with (with what?), with love.     

I read a story not too long ago about a young boy from Anderson, South Carolina named Richard Ballenger, who on Christmas Eve in 1980 was asked by his mother to shine her shoes, because she was busy wrapping presents.  Taking his mother’s shoes, little Richard did as he was asked, and then, with the proud smile that only a seven-year-old can muster, he presented them for inspection.  His mother was so pleased, she gave him a quarter.

On Christmas morning as she put on the shoes to go to church, she noticed a lump in one shoe.  She took it off and found a quarter wrapped in paper.  Written on the paper in a child’s scrawl were the words, “I done it for love.” [1]

It very well may be, and I think it is, that God shows up again every year at Christmas in flesh and blood for one reason and one reason only: for love. 

Like a long-lost friend come to remind us of our better days. 

Like a gentle presence standing in the doorway of our sorrow. 

Like a faithful companion who stays long after visiting hours are over.

Like a fellow soldier in the march for freedom.

Like a woman who takes in the dogs that need to be taken in.

Like a baby who does not check the invitation list to see if they are due to arrive tonight, but goes where love has yet to go, to do what love does.     

Yes, on this night when the God who so loves the world sends his son to be born of Mary, let us remember, we are ones for whom Jesus comes.  Uninvited as he may be, unready as we may be, as demented as our inn is, God comes for us this night.  That we might be as one, great, human family to one another.  And you know what they say about family—there are no guests, so you can never be uninvited.  You can only choose where to stand for the family picture.  But don’t worry, God says everyone will get to hold the baby.      

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[1] _{Manning, Brennan (2004).  “Watch for the Light: Readings for Advent and Christmas.”  Maryknoll, NY: Orbis Publishing, p. 202.}

We call today the 
shortest day of the year. 
But anyone who knows 
how to keep time 
knows that all we mean by this is,
the light is going to run for cover 
faster today than it does on any other day. 

We still get the same 
blessed 24 hours— 
no fewer and no more. 
It will simply be that a few more  
hands of the clock 
will be spent in darkness than in light. 

And here's the thing, 
we can't do a thing to change this 
(unless we're going to drive west all the time). 
It's not like we can go to the store 
to exchange some of the extra darkness 
for extra light. 

But who would want to do that anyway? 

Don't we know that 
without the darkness there is no light? 
There is no waiting for the stars 
to come out at night. 
And O how brilliant are the stars! 
There is no sun rising 
over the blackness of the sea. 
There is no possibility to learn 
to trust in what can only be felt.
And there is no hope of tomorrow, when 
the light will start to creep back into the day 
a couple minutes more at a time. 

Until one day we will reach the longest day of the year and, 
looking back, we'll say, 
Look how far we came together. 
Let's do it all over again.

Next April my dog, Quimby, will turn 7.  When we first got her, we did what a lot of dog owners do with puppies.  We bribed her.  I mean, we trained her.  When we said “sit” and she sat, we gave her a treat.  When we said “come” and she came, we gave her a treat.  And when she went out into the yard to do her “business,” we gave her a treat.  To be honest, the training never really took.  To this day, when I say “come,” she mostly runs away. 

But one thing she has managed to get pretty good at it is knowing where we keep the treats.  Even after I’ve had to go out and get her because she wouldn’t come when I called, sometimes dragging her by the collar just to make clear she’s in trouble, she will still come into the kitchen and go right to the cabinet where we keep the treats.  I hate to say it, but she will even come in and sit right down in front of that cabinet, like she’s paying homage to her god, like she is a most obedient servant.  I will tell her, no, you don’t get a treat for doing what I made you do.  A few minutes later, I’ll wander back into the kitchen from wherever I went off to because I was trying to ignore her shameless plea.  Always, she will be sitting there, looking grand and at attention, staring up at the treat cabinet. 

The funny thing is, it’s been years since we kept any real treats in the house.  Ever since we had our kitchen remodeled, and ever since the veterinarian told us Quimby needed to lose about 15 pounds, the only treats have been carrots and the occasional apple slice.  Clearly, Quimby never got that message, or she just doesn’t care.  She’s holding out hope that, someday, her master will once again fill that cabinet with treats, the good kind…with bacon. 

Then, a couple days ago, fortune came through for her.  I was out in the yard chatting with my neighbor.  Quimby was rolling around in the grass, giving herself a back scratch, all four legs stretched to the sky.  “She’s the happiest dog around,” my neighbor said.  “Yeah, and we don’t even give her treats anymore,” I said wryly.  I proceeded to tell him about our failed training, the kitchen cabinet, and the 15 pounds. 

Later that evening, there was a knock on my door.  It was my neighbor, holding a bag of dog treats, the good kind…with bacon.  “Put these in the cabinet and give her one every so often, whether she deserves it or not.  Otherwise, what’s the point in hoping?”

This Thanksgiving, may we be filled with the kind of hope that perches itself in front of an empty kitchen cabinet.  May we remember the millions of creatures, and especially the children, who go to the kitchen cabinet every day to find them empty.  And may we all be the kind of neighbor who shows up at the door with treats, the good kind.  Because what is hope if not that thing which comes to us when we need it, and even when we don’t deserve it? 

My son plays basketball.  If you ask him what he loves about playing, he’ll tell you, being on the team and shooting.  He loves being with the other boys on the team.  He doesn’t even have to be on the court with them.  He loves just being on the bench with them, doing what teammates do—being in the huddle, cheering on a good play, cheering each other up after a bad play, sharing packs of bubble gum.  He loves the feeling of belonging that comes with putting on a uniform.  Whenever I see him wearing it, he always looks 10 feet taller. 

And he loves to shoot.  He’s pretty good at it, too.  He has a smooth jumper and he’s always one of the few out there who can consistently hit a 3-pointer.  But when it comes to playing defense or going under the basket, he shies away. 

We talk all the time about how in basketball you can’t just do one thing.  Your team also needs you to make some steals, block some shots, and drive for the hoop.  And the thing is, in his mind he knows he can do all these things.  He’s got quick eyes and good height.  And I know he can do all these things.  I’ve seen him do them a hundred times out in the driveway when playing against me, or when mixing it up with his own teammates. But out on the court, with 9 other 12-year-old boys all going for the ball, and 5 of them kids he’s never seen before, it’s a different story.  He doesn’t want to end up on the ground.  He doesn’t want to wrestle for the ball and wind up taking an elbow to the face at the same time.  Who can blame him? I try to tell him it’s no big deal.  So you take an elbow to the face, you get fouled, or even give a foul.  It’s all part of the game. 

If I had to guess, though, taking an elbow to the face is not really what he sees when he imagines himself driving for the hoop.  He sees blood, broken bones, and himself being carried out on a stretcher.  You understand, I’m exaggerating.  But you get the point. The mind is a powerful friend or foe.  It doesn’t matter, nor does it seem to help, that I give him pep talks.  You just need to tell yourself you’ll be alright.  Don’t think the worse.  Mind over matter.  You know the cliches, and so do I, because my parents gave them to me, and they didn’t help me, either.  In fact, most of the time they only made me dig in my heels, convinced me even more that, if I took their advice, things wouldn’t turn out alright.  I’m sure I even told myself in those moments that my parents didn’t care about me. 

Now, as an adult, I’d like to think I’ve gained some perspective, perspective that my own kids will have someday.  Part of that perspective comes in seeing, and admitting, that my parents did care about me.  That when they signed me up to be part of the local theater group, or picked me up to put me on the ski lift to the top of the mountain—“We didn’t pay all this money so you could conquer the bunny slope,” my dad said—they weren’t actually trying to kill me.  Yes, I still believe I would have been perfectly happy all my life on the bunny slope.  Not everything in life must be a lesson in how to overcome.  As a parent (and as a human being), I try to remember that my great adventure doesn’t have to be someone else’s great adventure.  For some, the most courageous thing we could do today was done the moment we chose to get out of bed.

And yet, I’d be lying if I didn’t say I’ve also gained perspective in believing this: my son probably needs to take an elbow to the face.  We all do.  Not because I want to see him or anyone else get carried out on a stretcher, but because it may be the only way for us to have our minds changed about who or what has any real power over us. 

It may be that if he did take an elbow to the face in a game, he would hit the ground.  He might even bruise or bleed.  But I also believe two (three!) other things would happen.  One, he wouldn’t die.  Two, whoever elbows him to the face would be the first not only to help him up but also to ask if he’s alright.  And three, he would discover that what he has long feared is no longer to be feared.

Can you imagine how different the world could be right now if humanity agreed to play by these rules?  That if you hurt someone, purposefully or not, you have to personally bind up their wounds.  That if you shoot a gun to kill someone, you must dig your victim’s grave, lay their body in the ground, and comfort their loved ones.  That if you fire a rocket to destroy the homes of millions, displacing them to the streets, you have to rebuild their homes, and, meanwhile, take those millions into your own home. 

Can you imagine how different the world could be right now with a love like that?  Shamed by kindness, we would never go to war again.

In recent months, we have all seen the death and destruction wreaked by Hamas on Israeli citizens.  What has been done is tragic and inexcusable by any standard of humanity.  I have nothing but sorrow.  We have been reminded once more that anger is powerful, and violence only leads to violence.

When staring into the face of the pained and dead it is only natural to ask: who did this to you?  Then, if there is an answer, even a faint one, we take our place alongside the victims.  For who would ever want to be accused of keeping company with the victimizers, especially when the evidence of their deeds is still lying warm in the streets?  No, we know what we must do to avoid any appearance of impropriety: decide who the enemy is, and should you see them, especially them, lying hurt and bleeding in the street, go around them.  If you really want to try your hand at being a good Samaritan, just know this: it will come at a great cost to your own safety and reputation.  You may wind up being counted among the guilty.  

And yet, who is the enemy?  We must be careful to decide.  Those who are familiar with the story of the Good Samaritan know it to be a story of decisions.  When someone lies dying and bloodied in a ditch, how do you decide on whether to stop and help them?  Some conclude quickly that the person deserves what they got.  They were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and should have known better.  The tattoo on their arm, the label on their clothing, the hue of their skin, the cut of their hair confirms it for you.  They’re in your part of town and no amount of personal or professional obligation could make you their helper, let alone their neighbor.  They are the enemy, the reason you—so inconvenienced—must find another way home.  That a Samaritan stops to help is shocking because Samaritans were considered the enemy.  Categorically outcasted in every way, we simply don’t ever expect to be helped by our enemies.  It is much easier to think of them as the people who would blow us up, and so we must blow them up first.    

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I visited the Middle East many years ago now.  I remember vividly the feeling of walking through the streets of Hebron.  One of the most ancient towns in the region, it was once home to Abraham, that great tree from whom Jews, Muslims, and Christians all take their life and grow their branches.  The cobblestone streets were filled with Palestinian women selling their wares, while men sat nearby on grain sacks, their backs perched against buildings strong but sagging with time, bantering and smoking the day away.  Up and down the streets, like mice scurrying underfoot, children kicked soccer balls.  And every 5 or 6 feet there would be an Israeli soldier holding a machine gun.  I thought then, as I think now, that people who carry guns without need of food are the most scared people in all the world.  And yet, fear is not without its reasons.  

Modern day Israelis know that not even a century has passed since their grandparents were living in Germany, Poland, Yugoslavia or some other European homeland, peaceably tending to life when one day their windows got smashed.  Running to get under the floorboards in the kitchen, not everyone made it.  Pulled outside, yellow stars sewn on their jackets like a breast plate, they were stacked on trains bound for Auschwitz, Buchenwald, Birkenau.  Not a one was tried but 6 million plus were still found guilty.  And of what?  Of being someone; of being Jewish.  Those who survived the gas chambers and death marches still came out wounded, to be forever haunted by ghosts.  

Meanwhile, the rest of the world reeled from their own brand of guilt over not having stepped in sooner to stop the massacre, over having to realize the answer to the question—who did this to you?—was now, we did, we did this to you.  

For the Jewish Holocaust survivor, returning home was both dangerous and unpopular.  The War was over but prejudice and bigotry would not be defeated so easily.  In time, The United Nations, that global symbol of goodwill and good intention, would give these millions upon millions of refugees a new home.  A sliver of Mediterranean land about which prophets once said, milk and honey will flow.  And they will not hurt or destroy on my holy mountain.  What could be more promising and perfect for a people who have just come through hell than to settle in a place where nothing and no one can hurt or destroy?  So became the official State of Israel.     

And yet, along with a thousand hopes and fears, the scars of near extinction remained.  In the new land of Israel were also Abraham’s other children.  Palestinians.  Mostly Muslim, some Christian, together with the Jews, they were like the stars in the sky.  A galaxy of lights that could give warmth like a bidding fire, welcoming the neighbor in, or spew its heat like a .22 caliber, perched in the window and aimed across the street, never to trust their neighbors again.    

That the State of Israel has controlled the borders in and out of Gaza and the West Bank for decades, keeping their neighbors in check at all times, tells us something about how powerful memory is, and the fear it kindles.  I can only imagine what it is like to be an Israeli today.  To live in dread that what the world did to your grandparents in the fatherland of Germany is now happening to you in the motherland of Israel.  The Israeli solider I encountered in Hebron years ago is no longer there.  I am sure, though, that another one, machine gun in hand, has come along to take their post, and that is of little wonder.        

But fear of our neighbors also kindles oppression and desperation for our neighbors.  Which is to say, as sick, twisted, and reprehensible as what Hamas did to Israel is, it did not happen in a vacuum.  To whatever degree rocket launching and gun slinging appears random, indiscriminate and unprovoked, it may also appear to happen in a vacuum.  Except, nothing happens on its own.  

When the State of Israel began, it was weaned on land that Palestinians had already been existing on for centuries, though they were not a state themselves.  They were subjects of British colonization.  Not foster children, not even adopted children, Palestinians have persisted on the hope of one day just not being subjects anymore.  Then, with the founding of Israel, they became subjects all over again, and that’s how it remains to this day.  I can only imagine what it is like to be a Palestinian.  The frustration and desperation that comes from being walled-in and occupied by another because they deem you a threat.  No question, the tactics and thinking of Hamas is disgusting.  That the majority of Palestinians believe they are disgusting is worth noting, as is the fact that they can imagine what drives them to extremes.     

Yes, there has always been some measure of talk on the part of the world about helping to foster a two-state solution, Israel and Palestine living side-by-side on the map as equals.  I don’t know if any two-state solution is ever going to happen, or even be possible.  I do know that, as with anything, solutions begin with having the right ingredients, for you get what you put in.  So Israel could choose now to act justly and reject vengeance.  This would be a start.  Justice doesn’t turn a blind eye to what has been done.  It takes account, but stops short of thinking that the only way to guarantee your own safety is to obliterate everything and everyone who reminds you of your enemies.  Justice would never kill children.  

The United States, the “most powerful nation on earth,” could show up not just on the side of Israel, but on the side of the vulnerable, which would mean showing up in Gaza.  If we’re going to provide tanks and guns for people to go to war with, we must also be prepared to stand in front of those tanks and guns when they are pointed at innocent lives.  How powerful that would be.

Our faith communities can reject the dualism that says supporting Palestine means being anti-semitic, or supporting the existence of the State of Israel is anti-Muslim.  It is not un-Christian to love your Muslim and Jewish neighbors as you love yourself.  We all come from the same tree.    

And we can all agree that we have done this to each other.  We have insisted on choosing between Israelis or Palestinians, war or peace, Jew or Muslim [insert a thousand other binaries here], and so we have left ourselves no option but to walk down only one side of the street.  But every street has two sides; every border has two sides; every person has two sides, and crossing over is as simple as choosing to do so.  Because unless we cross to the other side, nothing, nothing, nothing can ever be made whole.  And wouldn’t whole be wonderful?  

You always barked when I came over.  
Even now, I choose to believe 
   you were just announcing my arrival.
You were that kind of dog.
You told of the world (or were you telling off the world?)
You barked at the lawnmower, 
              the vacuum, 
              and the kids jumping in the pool.
When a certain kitchen drawer was opened, 
   you barked at the thought of the electric knife.
      (it wasn’t even Thanksgiving)
But when I’d sit on your head, or 
bound through your screen door and into the kitchen 
to eat your food, 
   you didn’t make a sound.  
   You’d lift your head and just watch me go on by.
And when I’d chew on your leg 
like it was my Thanksgiving dinner 
   (it wasn’t even Thanksgiving),
you’d let out a satisfied groan.  Like you were glad 
   to be someone else’s sustenance.
When Dr. Lee saw the teeth marks, she asked what you’d gotten         
   yourself into.  
You just looked up at her with your two marbly brown eyes.    
Two weeks later, I had to go see Dr. Lee.  
I think she understood then that life is never our fault, 
   only the consequence of the company we keep, 
   and your company liked you an awful lot. 

By the time I moved in next door, you already had some friends.  
   Bella and BooBoo, and later, Briggs and Poo.
But you were my first friend.    

I was over your house today.  
   They told me you wouldn’t be there.  
      I think they thought I wouldn’t want to go then.  
         Stupid humans.  
      Don’t they know that dogs don’t care about such things?  

I let myself in like the old days.    
   Your owners let me go upstairs, 
   then downstairs, 
   then upstairs again.  
Good people, not afraid to let me see what’s missing--- 
   I can see why you loved them so much.
Then they let me sit there while they ate turkey sandwiches.  
   I tried not to bark for a bite.  It was so quiet.
But what’s a dog to do?  You weren’t there, 
   no one had announced my arrival,
   and I thought they’d like to hear from you again.

If Mr. Newton was correct, what goes up must come down. Go ahead, test him on it. Pull out whatever is in your purse or pocket, toss it to the air and see if it all doesn’t come down.  Short of a feather, things are made to hit the floor hard and quick.  A feather will also reach the floor, it will just take a little longer to get there.

Granted, this isn’t a theory we really need to test out.  The fact that you are probably sitting right now and not floating on the ceiling should be enough to tell us it’s true.  The way in which children, swinging from the monkey bars, let go and fall so effortlessly to the ground; the way in which food travels from the mouth, down the esophagus and into the stomach; the way our bodies and body parts sag into our later years; all proofs that everything which goes up must come down.   

Scientifically speaking, we call this gravity, nature’s guarantee that we stay in place where we belong.  As my mother used to say to us kids when we’d ask if we could sleep in the trees, if God wanted you to sleep in the trees, he would have made you a bird.  My mother’s point being that it would be unnatural for us to think we could stay up in the air if, God forbid, our branch broke off or a stiff wind came along to blow us off or, just as horrible, the whole tree went over, taking us with it.  You don’t have wings and you don’t bounce, my mom would add. 

Of course, even things with wings eventually must come down.  Planes, hot-air balloons, and skydivers all must land back on the ground.  They cannot stay above the clouds forever.  Birds must come to the ground from time to time to get their food, foraging through the forest or some stray picnic basket on the beach.  If their wings are working properly than their landing will be graceful and smooth.  If not, if their wings are broken, or the bird (or plane if you must) were to experience a mechanical failure, then not even wings may be enough to save them.  In that case, we call it a crash.  You see, everything which goes up must come down.  It’s only natural.  

On the other hand, not everything that comes down necessarily goes back up.  How many have looked with sadness on the famous Sycamore Gap Tree that was cut down in England last week?  For over 300 years the tree came to be a symbol of beauty and strength along Hadrian’s Wall.  Now it has been cut to the ground by someone who had neither right nor reason to do so. 

Contrast this with Shel Silverstein’s Giving Tree.  In The Giving Tree, a tree, we are told, loves a little boy, and loving this boy, the tree tells him he can cut off all her branches and level her to the ground just so he can build himself a boat and a house.  These are the things the boy believes will make him happy, and the tree only wants the boy to be happy.  So the boy cuts down the tree and builds his boat to travel the world.  He builds his house and gets married, but still, he is not happy.  In the end, the boy, old and tired, comes back to the tree one day, only now he no longer believes happiness is really real.  Meanwhile, the tree is still looking to give him something that might, finally, make him happy.  Except, now just a stump, she worries she has nothing left to give him.  How glad she is to discover that the boy, perhaps weary from searching, doesn’t want for much.  Come, sit down and rest, the tree invites him.  And the boy does, we are told, and the boy is happy, and the tree is happy.  Though we are left to wonder if—for someone who has fallen in and out of happiness his whole life—we are left to wonder if this time really will be different.  Will the boy truly stay happy?  Will the tree?    

The story is both tender and difficult, reminding us that we need to be careful with our actions, because love without boundaries has consequences.  Love that gives itself away at all costs will get cut down in the process, just as love that wants it all without cost will also get cut down, with each being left only to sit and hope that what remains will be enough.      

Such is the kind of love Saint Paul once wrote to a small band of saints in Philippi about:

If, then, there is any comfort in Christ, any consolation from love, any partnership in the Spirit, any tender affection and sympathy, make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind.  Do nothing from selfish ambition or empty conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests but to the interests of others. Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,

     who, though he existed in the form of God,
         did not regard equality with God
         as something to be grasped,
     but emptied himself,
         taking the form of a slave,
         assuming human likeness.
     And being found in appearance as a human,
          he humbled himself
         and became obedient to the point of death—
         even death on a cross.

What makes this description of love so extraordinary is that Paul says it exists in one who is God.  In Paul’s world—2^nd century ancient Greece and Rome—people, let alone God, didn’t move downward; it wasn’t natural.  Like our world today, everything tried to move upward.  Life was a survival of the fittest, a competition to see who could climb the ladder the fastest and highest.  As anyone who has ever studied Greek and Roman mythology knows, there were hundreds of gods, and each god had its own distinct trademark.  Among the gods, the point was to stand out, not to fit in.  And power, power was a matter of showing each other, and when necessary, showing humanity, who was in charge.  Poseidon could stir the seas into a tsunami; with a wave of his hand, Apollo could cover the sun and blacken the day; Aphrodite and Venus could make you fall in love, or keep you forever from it; and Zeus, Zeus with his thunder and lightning bolts, was the most powerful of them all.

If you were a human being living in this world, at best the gods were something to aspire to; at worst, something to fear.  They were not, however, something to relate to.  Granted, this didn’t stop people from trying.  The Roman Emperor Caligula once reminded his people: “I have the power to do anything to anybody.”  And though Augustus was never known to declare himself a god, after he died, his subjects did.  And yet, the point may be, he still died.  But what kind of God does that?  What kind of God dies?           

Well, Paul’s God does.  And should you be crazy enough to believe like Paul, then your God does.  “Only a suffering God can help,” said Dietrich Bonhoeffer from his cell in a Nazi prison camp.  I don’t need a God who rises up and never comes down.  Nor do I need a God who comes down only to go back up.  I need a God who comes down and comes down to stay.  I need a flesh-and-blood God who draws near to sit beside me.  A God whose power can be seen not in the ability to control all things, but to endure all things; not to avoid suffering, but to feel it, to help heal it.  A God who knows what it is to be me—someone who falls down a whole lot in this world—and who speaks my language of hope.   

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In her poem titled, “Gate A-4,” Palestinian poet Naomi Shihab Nye tells the following story about wandering around the Albuquerque Airport Terminal once.

“After learning my flight had been delayed four hours, I heard an announcement: “If anyone in the vicinity of Gate A-4 understands any Arabic, please come to the gate immediately.”

Well—one pauses these days. Gate A-4 was my own gate.  I went there.  An older woman in full traditional Palestinian embroidered dress, just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing.   “Help,” said the flight agent. “Talk to her. What is her problem? We told her the flight was going to be late and she did this.”

I stooped to put my arm around the woman and spoke haltingly.  “Shu-dow-a, Shu-bid-uck Habibti? Stani schway, Min fadlick, Shu-bit-se-wee?”

The minute she heard any words she knew, however poorly used, she stopped crying.  She thought the flight had been cancelled entirely.  She needed to be in El Paso for major medical treatment the next day.  I said, “No, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just later. Who is picking you up? Let’s call him.”

We called her son, I spoke with him in English. I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and ride next to her. She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it. Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and found out of course they had ten shared friends. Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian poets I know and let them chat with her? This all took up two hours.

She was laughing a lot by then. Telling of her life, patting my knee, answering questions. She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—from her bag—and was offering them to all the women at the gate. To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the mom from California, the lovely woman from Laredo — we were all covered with the same powdered sugar.  And smiling.  There is no better cookie.

And then the airline broke out free apple juice from huge coolers and two little girls from our flight ran around serving it and they were covered with powdered sugar, too.  And I noticed my new best friend — by now we were holding hands — had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing, with green furry leaves. Such an old country tradition.  Always carry a plant.  Always stay rooted to somewhere.

And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and I thought, this is the world I want to live in, the shared world.  Not a single person in that gate—once the crying of confusion stopped—seemed afraid of any other person. They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women, too.

This can still happen anywhere. Not everything is lost.[1]

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This is the kind of world I want to live in—a shared world, a world of cookies.  Do you want to live in that kind of world?  Something tells me you are the kind of people who want to live in that kind of world.  Something tells me you are the kind of people who can make it happen.

[1] Naomi Shihab Nye, “Gate A-4” from Honeybee. Copyright © 2008