Advent3: A Mother’s Lament for the Children that Never Were

I am an old woman named after my mother

My old man is another child that's grown old

If dreams were lightning thunder was desire

This old house would have burnt down a long time ago*

I am an old woman . . . have been for a long time now . . . so long that if a baby came my way, I’d Sarah-laugh in God’s face.  Babies are for the young.  And I haven’t been young since, well, I can’t even remember, now, can I?

And whenever I’m tempted to forget just how old I am, I get a look at my old man . . . now there’s a face worn by time.  I do love the old coot, but where did all those wrinkles and folds and creases come from?  I wish I remembered.

We had so many dreams . . . all with child faces . . . our house would be overrun with them.  No children came, and so our dreams died.

Make me an angel that flies from Montgom'ry

Make me a poster of an old rodeo

Just give me one thing that I can hold on to

To believe in this living is just a hard way to go*

I don’t have much left to hold on to. . . without the babies I should have had, life is just too hard.  

How is it, I sometimes wonder (although not so much anymore), that I can see their faces, know their lives, these little people of our loins who never were?  Where, oh where, are my babies?  How I wish I knew.  Did they find other homes?  Better mothers?  Oh Lord, why give me this longing to never be fulfilled?  I never thought you a cruel God . . . until now.

I am an old woman. . . have been for a long time now. . . the children of others tease me with their smiling, winning ways . . . I reach out my arms for them only to have mothers scoop them out from under me . . . and no, Lord, I would not laugh . . . I am not Sarah . . . I am Elizabeth – satisfaction of God . . . well, Lord, you may be satisfied with me, but I am far from satisfied with you . . . there – I said it . . . will you strike me?  Sometimes I wish you would . . . for this infernal, eternal – silence – mixed with my own longing, does drive me mad . . . 

And where, I would very much like to know, is my miracle?  My Hannah’s promise fulfilled?  My angel?  

It’s not that I’m not grateful, but he appeared to the Old Man?  Really?  Am I not the one to bear this son?  Where, then, Satisfying One, was my angel?  Most days, in my joy, I do forget this slight, this favoritism.  Most days.  This is not one of those days.  John is gone to the wilderness.  I don’t know that I’ll see him again.  And I do so fear what will become of him, he speaks out so.  It would have been nice on days like this to have had an angel memory to hold on to.  That’s all I’m saying – it would have been nice.

Please do not think me ungrateful.  For this gift of a son, I am grateful.  For the elimination of my shame, I am grateful.

But now I am a mother and I know what I did not know before.  Now I know that my own heart does reside outside my body.  It resides with him.  And all will not be well with him.  Will it?  

So yes, an encouraging angel memory would have been nice.

I’m going to need some bucking up in these days.

So all I’m saying is that it would have been nice.

Luke 1.7; 24-25; & 39-45 (NRSV)

____________________
*Lyrics from Make Me an Angel, by John Prine.

Blood-Dripping Tears: A Florida Lament

blood-dripping tears

quench the ground’s

lust for such things

as all is silence - for

death is silent and

only the dead waited

those with eyes to see - 

their dying already

a done thing - waiting

only for living tears to

begin their commencing

turning into salt and light

in the cosmic way of things

even as earth-bound critters

solidify into something

hard and angry, for who

cannot be angry beholding

such horror? 

God

_____________________
Written in response to the news of a grandfather killing his daughter and all her children – his grand-children, in Florida, wondering and worrying about those who found their bodies – their reactions, their internalizations, for how can they not carry hard places with such images residing alongside the memories of favorite meals, Christmas with family, and all that is good?  Only, I think, with, through, alongside, God.

Rachels Mourning

Posted by the Raqqa Media Center of the Islamic State group,
a Syrian opposition group, broadcast by AP

I see the picture this morning of a young masked man wielding a knife in the air over the heads of   captives and I am moved by his bare arm, his wrist, at his evident youth and ponder his own mother, somewhere and wonder if she recognizes that wrist and imagine what she might want to say to him, this beloved flesh of her own flesh and recall the mourning of Rachel, who will not be comforted, for the loss of all her sons and daughters, a horror wrapped in a tragedy that seems to know no end.

***

Your wrist is so small,
so clear
so young
so blemish free –
in your hand
the knife looks
like a toy
the kind you might
have gotten in a
Cracker Jack box
if Cracker Jacks
still had prizes
of any size to them

and that black stocking cap?
it’s too early for Halloween
don’t you know that?
and I know it’s got to be hot
under there – it’s 100 degrees outside

so wee man, why don’t you
put down your toys – you know
I don’t like it when you play
kill-the-whatevers
and I don’t care if the whole
neighborhood is in on the game
I am your mother and I do not
like it and if all your friends
would jump off a bridge, would
you jump too?  Well?  Would you?

and then my true worry begins
as I look to this imaginary child
of mine and realize he probably
would – jump too – and then
where will we be?

So, no, you cannot go back
outside after lunch – there will
be no jumping off bridges for
you today little boy - do you
hear me?  I am your mother!
Get back in this house right now!
It’s not safe out there for you.
And now I must fear it’s not
safe out there for them either.

Don’t you dare look at me like
that with that stupid mask on –
I am not afraid of you –
you look ridiculous
and I am not having it –
do you hear me?
Don’t you dare pretend
you don’t.  Look at me!

When did you become this machine
of rage?  When did doing unto others
before they even get the chance of
thinking of doing unto you become
our family’s creed?  When did this
happen?  While I wasn’t looking?
Well, I am your mother and I
do not like it one bit.  This is
most definitely not how I
raised you, so you get back in this
house right now!  I mean it!

Don’t you understand?
They will kill you.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not even tomorrow.
But they will kill you for this.
And I will become the mother
of a terrorist and the neighbors
will look on me with horror,
spawner of Satan that they will
believe me to be – that, or pity
and I cannot tell you which
is worse – you bring me shame
and I cannot endure it, so if
you’re going to kill them, you’d
better begin with me, for it is
me you are killing – the one who
gave you birth, gave you life

Where is my little boy?
The one I tucked in to bed
with laughter and stories
and one more glass of mai
and ‘oommee, I’m scared  – 
there’s a monster under
my bed’ and I wonder when
you went from being scared
of monsters to becoming one

and I cry out to the God that
you are not a monster, you are
my boy and I beg the God to
spare you your foolishness
and even as I mutter my
desperate prayer with its
obligatory  inshallah, I do
not mean it – in my heart
of hearts, for I cannot conceive
that any of this would be the God’s
will – for you, for me, for them,
for any of us – you must end this
for it is not yet too late – it will
be soon, but not yet, so please,

[I know the world has hurt
you and I have not kept you
safe from it and they see you
as a monster which tempts
you to become what they see
and it is not right and I know
you think you have no hope
and this is the only way and
it is just, so you’ve been told
by the men who know better
as they keep their own safe
distance from the bombs and
guns while they send you –
a child – and I know you feel
inside yourself you are a man
and yearn to do something for
your people, yourself and I
know the hurt and the shame
you carry within you, but son,
I also know this is not you –
who so tenderly loves the fresh
shoots of the garden in spring-
time and the baby lambs as
they nuzzle your cheek and
your little sister who needs
you to protect her and show
her our ways and this is not
you – their words not yours
– their lies given as dreams
not for you – I know you are
hurt and think the pain and
the injustice will never leave
your heart unless you do this
thing but I am your mother and
I carry the wisdom of ages inside
me and I know too that when you
kill their children, it will not
bring ours back and you will
sorrow but then it will be too
late and you will be one of them
the thing you never meant to
be – the thing that killed your own
for the wisdom of ages knows that
when you kill them, you kill
your self, you kill us, and your
hurt will not go away – it will
explode into the stars and it will
never go away because you will
become the hurt]

I beg you, my son, put down
the toys of war you have picked
up and come back in the house
and I will fix you an iftar worthy
of a king – or a little boy come
home for good – please, my
precious prodigal, do not do
this thing – I, your mother, am
begging you with my tears –
Do.  Not.  Do.  This.  Thing.

I Can Only Imagine

When tornadoes and tsunamis and gunmen interrupt the world, it is the children who capture our hearts and imaginations, we who stand on the other side of the dividing line that is ever present between we who have lost and we who have not.  Every parent’s fear became reality for too many today and today and today and a dividing line stands between us, for we on the ‘safe side’ of the line can only dress rehearse the horror, as if it were a talisman of protection to imagine the unimaginable.  For those whose children have died, sorrow.  For those whose have not, embrace of the day, for there is no safety in tomorrow.  And I, still on this side of the line, can only imagine.

There you stand

on the other side

of the line that

divides us –

always will –

until it doesn’t

That line of before

and after where

the beforeness of

you imagines that

it will never be

that you are me

that place of pride

where you stand

with your child

safely at your side

looking with just

a bit of fear over

the line at me –

who just a moment

ago stood with you

but now –

now I can never go

back to the land

of certainty

the land of the 

smug unaware

claiming 

not me

not me

the other side

where a child

stands at my side

no longer

is lonely territory

the other side

is the screaming

place and there is

no comfort and you

would not come to

me even if you

could – I would not

ask you to – it would

be too cruel to ask

that you stand with

me bereft of your

children

Rachel is not the 

only one who weeps

you know

It's Tax Day: A Lament

It’s April 15, the deadline in the United States for the filing of individual tax returns and the annual settling of accounts between the citizenry and its government.

At heart, I am a tax protestor.  Not because I don’t want to pay nor because I quibble with the stewardship of our monies (both are true of me but not my primary motivator when it comes to federal taxes).

Rather, I am a pacifist work-in-progress (daily failing to live up to my own ideal).  Thus do I begrudge the military dollars we as a nation spend.

When the war waged against the people of Iraq was in high gear, AFSC (American Friends Service Committee) had a white paper that noted the amount of the US federal budget dedicated to military spending: 42 cents of every tax dollar.

Today I received an e-mail from Peace Action, which states in part, “As we file our taxes, fifty-seven cents of every dollar spent in the annual discretionary budget feeds the Pentagon.”

It may be a question of wording.  I certainly hope so.  I hope that the already large proportion of federal tax dollars dedicated to the military has not increased in the last ten years.

Logic would dictate that it’s far cheaper to not be engaged in war than to be.  And the US maintains that it is no longer engaged in war in Iraq and is winding down its involvement in Afghanistan.

If this is true, why would the Pentagon require yet more of the federal pie, both in raw dollars and in the percentage of the total?

Presumably, the replacement of the materials of war has been an on-going effort since 2002, so it’s not as if we must start from scratch to replace tanks and planes and bullets expended in Iraq and Afghanistan, for surely most of that work has already been done.

I suspect that what is happening is an ever-increasing remit to the military: in addition to the protection of our borders and the nefarious protection of ‘our interests’ abroad, the big money is going to things like drones, satellite surveillance, spy planes, cyber war, and whatever else anyone employed there can imagine.

Who is left to quantify the cost-benefit of the spending of these monies?

Decades ago, as he left office (shame on him for not doing something about it when he actually had the power to), then President Eisenhower warned the nation to beware of the power of the military-industrial complex.  It was an important warning and one that we as a people have continued to ignore.

It’s difficult to cut back on military bases and civilian contracts to the military sector not only because of the felt need for protection but also because the people of the nation have come to have a vested interest in their continuation by way of jobs and aid to local economies.

Prior to WWII, we were largely a nation that ramped up production of military hardware as and when needed for direct conflict rather than in anticipation thereof.  This approach helped significantly to minimize our felt need for what these industries provide.

But now, if my job is dependent upon this industry, of course I will perceive the industry as ‘essential’.  It’s almost impossible to argue against my own economic interests.  And it’s equally hard to hear any challenge on the moral front to these activities when that’s how I make my living.

Military production is a moral as well as economic compromise.  And it is costly.

And thus I am left to wonder at my more conservative Christian friends, who all too often in my view, rush to the naming of personal sin as the root cause of attacks against and the sufferings of us as a nation, but are troublingly silent in naming our collective sins, such as the sins of national hubris or pride, our collective violation of the commandments against killing another, coveting what another has, stealing (or taking by force, which is the same thing, really) from another, and failing to tell the truth, all of which we do through the offices of our military adventures around the world.

It’s tax day and I am a coward.  Thus like most of us, I will pay Caesar more than what Caesar is owed, because I am not prepared to go to prison not to.

It is tax day and my hands and my conscience too are bloody.

Murder in a Used Book Store

I love used book stores.  In fact, I love book stores of all kinds.  So it was with some sadness and frustration that I walked into a used book store in Chicago yesterday.  I was smitten with the retro post cards on offer and loved the variety of books and categories – until, that is, I came to the religion section, where in dusty aisles somewhere in Chicago, I met up with the cause of my sadness and frustration.

There were sections on Judaism, Islam, and Buddhism, but none on Christianity.

[Sigh]

I forget how, in some circles, it’s ‘popular’ not only to not believe, but to act as if Christianity in fact does not exist.

Next to these stacks was a section entitled ‘theology’.  That’s where the Christian stuff was.

Fair enough, you might say.

But it was also the stack where the books on atheism were.

Christianity and atheism (should I capitalize that?  I really don’t know) side by side as differing ‘theologies’.

[Repeat sigh]

Book store owners should know better: after all, books – the cataloguing and organizing as well as the selling – are their business.

And atheism is not a theology – a ‘word about God’ – it is, if you will, a ‘word about not-God’ – hardly the same thing at all.

I guess I would have put the books on atheism in the adjacent philosophy category.

And isn’t it interesting that of all the faiths represented by the books in that store that Christianity would be present, but not by name?

We are a culture of many experts.

With our freedoms comes the belief that all opinions are equal.

Well, from where I’m standing, they’re not.

I am not, for example, an expert on atheism.

I have some opinions about the non-belief in a deity, but they aren’t particularly well-informed ones.  After all, it’s a view to which I do not subscribe, so there’s only so much I can know about it.

The not-so-veiled commentary on Christianity that the refusal to name it constitutes in that book store strikes me as an uninformed opinion, as does the inclusion of the atheist works among the Christian works.  After all, atheism books were not included among the Buddhist, Islam and Judaism works.

I argued a bit with myself, but ultimately, I put back the post cards and left the shop empty handed.  It just didn’t feel as if the owner and I should be doing business, even the anonymous business of buying a post card, together.  The fact was that I was just too sad to want to anymore, leaving a little of my love on the floor as I walked out.

All opinions are not created equal.

And neither are all book stores.


___________________
SIDE NOTE TO THE ATHEISTS AMONG YOU I am not one of those Christians who believe ‘Happy holidays’ greetings mean you’re trying to murder Jesus.  And when I consider the marginalization of Christianity within the American culture, I ponder it from the point of view of where I stand, as in ‘what are we doing wrong’ rather than in blaming others.  Moreover, the pastor in me took a walk yesterday in front of that store while waiting for my friends to conclude their business, during which I pondered on the failure of my own particular brand of faith to have much to offer others and wondered why.  I know there are a number of answers, all of which sadden me greatly, particularly because it (this faith I call my own) has been such a source of comfort and goodness, rescue and safe haven, for me.  But I daily accept that may not be true for you.  And I cringe probably as often as you do at the statements and behaviors of some of my brethren in the faith.  But even more, I suspect, to the secular humanists among you, truth and facts matter greatly.  And while it is a fact that Christianity has done great harm, it is also true that it has done great good.  Please don’t do the same history rewriting you see among some Christians to try to write out that faith from our shared past.  Please don’t confuse the facts with your opinions.  It’s neither attractive nor accurate on either side of that proverbial fence.  An example: in doing peace work among folk of no faith, MLK’s contributions are characterized entirely as a social (as opposed to a religious or faith) movement.  Omitting the faith element from that period in history creates a false narrative whereby Christian slave owners oppressed those they enslaved without the counter- (and also true) narrative of those oppressed claiming the same faith as their own and resurrecting its own peace, justice and freedom narratives.  If you don’t tell of the faith of many who participated in the Civil Rights movement, you recreate it into your own image, making it something it wasn’t.  Sorry to preach – occupational hazard, I guess.

SermonCliffNote: Geography of the Heart

Geography of the Heart

Scripture:  Luke 13.31-35 (NRSV):  Just then some Pharisees came up and said, “Run for your life! Herod’s on the hunt. He’s out to kill you!”  Jesus said, “Tell that fox that I’ve no time for him right now. Today and tomorrow I’m busy clearing out the demons and healing the sick; the third day I’m wrapping things up. Besides, it’s not proper for a prophet to come to a bad end outside Jerusalem.

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, killer of prophets, abuser of the messengers of God!  How often I’ve longed to gather your children, gather your children like a hen, Her brood safe under her wings—but you refused and turned away!  And now it’s too late:  You won’t see me again until the day you say, ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of God.’”

***

Jesus invokes the image of a hen protecting her baby chicks in the night as he stands on the hills outside Jerusalem and shouts his broken heart into its valley, with no answer save the echo of his own voice.

For Jesus is standing in that horror-filled moment just before the crash, screaming his terror at what is to happen to his people, his children, who, without him, careen in front of the oncoming truck of their own destruction.

We parents have all had those moments . . . car keys given with strict instructions only to spend hours in worry, knowing in our heart of hearts that speed limits are being ignored, safety warnings overlooked.

Like the girl taking the car out by herself for the first time, the people of Jerusalem don’t even have the imagination to see in dreams what Jesus knows.  And it breaks his heart.

All he wants to do is enfold them in his love and keep them safe – even and especially from themselves.  What is he to do?  What is any parent to do?

For now, he will bide his time.  He will wait.  And wait.  And wait.  And when the time comes, he will step in front of the truck for them.  But until then, he waits and hopes it will be enough, sure that it isn’t.

Jesus has come to the heart of his country, to its capital city, to bring himself and all he has to offer for her protection and well-being, but before he can even step one foot inside her gates, he’s already being sent away, because Herod would rather risk the wrath of God than hear about the coming storm.  And as Herod went, so too will Jerusalem go, sheep following the wrong shepherd, or more truly, no shepherd at all.

Jesus reacts as a panicked, broken-hearted parent, watching the inevitable unfold before his very eyes.

The hen image, then, is not a sweet mother moment; no – this is the frustrated terror of the tigress confounded by her inability to protect her new born cubs from the swooping bird of prey. It’s the prayer mantra of the father handing over the car keys for the first time – please, please, please, please.

Jesus is not speaking with the voice of the angry father when you get home too late.  This is the terrified voice of the frightened father worrying and weeping into the night.  And it, this weeping, is for us.  God has given us the car keys and is begging us, pleading with us, to be careful.

Yes, he’ll be angry if we get home late or worse, wreck the car.  But it’s the anger of love – a love that can sadly and all too easily imagine what we cannot even dream of.

Listen and hear the words of your pleading, cajoling, begging father . . . please be careful . . . please!  I know what can happen if you aren’t.  Please let me protect you . . .please listen to me . . . please.

The Streets Aren't Safe

“God lives here.  The streets are safe.”  So says The Message’s version of Psalm 46.

But they aren’t.

The streets aren’t safe.

So how can we proclaim that they are?

It’s an either/or proposition, right?

Right?

I’m not so sure.

We need new words for the both-andedness of life.

Words like unsafesafe or safeunsafe or the unness of safeness.

Words to grab hold of reality: that things are safe and unsafe all at once – unsafe for these human bodies, which are so very vulnerable to all sorts of trouble, misfortune and tragedy . . . safe for the true state of things, which never depends on what happens to this body – but does.

Words that recognize that what happens to our bodies matters and that the love that happens in all the small moments of life is as big and bigger than the walls falling down around.

Both are true.  Both are real.

Tragedy happens.

Love happens too.

Even, and perhaps especially, amidst the tragedy.

For God is there.

And wherever God is, there is love.

Caring, regretting, sorrowing, rejoicing, love.

Where was God on the Friday no one would dare call Good?

Right there – taking the bullet too . . . holding the wee tiny hands . . . weeping . . . wrestling . . . screaming.

Why doesn’t God protect us from our worst selves?

I wish I knew.

Mourning Connecticut: The Rules for Living in a War Zone*

I cannot
bear it
how will
they?

We are
monsters

it is time
we stopped
pretending to
anything else

it is time
we admit
that and act
accordingly

for if we were
honest about
who we are

we would teach
our children
the things they
need to know
when living in
a war zone --

how to duck
and take cover

how to roll in
a tight ball
with arms
covering to protect
against head shots

what to do when
taken hostage –
don’t look the
shooter in the
eye – just keep
your head down
and try to be as
invisible as you
can – either that
or try to make
him (and what
do we do to our
boys that they
can become this?)
love you – see you,
really see you –
no – better to just
try to be invisible
– if your small
self isn’t enough
for him to love you,
what chance have you?

how to be very
very quiet and still
in the face of real
danger – blending
into the background –
like the prey you are

how, once the shooting
starts, to play dead

how to run –
not in a straight
line, but zigzag
so you’re harder
to get a bead on

why, oh why,
do we not teach
them how to
survive a war
zone?

For that is
where they
live

___________
*It is perhaps foolish or even dangerous to vent one's feelings in the wake of tragedy, for it is only raw emotion that can speak at such times.  While God is not mentioned by name here, this is actually a form of prayer -- lament.  I have no other language now.