In Honor of the Wounded One

I had a long and good conversation with a friend this morning. It was one of those conversations that blesses; the unhurried, sincere kind we all need from time to time. The time was punctuated with periods of comfortable silence. We talked about our spiritual journeys. And it was outdoors, and there were two sweet old dogs, and there was a lake and a weathered bench, and the weather was perfect. I think that put me in the place I needed to be to write this.

As I begin writing I can glance out a window into our front yard. I see a couple of squirrels happily doing what squirrels do this time of year. It is mid afternoon, and there is a shifting breeze. When it blows in one direction it gives leaves from the Japanese Maple at one end of the yard the final push that sends them on their drifting, dancing way from the tree, across the yard, and to the earth. Then the breeze shifts and leaves from the black Tupelo tree at the other side of the yard have their turn and drift to earth to mingle with the maple leaves.

By the way, did you know that leaves don't "fall" from the trees? They are "pushed." Google it.

About ten to fifteen feet outside the window, between me and those falling leaves, hangs our bird feeder. It is old, the paint is peeling from the top, and there are areas of rust growing where there once was paint. The birds could not care less about the paint or lack of it. During the course of a year a variety of birds--chickadees, sparrows, orioles, titmouses (or is it mice?) mocking birds, cardinals and a number whose species I don't know--visit and feed. They, well some of them, seem to enjoy waiting in the loropetalum just beside the feeder until it is their turn to eat. Others prefer to wait in the chaste tree about ten feet on the other side of the feeder. Still others are more like me and don't want to wait at all. Even those who wait will eventually lose patience and challenge whatever bird is on the feeder, and they do so without regard to species, gender or size. In addition to all the visitors to the feeder we see doves, brown thrashers and squirrels gleaning the scattered left overs on the ground beneath the feeder.

A song is stuck in my head. Each time I stop typing to think or look out the window, in my head I hear Paul McCartney's voice, "...Mother Mary comes to me..."

For the past several weeks, we have been seeing a female cardinal with a wounded to the point of being useless right leg visit the feeder. It's probably wishful thinking on my part, but it seems the other birds defer to her and allow her to feed as long as she likes without challenging her for their turn the way they do when others are at the feeder. Even if that is wishful thinking I am going to hold onto it. There is nothing we can do for her except keep the feeder filled with seeds.

Over these past several weeks, we have seen the wounded one at irregular intervals. Sometimes several times in a day, and sometimes we go for days without seeing her. Each time we go for a day or two without seeing her I am saddened. I know one day I will see her for the last time, and I will not even know it is the last time. As of now it has been two days since I saw her. Maybe that was the last time.

"...speaking words of wisdom, let it be."

In sight of the bird feeder.
Elm City, NC
October 29, 2015

P.S. Not long after I wrote the post above I glanced out the window and saw the wounded one at the feeder. She fed..unchallenged!...for several minutes then flew to the relative safety of the chaste tree. When she flew away I whispered, "Peace be with you, lovely lady"...just in case.

"For though they may be parted there is
Still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer, let it be."

***Update***

On October 31, the wounded one returned to the feeder. This time I was able to take a few photos of her. The quality is poor because I was taking the pictures through glass windows and at one point a screen. Unlike previous visits, this time she lingered a couple of minutes atop the crook that holds the feeder before fluttering down and actually feeding. And not unlike previous times, she fed undisturbed by the other birds who had been there ahead of her and who returned later.

That was 17 days ago, and I have not seen her since.

Deep inside me there is a place where, when I go there, I can believe this small, seemingly insignificant life had meaning. When I believe that, I can also believe there was meaning in our two lives having briefly met at the bird feeder. No need trying to figure it all out. I'll just go to that place deep within me and thank the Holy One that her path and mine intersected there. And perhaps I'll hear the voice of Mother Mary gently whispering words of wisdom.

Rest in peace, lovely wounded one.

In sight of the bird feeder
Elm City, NC
November 17, 2015

Less

Lent, 2014

On Wednesday, March 4, 2014, just before leaving for my monthly meeting with my spiritual director, I saw this photograph posted to Facebook by my friend Paul Kimmerling. Paul is a co-founder of The Holistic Performance Group, a blogger, retreat and pilgrimage leader, and, as you can see, a very gifted photographer.

During the twenty-minute drive to meet my director I listened to Gregorian chant and carried Paul's photo in my mind. At some point a word came...."Less." Just that, "Less;" no thoughts as to its meaning or where it was leading me. Just the word, "Less."

When I arrived at our meeting place, and before going in, I made sure I could find the photo with my phone...my connection at that particular location is rather spotty, but that day it was good and the signal was strong. I usually power my phone off before going in, but not this time. I expected that at some point our conversation would come around to Paul"s image.

I was correct. A few minutes into our time together, I showed her the photo, told her about my response to it, the drive to our meeting, and the word, "Less."  She then led me on what I expect was about a fifteen-minute guided meditation on the photo. With her guidance I focused on first one detail then another...the shape and age of the lock, the flaws in the wood of the door, the texture of the wall, the imperfections in the knob, etc. Finally, I mentioned that there seem to be two light sources. (Notice that the knob is casting two shadows on the door, not just one.)

"Where are the two lights?"

"One within and one without."

"And what are the two lights?"

"They are the same...the divine."

"That's your meditation."

In addition to the meditation, I left the meeting with an idea. I would do a series of photographs as a Lenten discipline with the theme being, of course, "Less." "Less" would mean less subject matter, less editing to prepare the images to post to my Facebook page, Thru These Old Eyes, and fewer words. I would not caption any of the photos. In the event someone viewing them might be led to their own meditation, I did not want my words to influence whatever path their thoughts might take.

With a few exceptions, all the photos here were taken after the idea for the series came to me. Some were taken with my cell phone and some with my "real" camera. Most were chance encounters...things I saw as I went through my days rather than images I "went looking for." Early on I decided not to post on Sundays and that I would not try to have a photo for every day in Lent..."Less" pressure!

These images are what I have seen during this Lenten season plus a couple from my archives that I have reworked for this series. They appear here in the same order as I am posting them to Facebook.

Thank you, Paul, for "opening the door" for me to experience Lent as I have this year. You had no idea, of course, the invitation I would find in your photograph, but that's how it works, isn't it? If anyone happens to find meaning for themselves in any of these images, I am gratified.

Holy Week

A couple of weeks or so after beginning the project, I decided to make a slight change for the days of Holy Week. In advance of Holy Week I read the lectionary for each day several times, then let myself be open to encountering images that somehow fit, even if very loosely, with some phrase from the lectionary for each particular day.

Monday in Holy Week

Isaiah 42:3 "a bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench; he will faithfully bring forth justice."

Tuesday in Holy Week

John 12:36 "While you have the light, believe in the light, so that you may become children of light."

Wednesday in Holy Week

Isaiah 50:4 "The Lord God has given me the tongue of a teacher, that I may know how to sustain the weary with a word. Morning by morning he wakens--wakens my ear to listen as those who are taught."

Maundy Thursday

1 Corinthians 11:23b-24a "... [He] took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks he broke it..."

Good Friday

John 18:17b-18a: "...he went out to what is called The Place of the Skull, which in Hebrew is called Golgotha. There they crucified him..."

Holy Saturday

Matthew 27:61 "Mary Magdalene and the other Mary were there, sitting opposite the tomb."


Elm City, NC
April 15, 2014

When Outrage Turns to Sadness

In her book The Wisdom Jesus, Cynthia Bourgeault writes about the apocryphal legend of The Harrowing of Hell. She begins the discussion by acknowledging that the medieval interpretation of the legend was a naive attempt to resolve a theological problem. She adds, however, "...setting that medieval naivete aside, I believe the real meaning of this archetypal legend is entirely serious and deserves our full attention." She concludes the discussion with this:

A huge personal breakthrough in my own understanding of what this Harrowing of Hell mythology really is all about occurred quite unexpectedly in the midst of a discussion I had with a student a few years ago. A tenderhearted soul, she had seen the movie Cold Mountain the night before and had been severely disturbed by the human atrocities portrayed there. After lying awake all that night, she arrived in class in a very distressed state and asked, "How could this darkness exist? How can we remove this darkness from the planet?"

"Don't you see," I heard myself saying in response, "that by judging it you only make it worse? By trying to stop the black---to make it all white, all good; by saying that this we can accept and this we must reject, you keep empowering that cycle of polarization that creates the problem in the first place?" And I think this has always been the fatal trap in the "God is light" roadmap, the orientation that cleaves to the light by trying to deny or reject the shadow. It only winds up empowering the shadow and deepening it. The resolution doesn't lie in collapsing the tension of opposites by canceling one of them out. Something has to go deeper, something that can hold them both.

When I first read that quote I sensed the rightness of what Bourgeault was saying but had no idea how to internalize the truth in it, or better yet how it would be to experience this truth. This morning in a time of quiet when I was not doing anything, not even thinking anything, the phrase "when outrage turns to sadness" came to me. At that moment I remembered Bourgeault's words and went to the book to re-read the passage to verify my memory. I should say the phrase was given to me, because in the hours since then I have come to see it as a gift. Was it a gift of Wisdom of the sort Bourgeault writes about? For now at least I am going to allow myself to think it was. This sort of Wisdom comes from deep within, from the heart, from the core of our being, unlike knowledge that comes from the brain, the conscious mind. Bourgeault's choice of words in the quote above are significant. She didn't "say"; she unexpectedly "heard myself saying." That's an important distinction, and seems to fit my experience of "receiving" the phrase "when outrage turns to sadness" rather than "thinking" it.

For most of my life I have been involved in the struggle for justice for those on the margins of society---people of color, the poor, death row inmates, people living with HIV/AIDS, members of the LGBT community. Underlying my passion for social justice there has always been a sense of outrage at how those on the margins are treated. I've been like Bourgeault's student, distressed, and at times have lain awake at night wrestling with the black.

On July 8 I was arrested while participating in an act of civil disobedience in protest against recent actions by the North Carolina General Assembly and our Governor. A couple of weeks or so later I began to feel overwhelmed---troubled by the negative energy flowing from both ends of the political spectrum, by the vitriolic rhetoric, by the militaristic images, by the us-vs-them mentality. I had to back away. I never questioned the rightness of my actions or the goals of the movement of which I am a part, but I did feel isolated, alone, a stranger even among people of a like mind. I felt sadness.

The District Attorney who is prosecuting those of us who were arrested on the day I was, and on several Mondays preceding and following July 8 (there are over 900 of us), is offering a deal...do 25 hours of community service and pay court costs after which the charges will be dropped. If we refuse the deal we go to trial. I have until November 7 to decide. Since learning of the offer I have been trying to decide which choice was right for me. On a deeper level I have searched for the way to go about deciding which choice was right for me.

Today I see my outrage at social injustice as more of the energy Bourgeault talks about, as empowering that cycle of polarization, of rejecting the dark, trying to deny it or push it away...overcome it. The Wisdom tradition teaches, on the other hand, that love holds both the dark and the light in its hands simultaneously...embraces both. Furthermore, it seems to me, sadness is an expression of love.

I think I'll take the deal. As I type this it feels right. It feels like my way of not trying to collapse the tensions of opposites but rather holding them both. That's the path I see ahead of me now. That could change. The path we see today isn't always the path we'll walk tomorrow.

At the close of worship services this morning we sang a hymn the first verse of which contains the phrase "grant us wisdom." I should say my fellow parishioners sang the hymn because when we came to those words my voice went away and my tears, good tears, came.

Was my experience this morning a recognition event, an experience of Wisdom? I hope so. Do I understand it all? No. Does it raise other questions? Absolutely. For now I'll live those questions...they are questions that go way beyond November 7.

"Grant us Wisdom"...please.

Elm City, NC
September 22, 2013

The "good" Samaritan?

Luke 10:25-37

25Just then a lawyer stood up to test Jesus. “Teacher,” he said, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” 26He said to him, “What is written in the law? What do you read there?” 27He answered, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” 28And he said to him, “You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live.” 29But wanting to justify himself, he asked Jesus, “And who is my neighbor?” 30Jesus replied, “A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead. 31Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. 32So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. 33But a Samaritan while traveling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. 34He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. 35The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, ‘Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.’ 36Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of the robbers?” 37He said, “The one who showed him mercy.” Jesus said to him, “Go and do likewise.”

This too-well-known parable has been on my mind today. I say “too well known” because I think that our familiarity with it may stand in the way of our hearing it. We refer to this as the Parable of the Good Samaritan. I’d like to suggest otherwise. I suggest that the “good” characters in this story are the priest and Levite, and the lawyer, too, for that matter. These were men of high moral character who sought to live an upright life according to the principles they had known all their lives. In our society we would probably refer to them as good, law-abiding citizens. The Samaritan on the other hand was a sinner, one who lived outside the law, not as a criminal but as one who, by virtue of his birth, was seen as different, not a member of respectable society, not being in right relationship with God.

We have been taught that the Samaritan in this story was “good”, and our minds have leapt to the conclusion that the lawyer, priest and Levite were “bad.” I do not see even a single word here to suggest that Jesus saw them as bad in any way. It seems to me Jesus is simply saying there is more to it, there is another way. Notice that Jesus does not condemn the priest, Levite or the lawyer. He is inviting the lawyer to another way of seeing, a way of seeing beyond conventional morality. He was teaching about the realm of God…right here, right now…in this world, among us and within us, and there is more to that than living by the rules.

After telling the story Jesus asks the lawyer which of the three was a neighbor to the wounded man. A neighbor is one who lives close, and it is obvious to me that Jesus is saying that in God’s eyes, in the realm of God, we all live close to one another and to God. He is calling us to live out that truth in how we think, how we live and how we relate to others and to God.

The lawyer answers Jesus’ question, “The one who showed him mercy.” I am not a Greek scholar, but I understand the word translated here as “mercy” could also be rendered “kindness.” Kind-ness. The Samaritan understands that he and the wounded one are of the same “kind” and the story invites us to the realization that we are all of the same “kind”…created by God, in the image of God, loved by God, indwelt by God. The Samaritan sees himself in the wounded one, and he sees God in him also. The Samaritan loved his neighbor as himself, not in the same manner as he loved himself, but as one with himself. His oil became the wounded one’s oil, his wine the wounded one’s wine, his money the wounded one’s money and his animal the wounded one’s transportation to safety. His time became the wounded one’s time. They were both living in the realm of God.

This, I believe, is the real meaning of Jesus’ teaching. There is no us and them, no chosen and not chosen, no wounded and unwounded, no others. We are all neighbors in the realm of God, all of the same kind. And that can be troubling. It is so much easier to play by the rules, pick and choose. “You’re in; you’re out.” “I’m right; you’re wrong.” The list goes on and on.

　


You disturb me, God, I cannot see beyond categories. I cannot see my neighbor as myself. On my own I just want to live comfortably, respectably by the rules. But you tell me there is a better way. All I can do is ask you to open my eyes, my ears, my heart so I can know that in you we all are one, we are all of the same kind, we all are neighbors. Help me understand that my neighbors’ wounds are my wounds, my neighbors’ needs are my needs and that my neighbors’ joys are my joys. And give me the grace I must have to “Go and do likewise.” I cannot do it on my own. Amen.

Elm City, NC
August 12, 2013

Moral Monday 10---My Experience

On July 8, 2013 sixty three other people and I were arrested in connection with a peaceful demonstration inside the North Carolina Legislative Building. The demonstration was a part of what is known as Moral Mondays which are organized by the NAACP and led by it’s President, The Rev. William Barber, in protest against recent actions by the North Carolina General Assembly. We were charged with second degree trespass, failure to disperse on command and violating Legislative Building rules. My court date, first appearance, is set for November 7.

Before I go any farther I want to say this:
To the law enforcement officers with whom I came in contact that night:
Without exception you all treated me kindly, with dignity and respect. Thank you for your humanity. There were a few of you with whom I had conversation, sometimes light-hearted and with smiles on both sides. Your friendliness helped pass the times of waiting and were a bit of a distraction from the mild discomfort of having my wrists cuffed together behind my back. Thank you for that.
Because of our Moral Monday protests some of you have had your work schedules changed, and this has resulted in a change in your family routine, additional child care expenses, etc. For that I am truly sorry and look forward to the day it will no longer be necessary for us to engage in acts of civil disobedience as a result of the actions of our General Assembly. But I also hope that the part of you that led you to treat me with such kindness and humanity feels compassion for those who are being hurt permanently (losing their jobs, their homes, food for their children, access to medical care, etc.) because of the things happening in our legislature. I choose to allow myself the luxury of believing that some of you do indeed understand and have compassion for them. Bless you.
To the officer who cuffed me: Thank you for applying them so loosely I could have wriggled one hand free. I chose not to do so, but knowing I could was a big help.
An additional note to one particular officer: A couple of us saw you tapping time with your hand to your thigh as we sang "This Little Light of Mine." I'm glad you enjoyed our singing.

To continue…The evening began for us at 3:00 p.m. We gathered with a hundred or so supporters at the Christian Faith Baptist Church in Raleigh. There we cheered, sang, heard speakers, were briefed on what to expect, and participated in a press conference. At one point the organizers passed out strips of green cloth for us to use as armbands to identify ourselves to the organizers and supporters as being ones who had chosen to participate in the civil disobedience.

My friend from Wilson, Asa Gregory, was arrested a few weeks earlier. Asa had told me that when he was arrested his armband was cut off and thrown away. I wanted to keep at least a scrap of mine so had taken a small pair of children’s scissors with me intending to throw them away or hand them to someone in the crowd before entering the Legislative Building. I asked the woman who tied the armband on me to leave a strip long enough to cut off outside the knot. She left about six inches. I cut it off, then cut that into a few pieces, hiding one in a compartment of my wallet, another in my change purse and two of them in my shoe. I also helped a few others cut away part of their bands.



My green armband.

After the training we were given snacks and bottles of water…food and drink for the journey…and loaded onto a bus to be driven to the rally on Halifax Mall outside the Legislative Building. During the ride I called my friend Laurelyn Dossett, whom I had met in the spring of 2012 during the struggle to defeat Amendment One here in North Carolina. Laurelyn had sent me a message a couple of days earlier that she and some friends were coming from Greensboro for the rally and offering her support. There was so much noise on her end that all I heard was, “We are in front of the stage.”

(Laurelyn has now written a song entitled “My Beloved Enemy” for the Moral Monday movement.)


One of the last things I saw before getting off the bus was a woman in a motorized wheelchair with a bright pink poster on her lap, headed down the sidewalk toward the rally. I would see another woman in a similar wheelchair later.

When I arrived at the Mall the rally was in full swing. Luckily I quickly found my wife, Carroll, and several members of our St. Mark’s family.

 

　

It was good to be able to spend time with family and friends

before “going in.”

We had some time together then I worked my way through the crowd to find Laurelyn. She was there, in front of the stage, and we had a few moments together before I returned to Carroll and my St. Mark’s friends. Shortly after 6:00 p.m. Rev. Barber called for all who were going into the Legislative Building to gather behind the stage. I drank the last of my water and handed Carroll the empty bottle and those scissors. I said my farewells, got hugs and kisses, received a blessing from my priests, Lorraine Ljunggren and Jim Melnyk, then made my way to join the others.

Behind the stage we were instructed to line up in pairs as the marshals cleared a pathway for us through the middle of the crowd up to the doors of the Legislative Building. My partner, Anya, and I chatted while we waited, and I asked if she was scared. She smiled and said that she was not. I had to admit to her that I was somewhat afraid. “If I were not a bit afraid, I probably shouldn’t be here,” I told her. Later I would comment to a friend that it was the fear of the unknown and knowing that soon I would allow myself to be out of control, in the hands of complete strangers.

While we waited to begin our walk into the building, two more friends, Tracy McKimmon and Carrie Shuping, suddenly appeared, and gave me more hugs and well wishes. Then we began to walk around the stage to the front and through the crowd. I heard a woman’s voice calling, “Larry! Larry!” I turned and there was Laurelyn, waving, wishing us well and taking pictures with her cell phone. A few more steps, and there was my friend, Mike Newton-Ward. He stepped from the crowd, hugged me, kissed me on the cheek and said, “God bless you.” Seconds later I heard a man’s voice. “Larry! Larry!” About three rows deep in the crowd stood my friends David and Alice Both, also waving, cheering, flashing the peace sign and wishing us well. Now my spirits were soaring.

We walked the roughly 100 yards into the building through the crowd to chants of “We love you! We love you!” and “Thank you! Thank you!” Inside the building at least three members of the General Assembly were on hand to greet and thank us. We made our way up the stairs to the second floor and gathered around the fountain there. A large crowd of supporters were on hand there as well.

Thank you, Sara Stohler, for capturing this shot of us

on our way into the building.

We sang, chanted, and heard speeches. And we were loud! I said we were peaceful; I never said we were quiet. One of the speakers we heard was a woman in a motorized wheelchair. She was there on behalf of all those who could not be. I think in many ways that was true for all of us. We all have friends and family who for whatever reasons simply cannot risk being arrested. A number of them have told me they were there on behalf of those folks as well. The woman in the wheelchair was the first to be arrested a few minutes later.

After a while the chief of security announced over his bullhorn that this was an illegal assembly and that we had five minutes to disburse or be arrested. Many in the crowd began to boo, but Rev. Barber silenced the crowd, saying, “No! No! We’ll have none of that!” He reminded us the law enforcement officials were only doing their job, and that some of them would rather not be doing it. He then asked for applause for them, and the crowd erupted with cheers and applause.

Soon the chief of security announced we had two minutes to disperse. Those who were not staying began to file out of the building, and shortly, at around 7:15 I’d guess, the arrests began. We sang as one by one we were informed that we were under arrest, asked to place our hands behind us and were cuffed. Just before I was cuffed, I said to my partner, Anya, that I would see her downstairs. I did not her again.

　

Anya and me inside the Legislative building. Thank you to our fellow “arrestee” for taking this shot of us.

　

Screen shot of a one of the many videos that were made that day.

We were taken by elevator to the basement cafeteria, segregated males and females and waited for what seemed like a long time, but certainly wasn’t. Eventually our possessions were taken from us and placed in manila envelopes with our full names written on the outside. The officer who took mine, removed all the paper money from my wallet, placed it in my pocket and said to another officer, “Left front pocket.” She untied my armband and tossed it onto the table. Then we were photographed and had a long plastic sleeve containing our ID and a piece of paper clipped to our shirts.

More waiting. Eventually those of us who had not yet been taken to detention were loaded onto an inmate transport bus. Ours was the third and last bus of the night. As we were loaded onto the bus and driven away a crowd across the street cheered and waved at us. We were taken to the Wake County Detention Center. Before we were escorted off the bus a female officer came aboard and asked if there was a man there by a certain name, which I don’t remember. From near the back of the bus a voice said, “That’s me.” The officer said to him, “Your wife called. You forgot to leave the car keys with her, and you have the only set.” We all had a laugh over that, and a couple of folks suggested he might want to stay there in jail for a few days until the dust settled.

Inside the detention center the cuffs were cut off our wrists, and we were moved through a series of holding cells, once ten of us chain-gang style, all cuffed together by our wrists and connected by a long chain running down the middle of our group. A gentleman named Sam and dressed as Uncle Sam led our “chain gang,“ and yes we did sing “Working on the Chain Gang” as we walked. We sounded horrible! Eventually we were brought eight at a time before the magistrate who informed us of the charges against us, had us sign a form promising to appear in court at the appointed time and to abide by the terms of our release (not to enter the Legislative Building or Legislative Office Building until our cases are finally resolved), then told us we were free to go. We were escorted upstairs to the front entrance, the envelopes containing our personal items were handed to us, and we were escorted to the front door.

I stepped out into the night air at about 9:45, just under three hours after having entered the Legislative Building. There were more cheers and applause and a volunteer handed each of us a button saying, “I went to jail with Rev. Barber, 2013.” When I opened the manila envelope I found not only my cell phone, wallet, keys and handkerchief, but there was my green armband as well.

　

Looking back at the Detention Center just seconds after I came out.

After I signed forms authorizing a volunteer attorney to represent me another wonderful volunteer, there were so very many of them, drove me back to the church where there was still more cheering and applause…and food! I ate, chatted with a few folks then drove home. I got home about midnight very tired, but also very elated.
When I stepped out of the detention center that night, one of the first thoughts to come to me were memories of the Civil Rights workers in my native Alabama who were arrested during the 1960s. I thought of one in particular, Jonathan Daniels, an Episcopal Seminarian who was murdered shortly after being released from an Alabama jail. Jonathan had come to Alabama to help with voter registration. I remember the day of his murder, and years later would meet and become friends with a classmate of Jonathan’s who had also been a pallbearer at Jonathan’s funeral.


The following afternoon those brave Civil Rights workers were still on my mind. I wrote this for them:

For those of you who went before, so long ago, yet not so long that we‘ve forgotten:
The lyrics to one of your songs has been in my head all day today.
I woke up this mornin' with my mind
My mind, it was stayed on freedom.
I woke up this mornin' with my mind
My mind, it was stayed on freedom.
I woke up this mornin' with my mind
My mind, it was stayed on freedom.
Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelu, Hallelujah
I sang your song yesterday along with 63 other people as we participated in an act of civil disobedience and as a result were arrested. Today as I look back on my experiences I cannot help but think of you.
Early during our time together I mentioned having lived in Birmingham during the 1960s. Someone asked me to share some of my memories. I told a couple of stories, your stories, not mine. I was simply an onlooker, but somehow, I believe, the telling of your stories was an invitation for your presence there with us. And I do believe you were there.
Our evening began at 3:00 p.m. in a southern church. We heard speakers, sang songs and were briefed on what to do and what to expect. The church was spacious, the pews were padded therefore comfortable, and it was air conditioned. I remember seeing photographs and movies of training sessions you had. You heard speakers, sang songs and received briefings, often crammed, standing room only, into tiny churches with hard pews in the sweltering heat of Alabama, Mississippi and other southern states.
Our very short walk into the North Carolina General Assembly took us through a crowd of hundreds if not thousands of well wishers, shaking our hands, hugging and kissing us and chanting, “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” and “We love you! We love you! We love you!” I know you were often greeted by crowds of hundreds, but their chants were so very different from the ones we heard, and frequently you were attacked by those crowds.
We walked across a short, level bridge at the entrance to the Legislative Building. Many of you crossed a bridge once also. But the bridge you crossed was steep and long, and on your first attempt to cross that bridge you were brutalized and forced to turn back.
Inside the building more supporters in the gallery above us cheered and applauded for us as we entered and began our rally. You were there in that gallery, weren’t you? We could neither see nor hear you, except with the eyes and ears of our hearts, but you were there. I know you were, and you were cheering and applauding with the rest of the crowd.
Eventually, one by one, we were arrested. The arresting officers were courteous and humane. Those who arrested you were more often than not cruel and brutal.
After having our possessions taken from us and being photographed we were transported to the Wake County Detention Center. Well wishers cheered as the buses pulled out and drove off. We spent the next hour or so in a series of air conditioned holding cells and waiting rooms. Some of you never even made it to the jails, and when you did you were often locked in tiny, filthy, brutally hot cells sometimes for days with no contact with the outside world.
After we were processed, heard the charges against us and were given the date for our first court appearance, our belongings were returned to us and we were escorted to the front door and released. Outside we were greeted by more cheers from well-wishers. There was transportation to return us to the church where we began, and there we found still more welcoming faces, more cheers, and food! As I stepped out into the night air at about 9:45 I remembered stories of how some of you were released from jail, often unexpectedly into a hostile environment in the middle of the night. You were alone and some of you did not live to get back to the friends you had left behind.
The path we walked yesterday, from beginning to end, was easy, so very easy it simply cannot be compared to your path. But of this I am absolutely certain, you were there with us every step of the way, and you know that our minds are now, as yours were then…stayed on freedom.
　 On July 11, 2013 Jeanne Milliken Bonds posted a link on Facebook to a New York Times op-ed piece she had written. With the post, she asked the question to those of us who have been arrested, “Why did you get arrested?”
This is my response to her question:
You asked why we got arrested.

I am an educated, financially secure, slightly-beyond-middle-aged, healthy, white, heterosexual, southern male. In other words I am a person of privilege. As a teen-ager in the 1960s I lived in Birmingham, Alabama and was an almost-eye witness to the events that occurred there during that era’s civil rights struggle.

I am also a person of faith, and my faith tradition tells me that my privileged status is a gift that carries with it certain responsibilities. Primary among those responsibilities is to care for those whom we refer to as the least of these…those on the margins, the ostracized, the powerless, the voiceless.

I watched the Moral Monday events, attended a couple, saw two friends get arrested. All the while, memories of the events, the brave people, the martyrs in Alabama during the 1960s were flooding back. Soon I realized that attending the Moral Monday rallies, posting links to Facebook, commenting on others’ posts, etc. was not enough.

I am not a skilled writer. I am not a strong leader. I lack the power of persuasion. But I am passionate, and from time to time that passion simply must be channeled into action. I came to realize that getting arrested was the way I was to channel my passion. I could not not do it.

On July 8 I attended the civil disobedience training, had a green armband tied to my left arm and with 63 other people entered the General Assembly Building. When ordered to disburse and leave the building we did not do so, and were arrested.

Do I believe my arrest will make a difference? Not for a minute! But so far roughly 700 [the total is now 924] of us have been arrested, and the numbers will grow. I do believe, I must believe, that cumulatively our efforts will eventually make a difference.

That’s why I got arrested.

　

 

　

Thank you to everyone, family and friends (including the new friends I have made as a result of this journey) for your love and support.

Elm City, North Carolina
July 28, 2013

Casper...Newtown...We Are All Connected

On Friday, November 30, a young man murdered two people then killed himself. One of the victims was the young man’s father. The murder took place in the father’s classroom at Casper College in Casper, Wyoming, in front of the father’s students. A parent murdered by his own son. A group of young people having to witness the horror. I have an indirect connection to this horror because the husband of a friend of mine is one of the Vice Presidents of the college.

We are all connected.

Two days ago a young man in Newtown, Connecticut murdered his mother then drove to an elementary school where he murdered twenty children and six adults then killed himself. Another parent murdered by her own son, and this time six other adults and twenty small children died as well. This time small children both witnessed and fell victim to the horror. And again a connection. The granddaughter of a long-time friend attends the school where the massacre took place.

We are all connected.

At church this morning in our adult Sunday school class we heard a presentation about Palestinian children being terrorized and sometimes killed by Israeli soldiers in the Occupied Territories. Still another connection. The woman who did the presentation is a long-time acquaintance who has visited Palestine numerous times and been witness to the events she spoke about.

We are all connected.

Between Sunday school and worship I told a friend about the connection I have with the killings in Casper and in Newtown. I was in tears and he was nearly so.

We are all connected.

Later during the worship service I found I could not sing the songs. I could not chant the psalm. I could not say the creed. I could not pray the prayers. All I could manage was to make the sign of the cross and utter a whispered “amen” at the end of the prayers. During the Prayers of the People we heard the names of all the victims of Friday’s shooting read aloud. I am glad they were included.

We are all connected.

Two prayers came to my mind. The first was prayed by my priest, Lorraine Ljunggren, on Friday:

“Holy God, who desires life for all: We commend to your loving care this day those little ones and grown ones of your family --the human family -- who died today in the Connecticut school. We pray that the strength and power of your mysterious Holy Spirit will uphold and sustain all who mourn, particularly the parents and guardians, the families and friends of those who have died. Comfort all who mourn and grant us the courage to be makers of peace wherever our paths take us. All these things we pray for people of all faith and for those who claim none, and we pray in your Holy Name. Amen.”

We are all connected.

The second prayer was prayed by Rabbi Rachel Barenblat:
“God, let me cry on Your shoulder.
Rock me like a colicky baby.
Promise me You won't forget
each of Your perfect reflections
killed today. Promise me
You won't let me forget, either.
I'm hollow, stricken like a bell.
Make of my emptiness a channel
for Your boundless compassion.
Soothe the children who witnessed
things no child should see,
the teachers who tried to protect them
but couldn't, the parents
who are torn apart with grief,
who will never kiss their beloveds again.
Strengthen the hands and hearts
of Your servants tasked with caring
for those wounded in body and spirit.
Help us to find meaning
in the tiny lights we kindle tonight.
Help us to trust
that our reserves of hope
and healing are enough
to carry us through.
We are Your hands: put us to work.
Ignite in us the unquenchable yearning
to reshape our world
so that violence against children
never happens again, anywhere.
We are Your grieving heart.”

We are all connected

During her sermon this morning Lorraine talked about how she believes with all her heart that God is with and within us in the midst of even the most intense pain and suffering the times when there is no sense to be made of what is happening around us. And she reminded us why week after week we gather around the table to share bread and wine, the sacrament of that very real presence. I found myself drawn to her absolute faith.

We are all connected.

During the Eucharistic Prayer as the celebrant said the words of consecration I found my gaze fixed on the bread and wine there on the table. Two words came to me. They repeated themselves over and over in my mind, “Be there…Be there…Be there.” As we gathered around the table I looked around the circle of fellow parishioners, some friends, some acquaintances, and the words kept repeating themselves, “Be there…Be there…Be there.” When the bread was placed in my open palm, instead of immediately putting it into my mouth I gazed at it there in my hand for a few seconds. “Be there…Be there…Be there.”

We are all connected.

When I cannot sing, someone somewhere is singing for me. When I cannot pray, someone somewhere is praying my prayers for me. When I cannot believe, someone somewhere is believing for me.

We are all connected.

Be there…Be there…Be there...

And be here, too.

We are all connected.

Beatitudes

The idea for a series of photographs with the Beatitudes as theme came to me at church one Sunday morning in the middle of the sermon. My dream is to have a total of sixteen images, two for each of the eight Beatitudes as told in Matt. 5:3-10. I have seven so far and my eyes are open for eleven more. They will present themselves to me in their own time

 

Blessed are the poor in spirit...

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
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Blessed are those who mourn...

for they will be comforted.

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Blessed are the meek...

 for they will inherit the earth.

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Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness...

 for they will be filled.

 

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Blessed are the merciful...

for they will receive mercy.

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Blessed are the pure in heart...

for they will see God.⁹

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Blessed are the peacemakers...

 for they will be called children of God.

 

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Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake...

for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
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