The following is a sermon I prepared and delivered for my introductory preaching course, taught by the Rev. Dr. Dale Andrews at Boston University School of Theology.
The reading is Psalm 121.
1 I lift up my eyes to the hills—
from where will my help come?
2 My help comes from the Lord,
who made heaven and earth.
3 God will not let your foot be moved;
The One who keeps you will not slumber.
4 The One who keeps Israel
will neither slumber nor sleep.
5 The Lord is your keeper;
the Lord is your shade at your right hand.
6 The sun shall not strike you by day,
nor the moon by night.
7 The Lord will keep you from all evil;
God will keep your life.
8 The Lord will keep
your going out and your coming in
from this time on and for evermore.
There are many songs in the Bible, and I like to think that the book of Psalms is like the Bible’s greatest hits collection, an anthology. Who could forget Psalm 23, “The Lord Is My Shepherd”? Or Psalm 19, “The Heavens Are Telling the Glory of God”? These and others are rightly remembered as timeless expressions of praise of God’s loving kindness or God’s protection or God’s majesty. Within the 150 psalms there’s a particular collection of psalms, an album if you will, that scholars call the “Pilgrim Psalter.” It’s like a concept album in that all these songs have to do with pilgrimage. One of the “hits” from this album is Psalm 121, so well known that its first verse, too, has become its popular title: “I Lift Up My Eyes to the Hills.”
I think that if you put together a Top Ten list of the greatest biblical songs of all time, Psalm 121 would be up there with Psalm 23 and the Magnificat. And why not? Psalm 121 is the traveler’s song. This is the one you crank up on that long cross-country road trip. I presume you know Dr. David Livingstone, the famous Dr. Livingstone, the Scottish Presbyterian medical missionary. On the morning he left England for Africa, he prayed this psalm. But not only Dr. Livingstone. For 2,500 years Jewish, then Christian pilgrims, have sung its words. First, there were the Jewish exiles returning to the Promised Land from Babylon late in the sixth century before the Common Era. Then, for many generations after the exile, the Jewish peasants who now settled beyond Judea lifted up their eyes to the hills of Jerusalem as their caravans crossed the desert plains on the way to the holy city for the three great annual festivals. In the Middle Ages it would have been Christian pilgrims on the perilous way to Spain to venerate the relics of St. James at the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela. Today Christians of all stripes who flock to Rome from the world over are likely to take comfort in the psalm’s promise of God’s watchful care and protection along the way. You need good songs when you’re on a long road trip. Psalm 121 is one of the best.
Like it or not, we who follow Jesus Christ are on a road trip, too. James Limburg says, “The call of Jesus was never ‘gather around me’ or even ‘listen to me,’ but ‘follow me.’ ” You can look it up, too: sure enough, the first thing Jesus says in the Gospel according to John is “come and see,” and the last thing Jesus says is “follow me.” Okay, so we’re going on a road trip. The only thing is, this trip is never-ending. We may take some rest stops, but we’re not stopping anywhere for too long. We are not settling down. Ours is a journey with God and back to God. We are not meant to make a permanent home here. Homeless or not, we are all wanderers with no set destination in this world. All these destinations are fleeting. And this psalm, Psalm 121, is about more than an occasional pilgrimage. It’s about the journey of life. All our life is a journey, and the psalm speaks to all of life. The Jewish know this; they have the custom of reciting Verse 8 when leaving home: “The Lord will keep your going out and coming in this time on and forevermore.” Christians know it, too; this psalm is a part of our liturgies. The Evangelical Lutheran Church uses it at baptisms and burials, and is it any wonder that we call such events rites of passage.
Remember that what we know today as the church began as a movement—hear that word, movement—called The Way. It would be more comfortable to stand still. It would be more comfortable to worship God from the security of home and church-house, centered, surrounded by friends and family. But God doesn’t stand still. From the days of Abraham through the Exodus, from Jesus’ itinerant ministry to Paul’s missionary travels, we have come to know God best in the journey. Like it or not, God has made us for rambling. Thank God we have a little traveling music. Here we have a classic, “I Lift Up My Eyes to the Hills.”
So how do we sing this song, Psalm 121? One rabbi, Jonathan Magonet, says it can be sung to a variety of melodies, either “jolly and rhythmic” or “solemn.” How do we choose? That depends on how you feel about road trips, I guess. You could sing it like a happy country-western shuffle:
On the road again, just can’t wait to get on the road again
The life I love is makin’ music with my friends
And I can’t wait to get on the road again
Or you could sing it solemnly, like the blues:
Well I’m so tired of cryin’ but I’m out on the road again, I’m on the road again.
Well I’m so tired of cryin’ but I’m out on the road again, I’m on the road again.
How will you sing this song? Like some pilgrims, you might try singing it solo, asking the question in Verse 1 and answering it in the affirmative in verses 2 to 8, assuring ourselves of God’s providence. Or, you might do a duet with a loved one; some scholars suggest the psalm was written as a farewell liturgy, like a dialogue between the pilgrim about to leave for Jerusalem (verses 1 and 2) and a priest or elder who stays behind, sending him or her off with words of wisdom (verses 3 to 8). Or, you might do a group sing-along, like the ancient caravans of pilgrims, trading verses back and forth in call and response.
I think we could sing this song in any of these ways. If Psalm 121 is about the lifetime journey with God back to God, then it has to be any and all of these ways, because this journey is joy and sorrow, hope and fear, pleasure and pain, making music and crying, life and death and life again. We make the journey together and sometimes on our own. And God is with us all of the way.
But how should we sing it today? Well, today I feel like singing the blues. Let’s lift up our eyes to the hills. These are not just metaphorical mountains. The ancient psalmist had the hills of Palestine in mind. Yes, Yahweh, the Rock, dwells in the heavenly heights above those hills. Over those hills lie Jerusalem and the Temple. Those hills are symbols of hope. At the same time, there’s danger in those hills! You could easily slip and fall while ascending those hills. These were also the high places where the false gods were worshipped. Here bandits lay in ambush to terrorize wayfaring pilgrims. The hills represent the indifferent world, the uncaring world, the cruel world! You can almost hear the cry of Abraham, poised to slaughter Isaac on Mount Moriah, in the psalmist’s cry “From where will my help come?” Hear the creeping despair in the darkness that D.H. Lawrence voiced in his gloss on Psalm 121, a poem he titled “The Hills”:
I lift up my eyes to the hills and there they are, but no strength comes from them to me.
Only from darkness and ceasing to see strength comes.
Hear the cry of Zephania Kameeta of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Namibia, who a generation ago suffered with his people under apartheid and the nation’s oppressive structures. This is how he reads the first two verses of the psalm:
I look up to the powerful of the world; will my help come from them?
My help comes from the Lord, who from my childhood took my weak hand in his strong hand and led me in his way to this day.
God may reside above the hills, but make no mistake: our help does not come from the hills! Sometimes the hills provide comfort, but usually they challenge us. How do you think the homeless and the poor sing this song? It’s not so easy to cross from the question to the answer, “My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth.” When a homeless person looks up to Beacon Hill at night from the freezing fields of Boston Common, starving and lonely, beset by drug dealers, lunatics, and violent prowlers, and asks “From where will my help come,” this is not a rhetorical question! Biblical scholar Karl Plank says the distance between the psalmist’s question of “my help” and the answer in God’s watchful care and protection is a profound one. Read between the lines of verses 1 and 2, and there’s a gigantic gap. What happens between the question and answer? What happens as we lift up our eyes to the hills? All of life, my sisters and brothers, all of life. The pilgrimage, the journey, the festival, the jubilee, the affliction, the struggle, la lucha, whatever you want to call it, is in there. Therefore, when we say our help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth, we are not just stating some kind of fixed eternal truth about God, although this part of the psalm has entered the Apostles’ Creed. No, to say “my help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth” is to make a decision in faith that no matter what happens to us, God is our sure protection! Not technology, not progress, not our own strength, but the Holy One of Israel. Nothing else will avail the weary pilgrim.
Here is a poetic re-interpretation of the first four verses of the psalm by David Rosenberg:
I look up and find a mountain/to know inside/then light appears
Inspired from most high/My Lord, creator/of earth and sky
We shall not be moved/this power inside/never fell asleep
Over Israel.
But still, this song is not an easy one to sing. Don’t the promises in the last six verses of the psalm seem a little glib, the assurances too blithe? And these promises get greater and grander! God will not let your foot be moved; God will not let you slip and fall, because God is the guardian of Israel, and God never slacks off or sleeps on the job, unlike some of those other so-called gods the Canaanites and the Babylonians worshipped. In other words, God is our strength. The God who guards you is your shade, protecting you from the burning heat of the sun during the day and the mysterious power of the moon at night—the moon, whose rays the ancients believed caused insanity (hence the word lunatics). In the face of the elements, God is our security. This God who guards Israel also protects us from evil, meaning harm, calamity, and disaster. The Lord controls all of this. But that’s not all. God also protects our life from all harm: not just our soul, but also our existence over against death. God protects our life, and not merely our appetite, our craving, and our breath—God keeps our personal existence. In the end, God is our life.
How do we sing such a song in the wake of hurricanes, earthquakes, and fires? How do we sing such a song in the midst of homelessness, poverty and violence; militarism and terrorism; racism, sexism, and heterosexism?
Let’s look at another pilgrim. We commemorate his pilgrimage every year. In fact, we just celebrated it again two days ago, so Jesus’ raucous entry into Jerusalem on the eve of the Passover festival must be fresh in your mind. We know what songs the disciples were shouting: Luke tells us it was “Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord.” Matthew and Mark add a helpful “Hosanna” in there. Now, I happen to think that Jesus was singing a different tune. He knew the psalms, and while the disciples were ecstatic, maybe buzzing on a power trip, bellowing “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,” under his breath Jesus, who had more than an inkling of the dangers facing him, was saying soberly, “I lift up my eyes to the hills.” Was he already thinking about the Mount of Olives and the agonizing watch under the ominous moonlight, awaiting his enemies while his friends slumbered and slept? Or of Calvary and the withering heat of the sun? Or of the cross that would cause his foot to slip, then finally take his life, slowly squeezing his breath out of him as he hung upon it?
Nevertheless, there is something about this psalm that leads me to believe that its praises were on Jesus’ lips on the way into Jerusalem, in spite of the fate he knew awaited him. Five little words: The Lord is your keeper. They come from Verse 5 and provide the themes for the entire psalm. In this little psalm “Lord” appears five times; “you” or “your” appears ten times; and “keeper” appears six times. God does not merely dwell in transcendence above and beyond the hills. God is here, here with us. We are God’s, but God is ours. God is traveling with us, coming and going with us; making music with our friends, crying with us when we are alone; living with us and in Jesus Christ dying with us, yet wondrously keeping our life even in death and bringing us into new life. Never slumbering or sleeping, God keeps our going out and coming in now and forevermore. No other god but the guardian of Israel is doing this. No merely human power is doing this.
Jesus chose the unsettled life. He turned the world upside down, proclaiming the coming reign of God, the everlasting reign that unmasks worldly power, unveils privilege, and brings selfish pride to ruin. Jesus made the reign of God present to those living on society’s margins and denied it to those living in its center. Jesus could not do this of his own power. God was with him. Jesus’ pilgrim journey led him to the cross. But the Lord was Jesus’ keeper, and God kept Jesus’ life. And so with Jesus let us look to God our keeper for our strength, our security, and our everlasting life.
How do we sing Psalm 121? Listen to the song of one more pilgrim. Thirty-nine years ago tonight, the last night he was alive, he gave his final speech at Mason Temple in Memphis, Tenn.
It really doesn’t matter what happens now.... some began to ... talk about the threats that were out—what would happen to me from some of our sick white brothers....Like anybody, I would like to live a long life. Longevity has its place, but I’m not concerned about that now. I just want to do God’s will. And He’s allowed me to go up to the mountain! And I’ve looked over, and I’ve seen the Promised Land. I may not get there with you. But I want you to know tonight, that we, as a people, will get to the Promised Land. And so I’m happy tonight. I’m not worried about anything. I’m not fearing any man. My eyes have seen the Glory of the coming of the Lord!
Do you hear? At the end of his long, weary road, Martin Luther King lifted up his eyes to the hills, and he saw his help in the coming of the Lord, his keeper! The Lord is coming, coming to meet us on our pilgrim journey. Brothers and sisters, let us lift up our eyes to the hills. Amen.
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Sunday, April 1, 2007
There's a War Going On ... Is Anybody Listening?
I have a beef with The Daily Free Press, the student newspaper at Boston University.
Christian Activists United for Social and Environmental Justice, our social justice group at the School of Theology, organized a panel discussion titled "The Impact of War: A Community Conversation," held in Marsh Chapel on March 28. We invited five individuals from within and outside our School of Theology community, civilians and military veterans, to share their stories, their hopes, and their prayers very openly.
What was the purpose of our discussion? From my opening remarks:
It may seem curious to some of you that we need a discussion like this. Isn’t it obvious how war affects the men and women who serve, their families, and their communities? Sixty years ago we would not need a gathering like this, but these are unusual times. The talk of war is on everybody’s lips, but for many its actual presence is elusive, even invisible. The talk of sacrifice is everywhere, but few have felt what sacrifice is. In fact, some of us may have grown up without knowing any friends or relatives in military service. Whether we support or oppose one conflict or another, a veil has come down upon many of us. We don’t understand the impact of war.
Of course, many of us are preparing for ministry in communities dealing with the awful shocks of war. Therefore, there needs to be a conversation. I think this forum will benefit many of us who are simply cut off from the experience of military service and do not know how to empathize with those who have encountered war and its after-effects. There needs to be, where possible, a lifting of the veil, and an opportunity for many of us who have no idea what military service and its possible trauma are like to learn how to show empathy through the sharing of impressions and experiences. There’s a lot about the impact of war that people just don’t know or don’t find worthy of talking about, and perhaps this forum can become a source of graced enlightenment.
Tonight, from a common but multifaceted Christian and humanistic perspective, we hope to uncover the impact of war and the complexities of our responses to war.
***
The Daily Free Press sent a reporter to cover the event. I was delighted, until I picked up the newspaper the next morning. Here is the puny story the paper published on March 29:
http://media.www.dailyfreepress.com/media/storage/paper87/news/2007/03/29/News/Citizen.Activism.Lacking.In.Comparison.To.Wars.Of.Past.Eras.Military.Panel.Says-2812364.shtml
And here is the even smaller story it ran the same day about student efforts to stop the Darfur genocide:
http://media.www.dailyfreepress.com/media/storage/paper87/news/2007/03/29/News/Local.Arts.Show.Seeks.End.To.Darfur.Conflict-2812355.shtml
Meanwhile, the sports section that day was overflowing with copy about the women's lacrosse team. Here is the letter I wrote to The Daily Free Press in response:
To the Editor:
No offense to your newspaper, but it's a shame that you could devote two articles totaling 35 paragraphs, plus a "7 Questions" sidebar, to the exploits of the women's lacrosse team and only 12 and 13 sentences, respectively, to reports of student efforts to stop the genocide in Darfur and a theological discussion of the impact of war on our loved ones and our communities.
It's easier, I know, to sidestep these grave matters and narcotize ourselves with Anna Nicole Smith, "American Idol," and the Red Sox. Americans are living in a fool's paradise.
Here are my seven questions for your readers:
1. Whether we support or oppose the war in Iraq, do we as American citizens take mutual ownership of this war?
2. To paraphrase Lincoln, do we share the cost of caring for those "who shall have borne the battle" and for their widowed and their orphans?
3. Can we make necessary distinctions in the way we regard the soldiers who fight this war in Iraq and the civilians (most of whom never put on the uniform) who started it?
4. Do we enter Darfur and destroy the janjaweed? If we do, who goes? Who pays for such a military operation?
5. Do churches, synagogues, and mosques teach their social ethical traditions, particularly on the justification of war?
6. Do our churches, synagogues, and mosques actively promote diplomatic alternatives to war, teach how to wage peace, and defend the rights of conscientious objectors?
7. Men and women in the military who believe in God (or don't) grapple daily with issues of life and death, sin and guilt, and the meaning of their service. They need to be spiritually fed. Do communities of faith promote the calling of men and women to the ministry of military chaplain?
Students and faculty are struggling with these difficult questions in a way that doesn't boil down easily into headlines or 250-word articles.
As I explained to your reporter, the talk of war is on everybody's lips, but for many the war's real presence is elusive, even invisible. The talk of sacrifice is everywhere, but few have known what sacrifice is. In fact, some of us have grown up without knowing any friends or relatives in military service. Whether we support or oppose one conflict or another, a veil has come down upon many of us. We don't understand the impact of war.
For the record, the panel at Marsh Chapel included civilians as well as military personnel. Our panel featured a clinical social worker who spent five years counseling men and women traumatized by combat or sexual trauma while in their military service, and a theologian from the School of Theology who is well-versed in Christian social ethics. I wish your newspaper could have captured the flavor of all our panelists' stories and the reverential spirit in which their wisdom was shared.
Anthony Zuba
STH '08
Christian Activists United for Social and Environmental Justice
***
The Daily Free Press published the letter on March 30 but deleted the first paragraph and the name of our group at the end. I guess the criticism hurt them a little too much.
Christian Activists United for Social and Environmental Justice, our social justice group at the School of Theology, organized a panel discussion titled "The Impact of War: A Community Conversation," held in Marsh Chapel on March 28. We invited five individuals from within and outside our School of Theology community, civilians and military veterans, to share their stories, their hopes, and their prayers very openly.
What was the purpose of our discussion? From my opening remarks:
It may seem curious to some of you that we need a discussion like this. Isn’t it obvious how war affects the men and women who serve, their families, and their communities? Sixty years ago we would not need a gathering like this, but these are unusual times. The talk of war is on everybody’s lips, but for many its actual presence is elusive, even invisible. The talk of sacrifice is everywhere, but few have felt what sacrifice is. In fact, some of us may have grown up without knowing any friends or relatives in military service. Whether we support or oppose one conflict or another, a veil has come down upon many of us. We don’t understand the impact of war.
Of course, many of us are preparing for ministry in communities dealing with the awful shocks of war. Therefore, there needs to be a conversation. I think this forum will benefit many of us who are simply cut off from the experience of military service and do not know how to empathize with those who have encountered war and its after-effects. There needs to be, where possible, a lifting of the veil, and an opportunity for many of us who have no idea what military service and its possible trauma are like to learn how to show empathy through the sharing of impressions and experiences. There’s a lot about the impact of war that people just don’t know or don’t find worthy of talking about, and perhaps this forum can become a source of graced enlightenment.
Tonight, from a common but multifaceted Christian and humanistic perspective, we hope to uncover the impact of war and the complexities of our responses to war.
***
The Daily Free Press sent a reporter to cover the event. I was delighted, until I picked up the newspaper the next morning. Here is the puny story the paper published on March 29:
http://media.www.dailyfreepress.com/media/storage/paper87/news/2007/03/29/News/Citizen.Activism.Lacking.In.Comparison.To.Wars.Of.Past.Eras.Military.Panel.Says-2812364.shtml
And here is the even smaller story it ran the same day about student efforts to stop the Darfur genocide:
http://media.www.dailyfreepress.com/media/storage/paper87/news/2007/03/29/News/Local.Arts.Show.Seeks.End.To.Darfur.Conflict-2812355.shtml
Meanwhile, the sports section that day was overflowing with copy about the women's lacrosse team. Here is the letter I wrote to The Daily Free Press in response:
To the Editor:
No offense to your newspaper, but it's a shame that you could devote two articles totaling 35 paragraphs, plus a "7 Questions" sidebar, to the exploits of the women's lacrosse team and only 12 and 13 sentences, respectively, to reports of student efforts to stop the genocide in Darfur and a theological discussion of the impact of war on our loved ones and our communities.
It's easier, I know, to sidestep these grave matters and narcotize ourselves with Anna Nicole Smith, "American Idol," and the Red Sox. Americans are living in a fool's paradise.
Here are my seven questions for your readers:
1. Whether we support or oppose the war in Iraq, do we as American citizens take mutual ownership of this war?
2. To paraphrase Lincoln, do we share the cost of caring for those "who shall have borne the battle" and for their widowed and their orphans?
3. Can we make necessary distinctions in the way we regard the soldiers who fight this war in Iraq and the civilians (most of whom never put on the uniform) who started it?
4. Do we enter Darfur and destroy the janjaweed? If we do, who goes? Who pays for such a military operation?
5. Do churches, synagogues, and mosques teach their social ethical traditions, particularly on the justification of war?
6. Do our churches, synagogues, and mosques actively promote diplomatic alternatives to war, teach how to wage peace, and defend the rights of conscientious objectors?
7. Men and women in the military who believe in God (or don't) grapple daily with issues of life and death, sin and guilt, and the meaning of their service. They need to be spiritually fed. Do communities of faith promote the calling of men and women to the ministry of military chaplain?
Students and faculty are struggling with these difficult questions in a way that doesn't boil down easily into headlines or 250-word articles.
As I explained to your reporter, the talk of war is on everybody's lips, but for many the war's real presence is elusive, even invisible. The talk of sacrifice is everywhere, but few have known what sacrifice is. In fact, some of us have grown up without knowing any friends or relatives in military service. Whether we support or oppose one conflict or another, a veil has come down upon many of us. We don't understand the impact of war.
For the record, the panel at Marsh Chapel included civilians as well as military personnel. Our panel featured a clinical social worker who spent five years counseling men and women traumatized by combat or sexual trauma while in their military service, and a theologian from the School of Theology who is well-versed in Christian social ethics. I wish your newspaper could have captured the flavor of all our panelists' stories and the reverential spirit in which their wisdom was shared.
Anthony Zuba
STH '08
Christian Activists United for Social and Environmental Justice
***
The Daily Free Press published the letter on March 30 but deleted the first paragraph and the name of our group at the end. I guess the criticism hurt them a little too much.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Boylston Street Letter #8
One in an occasional series of reflections on homelessness and my duties as a pastoral intern at St. Francis House, a daytime shelter on 39 Boylston St. in Boston (http://www.stfrancishouse.org).
The week of March 5-9, 2007
The kingdom of God has been proclaimed, but it has not yet come. Lord, am I aware that it has not yet come! When competition defeats cooperation, when contract nullifies covenant, I know the kingdom has not yet come. When I know sin, I realize that the kingdom has not yet come. When I am sin, definitely I know that the kingdom has yet to come.
But the kingdom has been proclaimed. I’ve heard it! Sometimes I, too, have spoken words that heralded the Word that makes of everything a new creation. It really happens, and the optimist in me believes that it happens with us as often as it happens in spite of us.
Every man, woman, and child who practices social ministry ought to imagine standing between the times: between life as it is and life as they believe it will be. We begin where life is as it is, and we move toward life as it will be, and those in the Church are at the boundary of time present and time future. Or, picture another image for the Church: an isthmus. The Church is the land bridge between two great continents, the present world and the new creation. All of humanity from all time has been on a great migration from the first creation to the final creation, and it is our generation’s turn to cross from one to the other, guided safely over via the isthmus.
What does this have to do with the shelter?
I experienced two moments on the boundary of time, or along the narrow land bridge, on Friday. First, during Bible study, a guest (let me call him Deacon Jones) who joined us for the first time used the hour to offer his own catalog of Augustinian confessions. I knew Deacon Jones nominally before this; I knew only that he was one of the most well-mannered gentlemen I’ve met in the shelter. After hearing Jesus’ teaching about repentance in Luke 13:1-9, he testified both to the wretchedness of his circumstances and the glory of God transfiguring him. It is easier to believe we are simul justus et peccator after hearing Deacon Jones speaking gently but intensely about the misery and mercy of homelessness: the sleeplessness, the hunger, the cold, “snapping” on the streets, being held at knifepoint; yet also praising God for surviving another day on the streets, finding plenty in spite of sinful scarcity, and stepping out on faith to break up lethal fights. His witness shames me into silence. Have I forgotten the meaning of penitence? When a truly impoverished person testifies, you get the impression that none but the poor are genuinely remorseful about failing to pray to God or read the Bible. Trust that impression. His kind of faith sharing does not happen all the time, so you must be ready to listen. It was all I could dare to do. All mortal flesh must keep silence in the presence of Christ and his saints. Deacon Jones was a saint in that hour. Looking back on that morning, I’ve concluded that it is a good thing to study the written Word, but it is a far better thing to study the man or woman who becomes a talking book, a living Word.
Second, the transgender student Mallory fell down, but she rose again. She called me early in the afternoon to apologize for deciding to quit our weekly GED tutorials, offering that her life was complicated, and she needed time to sort it out. However, less than half an hour later, she called back and changed her mind: she wanted to continue, after all. That afternoon was the most productive of all our tutorials. She was getting the hang of reading, comparing, and adding decimals despite no prior experience with anything but whole numbers! So delighted was Mallory by her accomplishment that her melancholy had all but disappeared by the end of the afternoon. I had never seen her so proud of herself! And it made me regret having to tell her I could not attend her graduation from the Moving Ahead Program on March 16 because I will be in Washington. But I know she will be waiting for me when I return: we have to work on reading comprehension and writing skills. She insisted on it.
We’ve come too far to turn back. We must go forward. The kingdom is not yet here, but it is on its way, and it graces every dream Deacon Jones, Mallory, and I have.
The week of March 5-9, 2007
The kingdom of God has been proclaimed, but it has not yet come. Lord, am I aware that it has not yet come! When competition defeats cooperation, when contract nullifies covenant, I know the kingdom has not yet come. When I know sin, I realize that the kingdom has not yet come. When I am sin, definitely I know that the kingdom has yet to come.
But the kingdom has been proclaimed. I’ve heard it! Sometimes I, too, have spoken words that heralded the Word that makes of everything a new creation. It really happens, and the optimist in me believes that it happens with us as often as it happens in spite of us.
Every man, woman, and child who practices social ministry ought to imagine standing between the times: between life as it is and life as they believe it will be. We begin where life is as it is, and we move toward life as it will be, and those in the Church are at the boundary of time present and time future. Or, picture another image for the Church: an isthmus. The Church is the land bridge between two great continents, the present world and the new creation. All of humanity from all time has been on a great migration from the first creation to the final creation, and it is our generation’s turn to cross from one to the other, guided safely over via the isthmus.
What does this have to do with the shelter?
I experienced two moments on the boundary of time, or along the narrow land bridge, on Friday. First, during Bible study, a guest (let me call him Deacon Jones) who joined us for the first time used the hour to offer his own catalog of Augustinian confessions. I knew Deacon Jones nominally before this; I knew only that he was one of the most well-mannered gentlemen I’ve met in the shelter. After hearing Jesus’ teaching about repentance in Luke 13:1-9, he testified both to the wretchedness of his circumstances and the glory of God transfiguring him. It is easier to believe we are simul justus et peccator after hearing Deacon Jones speaking gently but intensely about the misery and mercy of homelessness: the sleeplessness, the hunger, the cold, “snapping” on the streets, being held at knifepoint; yet also praising God for surviving another day on the streets, finding plenty in spite of sinful scarcity, and stepping out on faith to break up lethal fights. His witness shames me into silence. Have I forgotten the meaning of penitence? When a truly impoverished person testifies, you get the impression that none but the poor are genuinely remorseful about failing to pray to God or read the Bible. Trust that impression. His kind of faith sharing does not happen all the time, so you must be ready to listen. It was all I could dare to do. All mortal flesh must keep silence in the presence of Christ and his saints. Deacon Jones was a saint in that hour. Looking back on that morning, I’ve concluded that it is a good thing to study the written Word, but it is a far better thing to study the man or woman who becomes a talking book, a living Word.
Second, the transgender student Mallory fell down, but she rose again. She called me early in the afternoon to apologize for deciding to quit our weekly GED tutorials, offering that her life was complicated, and she needed time to sort it out. However, less than half an hour later, she called back and changed her mind: she wanted to continue, after all. That afternoon was the most productive of all our tutorials. She was getting the hang of reading, comparing, and adding decimals despite no prior experience with anything but whole numbers! So delighted was Mallory by her accomplishment that her melancholy had all but disappeared by the end of the afternoon. I had never seen her so proud of herself! And it made me regret having to tell her I could not attend her graduation from the Moving Ahead Program on March 16 because I will be in Washington. But I know she will be waiting for me when I return: we have to work on reading comprehension and writing skills. She insisted on it.
We’ve come too far to turn back. We must go forward. The kingdom is not yet here, but it is on its way, and it graces every dream Deacon Jones, Mallory, and I have.
Boylston Street Letter #7
Continuing backtracking ... see Boylston Street Letter #4.
The week of Feb. 26-March 2, 2007
The faith sharing and Bible study group meetings have been slimly attended the last few weeks. If not for the pastoral intern from Harvard Divinity School, there would have been no Bible study on the 23rd. This past Friday one guest joined the Harvard intern and me, which was a blessing, but this guest proceeded to monopolize the discussion (unknowingly). He does brilliant exegesis; however, his tendency to read all of the Hebrew Bible and the Gospels through the lens of the book of Revelation, combined with his inability to yield to others in the group, made for a stifling and unspiritual experience on Friday. This is ironic, given this guest’s repeated affirmations of the presence of the Holy Spirit in his life! I cannot speak for the Harvard intern, but I was relieved when our hour together was over: I, for one, no longer felt suffocated.
Strange that I should have wished for this Scripture savant to be quiet, isn’t it? He could speak with authority about the Bible, yet it did not feel like he was sharing with us … it felt more like he was displaying the most precious jewels of his erudition. Impressive? Without a doubt. Inspiring? Not at all, which leads me to wonder whether his is genuine authority. He could communicate conviction, but he could not communicate faith. If I were not already a Christian, I would not have tolerated his holding forth, and I sure would not have been moved toward belief by this guest’s exposition of Scripture.
This reminds me of what another guest, a keen observer of public affairs, told me earlier that morning: for the last 40 years, progressives have been the best recruiters for the far right, because the vehemence with which they promote their generally sensible causes scares away many sympathetic citizens. Progressive politics puts off the people who can and ought to be considered part of the “grass roots” but who are consistently talked down to or chastised or ignored entirely. I must confess that it discouraged me to hear him say that, and I countered him with this question: what about the need to speak a prophetic word for the common good, disturbing as it may be? He did not reply directly to this question, but he stated in words similar to mine that institutions which claim to promote the common good must aim at putting power to work instead of preserving their own power. In other words, if the institutions are not prophetic, the prophetic words of those serving in those institutions will come to naught, especially the words of the zealots.
How I wish to teach as one having authority, and not as the scribes! How difficult it seems some days to know just how to speak radically, lovingly, and constructively! You want God’s word and will to be accepted, but you know the sacred history of the law and the prophets tells you otherwise. The Christ-event assures you God’s word and will cannot fail to be fulfilled, and this I believe. Yet the silence and the violence….
The week of Feb. 26-March 2, 2007
The faith sharing and Bible study group meetings have been slimly attended the last few weeks. If not for the pastoral intern from Harvard Divinity School, there would have been no Bible study on the 23rd. This past Friday one guest joined the Harvard intern and me, which was a blessing, but this guest proceeded to monopolize the discussion (unknowingly). He does brilliant exegesis; however, his tendency to read all of the Hebrew Bible and the Gospels through the lens of the book of Revelation, combined with his inability to yield to others in the group, made for a stifling and unspiritual experience on Friday. This is ironic, given this guest’s repeated affirmations of the presence of the Holy Spirit in his life! I cannot speak for the Harvard intern, but I was relieved when our hour together was over: I, for one, no longer felt suffocated.
Strange that I should have wished for this Scripture savant to be quiet, isn’t it? He could speak with authority about the Bible, yet it did not feel like he was sharing with us … it felt more like he was displaying the most precious jewels of his erudition. Impressive? Without a doubt. Inspiring? Not at all, which leads me to wonder whether his is genuine authority. He could communicate conviction, but he could not communicate faith. If I were not already a Christian, I would not have tolerated his holding forth, and I sure would not have been moved toward belief by this guest’s exposition of Scripture.
This reminds me of what another guest, a keen observer of public affairs, told me earlier that morning: for the last 40 years, progressives have been the best recruiters for the far right, because the vehemence with which they promote their generally sensible causes scares away many sympathetic citizens. Progressive politics puts off the people who can and ought to be considered part of the “grass roots” but who are consistently talked down to or chastised or ignored entirely. I must confess that it discouraged me to hear him say that, and I countered him with this question: what about the need to speak a prophetic word for the common good, disturbing as it may be? He did not reply directly to this question, but he stated in words similar to mine that institutions which claim to promote the common good must aim at putting power to work instead of preserving their own power. In other words, if the institutions are not prophetic, the prophetic words of those serving in those institutions will come to naught, especially the words of the zealots.
How I wish to teach as one having authority, and not as the scribes! How difficult it seems some days to know just how to speak radically, lovingly, and constructively! You want God’s word and will to be accepted, but you know the sacred history of the law and the prophets tells you otherwise. The Christ-event assures you God’s word and will cannot fail to be fulfilled, and this I believe. Yet the silence and the violence….
Boylston Street Letter #6
Continuing backtracking ... see Boylston Street Letter #4.
The week of Feb. 19-23, 2007
Some days at the shelter it happens that you have to minister to the masses, leaving no time for one-to-one encounters with those who need your help or those who may be in a position to help you in your hour of need. Lately I have regretted being in a space where it has not been possible to have what I consider to be pastoral conversations. But upon further reflection what I think I mean is that I would like to have some more spiritual encounters and some more spirit-building conversations before this ministry is concluded. May the disciplines of the Lenten season sharpen my senses so that I might attend to my duties at the shelter with renewed awareness of the opportunities for a meeting with the image of Christ in any face, fair or homely. These moments are nearer than we think. On Friday there came two moments like this.
For the first time, none of the guests came to our hour of faith sharing and Bible study. It may have been a fluke that all the regulars (I use that word loosely) were not to be found around the atrium or the day center. Or if they were present on other floors of the building, they could not be bothered to return to the day center. Certainly it was no help that the elevators to the mezzanine were once again out of order, once more because of a fire in the trash room on one of the top floors. Perhaps it is again time to spread the news about this group by word of mouth. Whatever the reasons for guests’ absence, not all was lost. Another pastoral intern from Harvard Divinity School, who has platooned with me at the hospitality desk on Fridays, joined me for the hour of prayer and reflection and discussion. We lifted up in prayer the men and women who have attended our meetings before and hoped that good things were preventing them from attending, such as new employment, educational opportunities, or even new housing. My partner from Harvard is fresh-faced, good-natured, and far more imperturbable than me in the setting in which we minister. He arrived at St. Francis House last year in mid-autumn, and his duties have largely overlapped mine. It may surprise you to hear me confess that, at first, I felt like he was encroaching upon my turf! How territorial! How ridiculous! But since then I have been humbled by his gracious affability, and now I readily seek his presence at the Bible study. By his participation Friday, we were able to keep this chain of weekly gatherings in Christ’s name unbroken. God bless him for that.
God also bless Mallory and me as we struggle together through our Friday afternoon math tutorials. Again she was feeling less than her best, coughing and hacking out a chest cold. She arrived late and in a difficult mood, haggling with several telephone operators and physicians’ secretaries to renew some vital prescription medication in vain. In spite of Mallory’s churlish feelings, we slogged through two hours of word problems and broke through the darkness into some place of light. I can remember the exact moment: we were practicing the fifth in a series of arithmetic word problems, I was half-asleep on my feet, and Mallory in her melancholy was insisting that there was not enough information in the question to make a solution possible. I told her to think again and look carefully. There was a minute of silence, then, in a voice more buoyant than I had yet heard that afternoon, she announced that she had figured out what to do. She was pleased to tell me that it took her a little while longer to work it out, but she discovered what she needed to do. The last fifteen minutes of our tutorial were the happiest and most productive of them all. Whether Mallory continues with this Friday afternoon remediation has yet to be determined because her life is very much touch and go, not least because she is a transgender person. I hope we may keep going forward, if only for the fact that I felt a precious lightness of being at that moment when she understood what the problem was and how to solve it. She felt so proud of herself, and it made me care for her, genuinely care for her, for the first time. She made a breakthrough, but so did I.
The week of Feb. 19-23, 2007
Some days at the shelter it happens that you have to minister to the masses, leaving no time for one-to-one encounters with those who need your help or those who may be in a position to help you in your hour of need. Lately I have regretted being in a space where it has not been possible to have what I consider to be pastoral conversations. But upon further reflection what I think I mean is that I would like to have some more spiritual encounters and some more spirit-building conversations before this ministry is concluded. May the disciplines of the Lenten season sharpen my senses so that I might attend to my duties at the shelter with renewed awareness of the opportunities for a meeting with the image of Christ in any face, fair or homely. These moments are nearer than we think. On Friday there came two moments like this.
For the first time, none of the guests came to our hour of faith sharing and Bible study. It may have been a fluke that all the regulars (I use that word loosely) were not to be found around the atrium or the day center. Or if they were present on other floors of the building, they could not be bothered to return to the day center. Certainly it was no help that the elevators to the mezzanine were once again out of order, once more because of a fire in the trash room on one of the top floors. Perhaps it is again time to spread the news about this group by word of mouth. Whatever the reasons for guests’ absence, not all was lost. Another pastoral intern from Harvard Divinity School, who has platooned with me at the hospitality desk on Fridays, joined me for the hour of prayer and reflection and discussion. We lifted up in prayer the men and women who have attended our meetings before and hoped that good things were preventing them from attending, such as new employment, educational opportunities, or even new housing. My partner from Harvard is fresh-faced, good-natured, and far more imperturbable than me in the setting in which we minister. He arrived at St. Francis House last year in mid-autumn, and his duties have largely overlapped mine. It may surprise you to hear me confess that, at first, I felt like he was encroaching upon my turf! How territorial! How ridiculous! But since then I have been humbled by his gracious affability, and now I readily seek his presence at the Bible study. By his participation Friday, we were able to keep this chain of weekly gatherings in Christ’s name unbroken. God bless him for that.
God also bless Mallory and me as we struggle together through our Friday afternoon math tutorials. Again she was feeling less than her best, coughing and hacking out a chest cold. She arrived late and in a difficult mood, haggling with several telephone operators and physicians’ secretaries to renew some vital prescription medication in vain. In spite of Mallory’s churlish feelings, we slogged through two hours of word problems and broke through the darkness into some place of light. I can remember the exact moment: we were practicing the fifth in a series of arithmetic word problems, I was half-asleep on my feet, and Mallory in her melancholy was insisting that there was not enough information in the question to make a solution possible. I told her to think again and look carefully. There was a minute of silence, then, in a voice more buoyant than I had yet heard that afternoon, she announced that she had figured out what to do. She was pleased to tell me that it took her a little while longer to work it out, but she discovered what she needed to do. The last fifteen minutes of our tutorial were the happiest and most productive of them all. Whether Mallory continues with this Friday afternoon remediation has yet to be determined because her life is very much touch and go, not least because she is a transgender person. I hope we may keep going forward, if only for the fact that I felt a precious lightness of being at that moment when she understood what the problem was and how to solve it. She felt so proud of herself, and it made me care for her, genuinely care for her, for the first time. She made a breakthrough, but so did I.
Boylston Street Letter #5
Continuing backtracking ... see Boylston Street Letter #4.
The week of Feb. 12-16, 2007
The Moving Ahead Program celebrated the graduation of its 69th class on Friday, and I attended the ceremony at the Boston Center for Adult Education on 5 Commonwealth Ave. I walked there from the shelter with Mallory, the transgender student whom I was supposed to tutor that afternoon. We decided it would be a better use of our time to cheer on the men and women who were stepping out of the shadows of shame, disenfranchisement, and hopelessness into new lives.
As usual, the testimonies from the graduates were moving and steeped in gratitude. Several staff members and current MAP students paid tribute to these persevering graduates, and even Mallory stepped forward to give thanks for their example. A small but sumptuously catered reception followed, the kind of banquet that Jesus saw fit to use as a metaphor for the reign of God in heaven and earth.
Here, at these graduations, you see hope fulfilled. However, I felt strangely detached from the proceedings. Maybe it’s because I work at the periphery of this program and have not been touched by these children of God. Maybe it’s because I was thinking about school, my classes, and my love life. Maybe it’s because I felt sleepy.
Maybe it’s because while these men and women are moving ahead, I’m also moving on.
First of all, I am eager to plan a course of study for a Ph.D. or Th.D. in theology. Second of all, the novelty of ministering to homeless persons passed a while ago; and, in recent days, so has the feeling of guilt for not doing enough to lighten the lives of the least of Jesus’ brothers and sisters. The welfare of the homeless and the heartbroken does not depend on me. I have allowed myself to “let go and let God.” However, sanguinity poses its own risks. If anything, I am concerned that the familiarity of the shelter will breed complacency and inattentive behavior. Already there are indications of obliviousness in my morning shift. Sometimes my nose is stuck in a newspaper while guests wait at the hospitality desk for their daily bread; sometimes I linger in the photo room, where we produce guest identification cards, to check e-mail. One more confession: While I was running an errand for the shelter last Monday morning, receiving and delivering a donation of soaps, shampoos, and moisturizers I had secured for the shower room and clothing distribution, I was thinking about how much of a relief it was not to have to staff the hospitality desk during the peak hour of craziness.
“Only, we were to be mindful of the poor, which is the very thing I was eager to do.” When this internship started, I could not think of any better way to use my time on Mondays and Fridays. Now I can think half a dozen things that are good and needful and that have little to do with the poor, at least those of St. Francis House. (I decided to take President’s Day off.) Is it God’s will leading mine, or merely my own will?
The week of Feb. 12-16, 2007
The Moving Ahead Program celebrated the graduation of its 69th class on Friday, and I attended the ceremony at the Boston Center for Adult Education on 5 Commonwealth Ave. I walked there from the shelter with Mallory, the transgender student whom I was supposed to tutor that afternoon. We decided it would be a better use of our time to cheer on the men and women who were stepping out of the shadows of shame, disenfranchisement, and hopelessness into new lives.
As usual, the testimonies from the graduates were moving and steeped in gratitude. Several staff members and current MAP students paid tribute to these persevering graduates, and even Mallory stepped forward to give thanks for their example. A small but sumptuously catered reception followed, the kind of banquet that Jesus saw fit to use as a metaphor for the reign of God in heaven and earth.
Here, at these graduations, you see hope fulfilled. However, I felt strangely detached from the proceedings. Maybe it’s because I work at the periphery of this program and have not been touched by these children of God. Maybe it’s because I was thinking about school, my classes, and my love life. Maybe it’s because I felt sleepy.
Maybe it’s because while these men and women are moving ahead, I’m also moving on.
First of all, I am eager to plan a course of study for a Ph.D. or Th.D. in theology. Second of all, the novelty of ministering to homeless persons passed a while ago; and, in recent days, so has the feeling of guilt for not doing enough to lighten the lives of the least of Jesus’ brothers and sisters. The welfare of the homeless and the heartbroken does not depend on me. I have allowed myself to “let go and let God.” However, sanguinity poses its own risks. If anything, I am concerned that the familiarity of the shelter will breed complacency and inattentive behavior. Already there are indications of obliviousness in my morning shift. Sometimes my nose is stuck in a newspaper while guests wait at the hospitality desk for their daily bread; sometimes I linger in the photo room, where we produce guest identification cards, to check e-mail. One more confession: While I was running an errand for the shelter last Monday morning, receiving and delivering a donation of soaps, shampoos, and moisturizers I had secured for the shower room and clothing distribution, I was thinking about how much of a relief it was not to have to staff the hospitality desk during the peak hour of craziness.
“Only, we were to be mindful of the poor, which is the very thing I was eager to do.” When this internship started, I could not think of any better way to use my time on Mondays and Fridays. Now I can think half a dozen things that are good and needful and that have little to do with the poor, at least those of St. Francis House. (I decided to take President’s Day off.) Is it God’s will leading mine, or merely my own will?
Boylston Street Letter #4
While living simply and living well the last five weeks, I have been derelict in my blogging duties. Let me start backtracking, with correspondence from my ministry to the homeless at St. Francis House.
The week of Feb. 5-9, 2007
Whenever the weather takes a sharp turn for the colder, I know I’m about to take ill. Moreover, my immunity always seems to be its lowest at exactly this time of the season: I’ve caught more colds in the second week of February than at any other time of the year. Wednesday evening I came down with a sore throat and general fatigue, and I decided not to risk making my condition worse by working at the shelter Friday.
No surprise there. However, this was the first time I begged off my duties at St. Francis House, and it did surprise me to discover how many people were going to be affected by my absence. There was the day center supervisor, who was now going to be one hand short at the hospitality desk; Mallory, the transgender student in the Moving Ahead Program, whom I had just begun to tutor for the GED exam, plus two others I was about to begin tutoring Friday; the MAP instructor who referred these students to me; Brother Dan, who sets aside time every Friday afternoon for a debriefing; and Professor Knust, who was scheduled to visit the day center at its most active. I placed five separate phone calls on Thursday morning to excuse myself to make sure I left no one in the lurch.
But there’s one group of people I couldn’t telephone: our guests, especially those who attend the Friday faith sharing and Bible study hour. How do you suppose they felt? Or how about those guests who take comfort knowing that on Friday morning they’ll see that familiar furry face ready to hand out razors for their prickly faces? I placed my sick calls out of courtesy and respect for those who rely on me; if only I could have extended the same direct courtesy and respect to the guests. When you’re down and out, you’re out of sight and mind.
That Friday I took time to recuperate and finished reading a textbook on pastoral care and counseling. The author, who likened pastoral caregivers to gardeners cultivating the “ground” of a faith community, emphasized the importance of self-care for caregivers, lest they suffer burnout. I do not take issue with the author on this point, but I note with mild regret that it was disarmingly easy to decide to take the day off. Moreover, I do not trust the feeling of relief that swept over me Thursday morning, which could be worded thus: “Thank God I don’t have deal with the homeless today.” Seriously, I was glad the shelter’s problems were not to be my problems that day.
Is it okay to feel like that? Do you call that good pastoral self-care? I could have reported to the shelter. I’m not burned out. I didn’t feel that bad Friday morning, certainly not much worse than most working-class people who don’t have the luxury of taking sick days. In short, I question the sincerity of my motive and the purity of my intent.
I could end with one of any number of Gospel proof-texts to vindicate my skepticism or chastise my self-loathing, but that won’t do. Better to remember that Monday is another day. The poor will still be there, and they will neither condemn nor praise us. I pray Jesus Christ will still be with us.
The week of Feb. 5-9, 2007
Whenever the weather takes a sharp turn for the colder, I know I’m about to take ill. Moreover, my immunity always seems to be its lowest at exactly this time of the season: I’ve caught more colds in the second week of February than at any other time of the year. Wednesday evening I came down with a sore throat and general fatigue, and I decided not to risk making my condition worse by working at the shelter Friday.
No surprise there. However, this was the first time I begged off my duties at St. Francis House, and it did surprise me to discover how many people were going to be affected by my absence. There was the day center supervisor, who was now going to be one hand short at the hospitality desk; Mallory, the transgender student in the Moving Ahead Program, whom I had just begun to tutor for the GED exam, plus two others I was about to begin tutoring Friday; the MAP instructor who referred these students to me; Brother Dan, who sets aside time every Friday afternoon for a debriefing; and Professor Knust, who was scheduled to visit the day center at its most active. I placed five separate phone calls on Thursday morning to excuse myself to make sure I left no one in the lurch.
But there’s one group of people I couldn’t telephone: our guests, especially those who attend the Friday faith sharing and Bible study hour. How do you suppose they felt? Or how about those guests who take comfort knowing that on Friday morning they’ll see that familiar furry face ready to hand out razors for their prickly faces? I placed my sick calls out of courtesy and respect for those who rely on me; if only I could have extended the same direct courtesy and respect to the guests. When you’re down and out, you’re out of sight and mind.
That Friday I took time to recuperate and finished reading a textbook on pastoral care and counseling. The author, who likened pastoral caregivers to gardeners cultivating the “ground” of a faith community, emphasized the importance of self-care for caregivers, lest they suffer burnout. I do not take issue with the author on this point, but I note with mild regret that it was disarmingly easy to decide to take the day off. Moreover, I do not trust the feeling of relief that swept over me Thursday morning, which could be worded thus: “Thank God I don’t have deal with the homeless today.” Seriously, I was glad the shelter’s problems were not to be my problems that day.
Is it okay to feel like that? Do you call that good pastoral self-care? I could have reported to the shelter. I’m not burned out. I didn’t feel that bad Friday morning, certainly not much worse than most working-class people who don’t have the luxury of taking sick days. In short, I question the sincerity of my motive and the purity of my intent.
I could end with one of any number of Gospel proof-texts to vindicate my skepticism or chastise my self-loathing, but that won’t do. Better to remember that Monday is another day. The poor will still be there, and they will neither condemn nor praise us. I pray Jesus Christ will still be with us.
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