Ash Wednesday: Freedom Song

Art: Flying Edna

 

 

 

Remember that you are dust and to dust, you shall return.

Later on today, I will impose ashes on the foreheads of those who are ancient of days and live in what used to be known as "Nursing Homes" but are now called "Extended Care Facilities" (ECF) or "Long Term Care Facilities" (LTCF).

They have long ago moved from - and some have long forgotten - the homes they once lived in, and loved in, and made love in, and birthed and raised children in, and paced the floors one interminable long night, and cooked fabulous meals in, and celebrated holidays and holy days in, and wept in and laughed in and cursed in and sang in.

And now, they share a room no bigger than their former living room with a stranger who is also ancient of days, who cries out in the middle of the night for her children, or his comrades on the battlefield, or just simply, "Help me. Help me. Help me." until their voices are hoarse, yet they continue in a whisper until the light of a new day filters in their room.

Maybe that's not so much the cry of the demented. Maybe they have seen something and know something we don't yet know and haven't yet seen.

Maybe asking for help is the most courageous thing they've ever said in the whole of their lives.

Maybe they are finally free to say it. Out loud.

All of their earthly possessions have been reduced and are now contained in one small closet, one four-drawer dresser, a bedside table, and a hospital bed.

And, implausible as it seems to ones who are younger than them, it is enough.

When I impose ashes on their foreheads and say the ancient words of this day, some will look away, others will look bored, but a few will look me right in the eye, silently accusing me of redundancy.

But there's always one - one ancient soul - whose memory has been replaced with wisdom (which may be the wisest thing), whose watery eyes will dance with some happiness, deeply hidden in the wrinkles and crevices of her face.

I will say, "Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return," and he will pat my hand and say, "Yes, yes, child," as if I am singing a freedom song.

And, perhaps I am. Perhaps that is the greatest wisdom scattered and hidden in the ashes I carry.

This pilgrimage has a destination that is contained within itself. When we come to know that the journey is our home while we are here, there is a wonderful liberation.

Or, so it would seem.

All caution, disturbing memories, and soul-wracking anxieties are thrown to the wind, where they will be carried and scattered and, somewhere, mingled with the light feathers of hope.

And, they want nothing more than to go back home from whence they first came: Help me. Help me. Help me.

Remember that you are dust and to dust, you shall return.

Scattered amidst the song of the limits of our mortality is the song of our liberation as children of God.

If you quiet yourself and still your wildly beating heart, you will hear it, and then you will know the freedom to love wildly, generously, lavishly, and wastefully, the way God loves us.

And you will find forgiveness for yourself and others.

And your heart will be brave enough to ask for help.

And your soul will be free.

May that be your prayer as you begin this Lenten Journey.

Remember that you are dust and to dust, you shall return.

Fat Tuesday

 

Note: You can also find this reflection on TELLING SECRETS on my SUBSTACK page where all my other reflections are kept. If you subscribe to Substack, these reflections will be emailed to you automatically. There is no subscription fee. Substack will suggest it, but it is not required.

I live in Sussex County, Delaware. It has a nickname. “LSD”. That stands for “Lower, Slower, Delaware.” The locals think the “slower” part refers to the pace of life of the rural farmers in the west and the resort life in the east, near the ocean. Some of the folks “up North,” and “above the canal,” hear it a little differently.

”Lower” is not just a reference to a geographical location. It has to do with the perception of a social demographic. ”Slower” has to do with a perception of the mental acuity required of farmers. Chicken farmers. Cash crop farmers. People who have lived on the land and from the land for generations. Indeed, many are considered “land poor”. People who may not own a suit, except maybe the one they wore for their wedding or their parent’s funeral. Maybe.

People who talk with a distinctive accent which is an amalgamation of particular inflections spoken in Delaware, Maryland, and Virginia, for which the Delmarva (Del -Mar-VA) Peninsula also gets its name. The ‘r’s’ are hard but the vowels get swallowed.

The famous “M R Ducks. M R Not. O S A R.” (Translation: “Them are Ducks. Them Are Not. Oh, yes they are.”) is credited generally to “The Eastern Shore” but there are similar variations of it here, “below the canal”.

”Lower”. And, ”slower.” See? At least, that’s how many of the folks “above the canal” and some of the people who have moved here, primarily from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and New York to escape the high real estate taxes, see their new neighbors.

I’ve been stunned and a bit shocked to see it in the attitude of some of the Kent and New Castle County clergy and how that is reflected in the conversations and discussion concerning some of the resolutions that come up at the annual Diocesan Convention - especially those that would empower small congregations. (There, now I’ve said the quiet part out loud.)

As the “land poor” farmers have been pushed out of their land by The Developers, the difference between people who are “from away” who live in McMansions and those who have lived here in Sussex all their lives in Manufactured Homes is more sharply drawn around lines of class, educational and economic status.

Lower Slower Delaware - LSD - is the polite way to say PWT (“Poor White Trash,”) or TPT (“Trailer Park Trash”). Except, everybody knows that it’s not polite. At. All.

It’s not exactly the stuff of JD Vance’s “Hillybilly Elegy” but then not too many around here have had the opportunity to go to Harvard and then sell their soul for the company store. But, the resentment is real. It smolders just underneath the surface. It’s gotten worse - much worse - in the past decade.

We bought this house in 1998. I moved here in 2008. Ms. Conroy and I commuted for 18 months from a friend’s house in New Jersey until she could transfer to a position here. I have worked as a Hospice Chaplain all over Sussex County since 2008. I (finally) retired in June of 2024.

In those sixteen years, I’ve worked on both sides of Sussex County. I’ve been privileged to have been invited into homes where three and four generations live together in a small, single-wide Manufactured Home, plopped down on a quarter or half-acre piece of land that was left to them when Daddy or Auntie sold off the rest of the farm and the bank (and then) The Developers took the rest.

Treatment for one heart attack or stroke, COPD, or lung cancer (thank you, Monsanto), without health insurance, can wipe out an entire profit margin from the sale of your property.

The thing that has impressed me, over and over, as I’ve had the privilege to be invited into the homes and lives of the families to whom I’ve ministered, is the love and the joy I’ve experienced in those families.

Oh, sure, many of these families put a Capital D in dysfunctional. They are also no strangers to another D word. Drama. Lots of drama and not just for yo Mama.

D also stands for Disease - mostly lung and heart (Thank you, Monsanto.) And, unfortunately, D stands for Drugs. And, Death.

Despite all of these challenges, there is love and joy. Sometimes, you have to listen closely and set aside your assumptions and expectations before you can see them, but love and joy are at the center of their lives.

O S A R. 

 
I’ll never forget one Hospice patient. He was 74 but he looked closer to 90. End-stage COPD and lung cancer. Cash crop farming will do that to a body (See also: Monsanto.). He lived in a pop-up tent camper in the driveway of his daughter’s rented single-wide Manufactured Home where she lived with her husband and their daughter, granddaughter, and her newborn, a great-grandson.

He had his own Manufactured Home but was no longer able to tend to himself, so his son-in-law borrowed a popup tent camper from a friend at the chicken factory. They ran an electric cord from the house to the camper and plugged in a small electric heater which warmed things up nicely.

He also had a small refrigerator which kept some of his medications and some food and drink easily accessible. He had everything he needed, including his oxygen tank and a spare for backup, a bedside commode, and a pill planner that his Hospice nurse would come twice a week and fill for him.

The Hospice Social Worker had arranged for Meals On Wheels to deliver food daily but I quickly learned that he “shared” most of it with two of his grandchildren when they came home from school.

One day, I arrived just as the Meals On Wheels driver was delivering the day’s fare: a cheese sandwich, a bag of potato chips, a small plastic container of mixed fruit, a large, chocolate chip cookie in a plastic baggie, and a small, wax covered cardboard carton of whole milk. There was also a plastic bag with plastic utensils and a small portion of salt and pepper in a paper container.

The kids came in right after me, hugging and kissing Grandpa who lit up like a light bulb as they showered their affection on him with the lavish abandon of childhood. They took the white Styrofoam container which held their grandfather’s only meal for the day and set about to cut the cheese sandwich in half.

Suddenly, the older girl looked at me and then looked at her grandfather. They exchanged a glance and a nod and then she took her half and cut it in half and offered it to me.

“Oh no,” I said, “thank you, honey, but I’m fine. I had a great big lunch not long ago (I lied). You have it.”

The child continued to slowly push the quarter of a cheese sandwich my way as she cast a questioning glance at her grandfather.

He looked at me and said, “No, you take it,” and then, with a warm smile that revealed the image in the back of his mind that had come to him from a time, long, long ago, when he was a child, said, “Mama always said you’re never too poor to share what you have.”

I pushed back gently, one last time, “Oh, thank you, sir, but honestly, I’m really not hungry (that was truth).”

He smiled gently, tenderly, and said, softly, “Oh, I think you have no idea just how hungry you really are.”

I could feel my eyes well with tears as the realization of the truth of his words found a place deep in a place in my heart. I nodded, swallowed hard, and took the quarter piece of cheese sandwich with a gratitude I had never felt - or tasted - before.

”Son of a gun,” I said, “and here I am supposed to be ministering to you.”

”Aw, now child,” he said, “Jesus said we’re supposed to minister to each other. You just do it with fancier words than I do. Now, I want you to tell my grandkids here a Bible Story. Which one do you want to hear, children? Maybe Noah? Maybe David in the lion’s den? I’ll bet this chaplain can tell us a great story from the Bible.”

Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. Many of us will go to church and get a smudge of ashes on our forehead and be reminded that we are “dust and to dust we shall return.” And, while that’s true, I think we miss the point if we forget that in between the dust from which we are formed and the dust to which we return, there’s a lot of love and joy.

I think, this year - especially this year - my Lenten discipline will be to concentrate on finding the love and the joy in the midst of the dust and ashes. I suspect I’ll find there the riches of my life amidst what I might see as poverty. I’m betting solid money I’ll find that I’m hungrier than thought I was, but it won't be due to any fasting on my part. I’m hoping that I’ll choose to stop eating the Bread of Anxiety and begin to feast, instead, on the Bread of Love and Joy.

I think Lent is a great time to go back and reread some of the stories from the Bible that captured my heart and imagination when I was a child. I’m hoping it will spark something in me that I felt then.

There’s a real shortage of religious imagination these days. There’s more to life and politics than the cost of a dozen eggs.

I suspect we’ve been so focused on scarcity and not having enough that we’ve forgotten the abundance of our God.

There’s a lot of work to do. Good thing we’ve got forty days and forty nights.

Have a Holy, Blessed Lent.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia.

Spiritual Defense Against Bullies.

It's been hard to avoid. The social media feeds, the national and local news channels, and national and local print media have all carried the image of the President of the United States and the President of Ukraine, war hero and the newly understood leader of the Free World, in a full-throat argument.

There he is, mouth open as he spews a fire hose of talking points from the President/Resident Dictator of Russia, his right hand attempting to stop any rebuttal or counterpoint. And, there is President Zelensky, appropriately dressed for combat, back straight, hands folded, pushing right back.

Off camera is the Vice President who started the argument - something about President Zelensky not showing gratitude  (Seriously?) - and the Secretary of State, who was sinking into the sofa, looking like he could think of six places he'd rather be in that very moment. And then, there was the Ukrainian ambassador who sat in her chair, hunched over with her head in her hands.

It was almost immediately clear that this was a staged ambush. It was a setup, designed to show the President of Russia that we - strike that,  they - are on his side. There were almost immediate calls from the Right for President Zelensky to apologize and express his gratitude for the rare privilege of signing over rare mineral rights as payment for the billions of dollars in support of Ukraine's defense against the Russian invasion of their country.

Mind you, no other country has been required to do this. Indeed, on 9/11, when the countries of the United Nations sent their armies in to defend the attack on our country, no one demanded that America repay any of them for their support - which included the death of their soldiers in combat.

That's just not the way it works. Or has worked. Ever.

Transaction - tit-for-tat, quid-pro-quo - works in business, not peaceful geopolitics.

The reaction from the world stage was also immediate. A flood of enthusiastic endorsement of solidarity with Ukraine and its president was overwhelming. Mr. Zelensky was embraced by the Prime Minister of Britain, and invited to tea with the (actual) King of England. All around the world, our allies in Canada, France, Belgium, Australia, Italy, Mexico, Denmark, and Norway not only pledged billions of dollars in financial support, but also promised to boycott American-made products and, instead, buy Canadian. Even Turkey and the Baltic Countries have sent supportive messages to Ukraine.

The Turning Point

I've been looking at that picture of that historic moment in the Oval Office. I've come to realize that this is an image of the state of this country in that moment. And, that moment was a turning point not only in the early history of this administration, but also in our history and the history of the world.

Six weeks into this new administration, some of us (47%, according to most polls) are sitting on the side like Vice President, actively supporting and, in fact, cheering on the President.

Others of us are sitting on the couch, like the Secretary of State, stunned and sinking deep into our seats, embarrassed and paralyzed and not knowing what to do. And, a few of us are, like the Ukrainian Ambassador, holding our heads in dismay and despair.

But other pictures - important pictures - are emerging of some of the other 53% of us who are rising up and resisting the direction of this administration. The Vice President's getaway family weekend ski vacation in Vermont was marred by protestors on the slopes as well as along the route back to the airport. There are demonstrations at Tesla Dealerships - the company owned by the co-POTUS, Elon Musk.

Protestors flooded national parks to protest cuts to jobs and services. Rallies and demonstrations are popping up in unlikely places, some with a specific focus against Musk and DOGE, or the reckless immigration policies, or Gaza or Ukraine. 

During the Congressional break, GOP leaders have found that their traditionally "informational, check-in, feel-good" town halls have become raucous events packed with their Republican constituents loudly voicing their objections to the policies of this administration in general and Elon Musk in particular and demanding and chanting, "Do. Your. Job," as they stopped their feet and clapped their hands.

This is exactly what is taught in anti-bully classes. There are three actors in a bully situation: the bully, the victim and the bystanders. The best way to deal with a bully is for the bystanders to stand up to the bully, letting them know that their behavior is not allowed.

Good on them. Good on us. There is no question in my mind that this is a time when Evil is being allowed the opportunity to grow and for acts of brutishness and vulgarity and cruelty to become normalized. Resistance and Resilience are the order of the day in an American culture which has become ripe for bullies to flourish as the earliest manifestation of the presence of Evil.

Taking to the streets, organizing meetings and rallies and public protests are all very important. There is a spiritual component to our movement, which we ignore at our own peril.

There are several approaches to strengthen our spirituality in the fact of these challenges which include an active acknowledgment of our interdependence, the exercise of our capacity for compassion, and the practice of mindfulness. 

Religions that teach and promote a spirituality of interdependence are healthy organizations. In the human family - the "human race" - no one is really separate from anyone else. Reminding ourselves that we are all interconnected assists us in cultivating empathy, wisdom, and compassion.

In a spiritual context, compassion is a feeling and action that involves being moved by the suffering of others.  It's a way of opening your heart to others and caring for their needs. Yes, this includes our adversaries and enemies.

Listening to "the other" is a critically important component of devising a way to defeat them. Deep, spiritual listening helps us to hear what it is our adversaries want and what makes them so willing to compromise their own souls in order to achieve. This does not mean that we give them what they want. It does mean that we will be better able to defeat them in their own efforts by developing effective strategies, while also defending and protecting the state of our own souls.

Tai-Chi Posture

In the ancient Chinese martial art of Tai-Chi, there is a movement that stops and then takes the negative energy and moves it aside. It is highly effective when you understand the nature of the negative energy you are rejecting because it not only moves it away from you but it also comes from a place of the deep understanding of our interconnection and interdependence as well as compassion for the effects of the negative energy on the soul of your adversary.

You do not have to actually do Tai-Chi in order to accomplish deeper spiritual understanding and compassion. It is important to keep this body posture in mind when you listen to the news or scroll through social media posts. Do not take on the negativity. Move it aside. Allow your curiosity to be awakened. Wonder about the cause(s) of this abhorrent behavior. Allow this to engage your creativity and imagination.

Finally, mindfulness is an important spiritual component which is especially critical at this moment in time when there is a veritable firehose of information and misinformation coming at us in a 24/7 news cycle. Mindfulness is a state of an awareness of the present moment that involves paying attention to thoughts, feelings and bodily sensations without judgment. It is about being fully engaged in the present moment, observing one's experiences with acceptance and curiosity.

This is the best of the Tai-Chi movement. Mindfulness leads to an awareness of our interdependence which helps us find compassion within ourselves. This then allows that compassion to extend to others which stops the negative from taking to our souls and turns it into curiosity and creativity. 

A word of caution: While these practices are helpful and healthy, they rarely lead to an immediate solution. This is not "spiritual fast food". It does, however, make for a healthier body, mind and soul, capable of resistance and resilience, which are the pathways on which we will find the road to peace.

In this country, whenever there has been a sudden, abrupt cultural change, violence to body, mind and spirit, has always been present. History teaches us that, in those situations, were not able to turn the tide until we found our own spirituality, our own moral core.

What has become crystal clear since the most recent historic debacle in the Oval Office is that we are beyond political rhetoric. We are now deeply engaged in a moral struggle that affects the very soul of our country and every American citizen.

The present occupant of the Oval Office is not the problem. He is a symptom of a moral problem that has been part of the very DNA of this country which was built on the immorality of slavery. That immorality  has surfaced from time to time as Manifest Destiny, McCarthyism, and White Christian Nationalism. And now, it has resurfaced in the movement known as MAGA.

I have become deeply persuaded that we will not find resolution much less peace in this country or the world until we engage our souls along with our minds and our hearts.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia.

Change. Transform. Transfigure

Kelly Latimore Icon

The last pilgrimage I took before the beginning of the COVID pandemic in 2020 was to Israel-Palestine. There were many places there that deeply affected me, but none so much as visiting the Basilica of the Transfiguration on Mt. Tabor.

This morning's gospel for the last Sunday after the Epiphany and the Sunday before the beginning of Lent on Ash Wednesday is the gospel story of the Transfiguration, which takes place on Mt. Tabor, where there was a sweeping view of the beautiful Jezreel Valley, one of the most important travel routes connecting Africa, Asia, and Europe.

In the ancient world, you couldn’t get much of anywhere without passing through it. Whoever controlled the Jezreel Valley controlled intercontinental trade. For 7,000 years, many important, historic battles have played out there.

Jezreel is a feminine Hebrew word that comes from the words zara', which means "to scatter seed", and 'el, which means "God", so "God sews," or "May God scatter seeds." It has become a metaphor for "spreading the word of God." Jezreel is also the name of the first son of Hosea and Gomer, and became symbolic of God's judgment against Israel.

It is also known as the Valley of Megiddo, after the important administrative center in ancient Canaan, in Gallilee, in what was then ancient Palestine but now claimed as part of Northern Israel. Megiddo may be translated to mean "invading" or "instrument/place of exposure". 

The Jezreel Valley was the scene of many important battles – those waged by Egyptians against Canaanites and by Philistines against Israelites. A victory was led by Deborah and Barak against the Canaanites. The city of Jezreel was the site of many murders by Ahab and Jezebel. Jehu, the founder of a dynasty that put Jeroboam II on the throne, massacred all the descendants of Ahab in Jezreel.

Saladin defeated the Crusaders there. Napoleon conquered the Ottomans in that place. The Book of Revelation predicts that Armageddon, the final battle between good and evil would happen in the Jezreel Valley.

The Jezreel Valley is a place not only of war and death, but also of beauty and life. Two million years ago, the Jezreel valley was an underwater channel that connected the Mediterranean Sea to other major bodies of water. As geological forces raised this land upwards out of the water, it became the best farming land in the region, the very “heart” of the Holy Land.

Mt. Tabor

As I stood on Mt. Tabor, overlooking the Jezreel Valley, it was easy to imagine that Jesus must have visited this place as a child as it is only 8 miles from Nazareth.

Jesus changed as a child, growing older to become a young man. As Jezreel Valley grew lush with a wide variety of fruits and crops, Mt. Tabor remained unchanged as it had for the millions of years since the tectonic plates deep in the earth moved and shifted to transform the geography and landscape.

It was from Mt. Tabor, a place that overlooked the change and transformation of the Jezreel Valley, that Jesus chose his transfiguration.

I don't think that is insignificant.

Yes, it is a reflection of the transfiguration of Moses when he stood before God on Mt. Sinai. The face of Moses shone after he came down from the mountain where he had spent 40 days and 40 nights receiving two tablets of instructions from God, known as The Ten Commandments.

Jesus, of course, has spent 40 days and 40 nights in the wilderness, having been sorely tempted. He did not emerge with instructions for his disciples, but with clarification about the mission of his life, leading to the transfiguration he would need for his earthly pilgrimage to the final spiritual battle he would endure, which would take him - and us - to the glory of Easter.

As we begin Lent, we are asked to consider what we will change and how that might change us, spiritually. However, if we stop there, just changing the way we eat, giving up wine or alcohol, chocolate or sweets, we'll have missed the opportunity to make the deep spiritual symbolism of the Lenten pilgrimage one that not only changes and transforms us, but transfigures our very souls.

Image: Mike Moyers

God knows, as a nation and as the world, we are walking into a time of chaos and confusion, a time when all of what we believed to be right and good, noble and true, is being challenged.

It feels to many as if we are brinked on a dangerous precipice of an epic spiritual battle of good and evil. If the heated, vulgar exchange between two bullies and the actual Leader of the Free World that took place in the Oval Office last Friday didn't convince us of that, I don't know what will.

There is no doubt in my mind that we will emerge from this time changed and transformed and we may never again be the same. And, that might not be a bad thing, as an ultimate result.

I am more concerned, for myself and for my country and the world, that we take this time - Ramadan for Muslims (Feb 28, 2025 – Sat, Mar 29, 2025), Lent for Christians (Wed, Mar 5, 2025 – Thu, Apr 17, 2025), and Passover for Jews (Apr 12, 2025 at sundown; ends at nightfall on Apr 20, 2025) - as an opportunity for the change, transformation and transfiguration of our lives, our hearts and our very souls.

Change. Transformation. Transfiguration. It's an amazing, dangerous pilgrimage. The tectonic plates in the earth are shifting again. The earth is rising. Mountains are appearing. Epic spiritual wars are being waged and moral battles are being fought. The threat of Armageddon looms large in the minds of many. 

 
And yet. . .  and yet . . . The Jezreel Valley is also at our feet, lush and rich with a wide variety of nourishment for our souls.

It is important to hold this image of the transfigured Jesus before us as we begin this Lenten pilgrimage. The Light of Christ has not extinguished but grows deeper, guiding us to the destination  we know as Easter morning.

We are not alone. Like Peter, James and John, we will make this pilgrimage together. In community. More important than what you give up or take on, being in community is the best way I know to walk the spiritual path that is before us.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia.

The Transfiguration of Paul?

Saint Paul by Pompeo Batoni

 

Good Saturday morning, good citizens of the cosmos. We are in a time of transition – not only in our own chaotic world but on the church’s calendar. The last Sunday in the season after The Epiphany was traditionally known as Quinquagesima (from the Latin for ‘fifty’) Sunday, being the last Sunday before Lent begins and 50days before Easter –if you count Easter itself. 

 

It had been traditional to begin fasting on “Septuagesima” – or 70 days before Easter – and to put away the Alleluias. However, in almost all of Western Christianity, fasting begins on Ash Wednesday and the Alleluias are put away or “buried” on the Last Sunday after The Epiphany.

Tomorrow, we will finish up the season after The Epiphany and this time of transition into the Season of Lent with the story of the Transfiguration of Jesus. It’s a wonderful story, reflecting the transfiguration of Moses on Mt. Sinai which we will also hear on Sunday.

It's a significant story because, in the days of Jesus, many thought of Elijah as an important “candidate” from their Holy Scriptures (what Christians often refer to as the “Old Testament”) to replace Moses. It is important, in Luke’s telling, that Elijah and Moses stand with Jesus in the vision and that the voice of God says, “This is my Son, my chosen. Listen to him.”

I should also note that this passage is so important that it is thought by many scholars to be an important precursor to what Muslims believe was the single most important event of Muhammad’s life, the Mi’raj (“night vision”. 

Ramadan Mubarak to all my Muslim friends who observe! May this holy month bring you peace, prosperity and endless blessings. May Allah accept your prayers and forgive your sins. Ramadan Kareem!

The Mi‘raj – the moment when Muhammad is purified in his sleep begins the sequence when he is then transported in a single night from Mecca to Jerusalem by Jibril (Gabriel) a winged mythical creature.  From Jerusalem, where the Dome of the Rock now stands, he is accompanied by Gabriel (Jibrīl) to heaven, ascending possibly by ladder or staircase (an allusion to Jacob?). This story is claimed by several prominent Christian and Muslim scholars as having been inspired by the story of the transfiguration of Moses and Jesus.

Muhammad's Night Journey

Which is fine. I mean, clearly the story of the transfiguration of Jesus was inspired by the story of the transfiguration of Moses – right down to the change in the appearance of their faces.

I suppose it is important, in the liturgical cycle, to have Jesus clearly transfigured and identified as the Son of God before we begin our journey into the wilderness of Lent, taking us to the glory of the Resurrection on Easter Day.

 

None of that concerns me. It’s tidy and neat and the "tidy and neat"  “systematic” nature of this particular theology always bothers me.  Logic and order and tidiness have its place, I suppose, in the faith journey. That’s important to the very souls of some.

Me? I like my religion disorganized, tending ever so slightly to the chaotic which, I think, acknowledges the presence of the sacred in our lives of faith in the midst of that which cannot be controlled and contained, which is challenging and scary and unpredictable.

Personally? I think that makes our stories part of the ever unfolding story of God’s unconditional and eternal love for all of God’s creatures and creation, as it was in the beginning when the Spirit was sent to brood over the chaos and call new creations into being.

Which is precisely why I have a problem – Big. Huge. – with the selection of the Epistle for Transfiguration Sunday.

The passage chosen by the brilliant, logical minds of the Lectionary wizards is from 2 Corinthians 3:12-4:2. Listen to the first few sentences.

“Since, then, we have such a hope, we act with great boldness, not like Moses, who put a veil over his face to keep the people of Israel from gazing at the end of the glory that was being set aside. But their minds were hardened. Indeed, to this very day, when they hear the reading of the old covenant, that same veil is still there, since only in Christ is it set aside. Indeed, to this very day whenever Moses is read, a veil lies over their minds; but when one turns to the Lord, the veil is removed.”

Oy, gevault! The violence done to our Jewish sisters, brothers and siblings simply takes my breath away. I mean, it is beyond the kind of ‘cringy’ feeling I get when I hear John’s gospel blaming “the Jews” for the crucifixion of Jesus. We all know that this was a state execution which was supported by the Religious Leaders – not “all the Jews” – for their own purposes.

 

“Not like Moses”??? The one who inspired the story not only of Jesus but of Muhammad?? Moses??? Who apparently intentionally put the veil over his face to “keep the people of Israel” from being able to see the eventual glory of Jesus? The “people of Israel” whose “minds were hardened – indeed, to this very day?” To this very day?? “Christ is set aside”??? And, only “when one turns to the Lord (Jesus), the veil is removed”????

Seriously??? 

Paul Preaching on the Ruins Giovanni Paolo Pannini

What is a preacher to do? I mean, the ending of this passage is comforting but this particular pericope of scripture is way too loaded to have to unpack in even a 15 minute (God forbid) sermon.

I think it is best handled not in a sermon but in a Bible Study or an Adult Forum or in a seminary or EFM class on the writings of Paul in general and the context of this pericope in particular.

But, how many people today are going to stay an extra few hours on Sunday after church, or schlep back into church midweek for an Adult Forum or Bible Study?

The problem of Bible Illiteracy in the church is real.

 

My impulse is to skip to verse 17 where the beautiful, comforting part begins and to focus on how we are transformed by moments of encountering God. However, to read that whole passage while ignoring the tough parts of this text, especially in these days of rising Christian Nationalism and its attendant anti-Semitism, is not only dangerous, it is akin to pastoral malpractice.

Indeed, if I were still rector, my bishop and I would be having a serious conversation about eliminating that first pericope entirely and not reading it in church at all. But, I’m not still a rector and I won’t be having that conversation with the bishop here.

So, I’m taking this question to some of the smartest, compassionate, loving people I know. You. What say you, dear ones who are faithful readers of my Blog?

Many of you have taken EFM. Many of you have studied scripture in general and St. Paul in particular. We know that the “old covenant” or “Old Testament” has not been revoked or superseded. God’s word is everlasting and God’s promise can be trusted.

We understand that Paul’s rhetoric in this passage is part of a debate around whether Gentile converts to Christianity needed to observe Torah. It’s important to be clear that Paul’s contrast of freedom or grace with the law does not mean the denigration of Jewish Torah observance.

We understand that Paul is speaking to Gentiles new to the biblical faith. In Corinth - known then as "Sin City". Corinth is a place where the Jews were a tiny part of the population holding on by their fingernails against the prevailing pressures of the presence of and devotion to Greek gods on the one hand and pagan worship on the other. And then, there were the Romans and their gods, which carried additional political weight and consequences.

 Then, here comes Paul, challenging not only centuries of Greek myth, pagan gods, and Roman rule, but also the very foundations of Torah with the teachings of this new Rabbi.

I have come to understand and develop a greater appreciation of the complexities of Paul, as a devout, practicing Jew who was Roman citizen, preaching the new biblical faith of a radical Rabbi who had been crucified for his teachings.

Artist Unknown (taken from RC source)

Indeed, after my pilgrimage to Greece and after walking in the footsteps of Paul, I have come to understand that Paul was proud of his own Jewishness, and responded pragmatically to problem situations but continued to observe the Torah himself.

That’s a whole lot to include in a 15 or even 20 minute (God forbid!) sermon. Too much, I think.

And yet, given the perilous times in which we live, the responsibility to challenge the rising waves of anti-Semitism and Christian Nationalism has never been greater. 

 

If this passage is going to continue to be read in church today, how do we help the congregation relate to Jewish people and Judaism today? How do we help Christians become more biblically literate?

How do we preach the transfiguration of Paul without skipping the hard parts? How do we preach a transformation which was nowhere near as dramatic as that which happened to Moses or Jesus or Muhammad, and yet remains an important model for how we, too, are transformed by moments of encountering God?

I hope something good happens to you today. 

Bom dia.

The Epiphany Light of Southern Black Washerwomen

On this last day of Black History month, as we make our way into Women's History month, I want to honor the women known as The Pioneers of American Labor, credited with being the impulse for the Labor Movement in America: Southern Black Washerwomen.

It is significant, I think, that today, the 28th day of February, 2025, there is an international movement to boycott all major corporations (and not use credit cards) as a way to protest corporate greed and corruption, and demonstrate to ourselves and the world, the power we have. In the United States, the emphasis is also on boycotting companies who have reversed their DEI (Diversity Equity and Inclusion) policies, like Walmart, Amazon, Target, Google, and fast food places.

Bank of America has decided to end tracking its DEI goals while Morgan Stanley, and CitiGroup as well as many universities and colleges are simply rewording their DEI language or removing it from public-facing content but to quietly continue DEI policies.

There is also a movement to make a special effort, especially today, to support companies who have reaffirmed their DEI policies - like Costco, Apple, Ben& Jerry's, Delta Airlines, JP Morgan Chase, Microsoft and Patagonia.

It should be noted that Americans are encouraged to support small businesses - especially entrepreneurs - and to use cash, not credit cards.

Those companies and the people who support them may not know it, but the inspiration for the strengthening of their backbone in the face of enormous pressure from the forces of The White House, MAGA and Project 2025 come from Southern Black Washerwomen in the last quarter of the 19th Century who stood up for themselves and their families for economic fairness.

They are mostly anonymous. Of course. They are women and they are Black. I do have the names of some who went to jail for defying orders and, even before I begin to briefly tell their story, I want to call the names of those whose names were published in the newspaper: Matilda Crawford, Sallie Bell, Carrie Jones, Dora Jones, Orphelia Turner and Sarah A. Collier

They were delicately described in the press as “ebony-hued damsels,” but found themselves slapped with charges of disorderly conduct and “quarreling”. Five of the women were fined $5 apiece, but Collier was ordered to pay a $20 fine. She refused to pay, and as punishment, the 49-year-old asthmatic mother of two was sentenced to work on a chain gang for 40 days.

My apologies. As usual, I'm getting out ahead of my skis. Let me briefly tell you their story. You can find more in the recently published book, “Fight Like Hell: The Untold History of American Labor,” by Kim Kelly (Normally, I'd add a link to Amazon, but not today, Mr. Bezos. Not today.)

According to Ms. Kelly, there is no one location or event that can lay a definitive claim to the founding of the American labor movement but one thing is clear, women provided the spark and the impulse.  Since the beginning and for hundreds of years, the social fabric of this country was stitched and held together with strong threads of prejudice against and exploitation of women, people of color, and class status.

Upper and middle class women’s choices were limited to marriage and motherhood, or spinsterhood. Waged labor was seen as the exclusive realm of men, and for most middle- and upper-class women, the thought of earning money for their work was wholly foreign.

Of course, this applied to "native-born women". As immigration ramped up during the middle of the 19th century, female workers from other ethnic groups — including Irish immigrants fleeing a colonial famine and Russian Jews seeking to escape brutal repression — were also targeted by the ruling class’s white-supremacist paternalism.

By the 1830s, the American genocide against Indigenous people had been well underway for decades, and the few Indigenous women allowed into the workforce were treated abominably. So, too, were the lives of women of African descent. Following Emancipation, their lives were still often defined by exploitation, abuse and wage theft.

Whether held in bondage or living freely, Black women were considered no differently than work horses, possessing neither intellect nor soul, but whose primary value was in their cheap labor and their ability to produce children who would continue to support the wealthy elite, from generation to generation.

However, the Industrial Revolution not only changed the way people worked, it caused them to reconsider every aspect of their lives. Ms. Kelly reports that "the restrictive social fabric" - especially for women. It was on a balmy spring 1824 day in Pawtucket, R.I., 102 young women launched the country’s very first factory strike, and brought the city’s humming textile industry to a standstill.

In the North, the textile industry was almost entirely white. It wasn’t until 1866, a year after Emancipation, that formerly enslaved Black female workers were able to launch a widespread work stoppage of their own — and by doing so, jump-start a wave of Black-led labor organizing that would spread through multiple industries and set the stage for decades of labor struggles to come.

Ms. Kelly reports,

"On June 16, 1866, laundry workers in Jackson, Miss., called for a citywide meeting. The women — for they were all women, and all were Black — were tired of being paid next to nothing to spend their days hunched over steaming tubs of other (White) people’s laundry, scrubbing out stains, smoothing the wrinkles with red-hot irons, and hauling the baskets of heavy cloth through the streets. At the time, nearly all Black female workers were employed as domestics by White families, to handle the cooking, cleaning and child care, hauling water, emptying chamber pots, and performing various and sundry other tasks that the lady of the house preferred to avoid."

The washerwomen of Jackson presented Mayor D.N. Barrows with a petition decrying the low wages that plagued their industry and announcing their intention to “join in charging a uniform rate” for their labor. As their petition read:

“Any washerwoman who charges less will be fined by our group. We do not want to charge high prices, we just want to be able to live comfortably from our work.”

The prices they’d agreed upon were far from exorbitant: $1.50 per day for washing, $15 a month for “family washing,” and $10 a month for single people. They signed their letter “The Washerwomen of Jackson,” and in doing so, gave a name to Mississippi’s first trade union.

There is no record of the 1866 strike’s outcome, but the action itself had an immediate ripple effect in Jackson and farther afield. Throughout the Reconstruction era of 1865 to 1877, Black workers rose up and struck in Virginia, Tennessee, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, South Carolina and Washington, D.C.

There was a successful organization of Black Washerwomen in Galveston, TX but it wasn't until a hot day in July, 1881, in Atlanta, GA, that the trade organization, "The Washing Society" was founded by Black Washerwomen in their Black neighborhood church in Summerhill, GA that these women, working through their Black clergymen, began to have a major impact on higher wages and improved working conditions. 

When their demands were not met, the Black washerwomen of Atlanta, Georgia went on strike, which hit the city, on the employers side, like a wrecking ball. Ms. Kelly reports:

“The Washerwomen’s strike is assuming vast proportions and despite the apparent independence of the white people, is causing quite an inconvenience among our citizens,” the Atlanta Constitution reported on July 26, a week into the strike. “There are some families in Atlanta who have been unable to have any washing done for more than two weeks. Not only the washerwomen, but the cooks, house servants and nurses are asking increases.”

Imagine! Why, I'll bet even the horses were scared about whatever was about to happen next!

A pathetic counter offer was made by the Atlanta City Council of a $25 annual business license fee on any member of a washerwomen association (more than $670 in 2021 dollars) — a proposition intended to economically hobble the workers at war for a mere $1 per dozen pounds of laundry.

But instead, the washerwomen wrote a letter to Atlanta Mayor Jim English expressing their willingness to pay the fees — so long as the city agreed to formally grant them control over the local hand-laundering industry. The strikers’ letter ended with a warning:

“Don’t forget this. We hope to hear from your council on Tuesday morning. We mean business this week or no washing.”

Atlanta’s City Council backed down, and while history is murky on the resolution, it appears that the workers had successfully shifted the balance of power not only for themselves as Washerwomen but all Black women and men. Atlanta’s Black female workers had prevailed in making their collective power felt. The city’s white-supremacist employer class had come face-to-face with the reality of Emancipation: Black workers would tolerate injustice no more.

I love this story - these stories - of the Southern Black Washerwomen which illustrate, over and over again, that Black History is American History and we can learn so much about ourselves from reading these stories.

These stories of the Southern Black Washerwomen and all of the stories I have been privileged to read and reflect on and write and post on this blog also offer is a blueprint - a plan and a playbook - of what we need to do in the next four years.

That is already happening today with the worldwide economic boycott. Whether or not we want to admit it, we have learned a great deal from our Black sisters. If we open our eyes and our ears and our hearts, we may just find the courage and the intelligence and the moral strength to elect one of them President of the United States one day.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia.

From cotton to clouds: The Epiphany of Ms. Bessie Coleman

She went from the drudgery of working in fields filled with white fluffy clouds of cotton to the thrilling, exhilarating work of an airshow pilot in the white, fluffy clouds of the sky.

Known as "Queen Bessie," she was born Elizabeth Coleman in 1892  in Atlanta, Texas, the tenth of 13 children of George Coleman, an African American who may have had Cherokee or Choctaw grandparents, and Susan Coleman, who was African American. The Coleman family were sharecroppers. Ms. Bessie worked as a child in the cotton fields, vowing to one day to "amount to something."

At the age of six, Ms. Bessie began attending school in Waxahachie, Texas in a one-room, segregated schoolhouse where she completed all eight grades. At age 12, Ms. Bessie was accepted into the Missionary Baptist Church School on a scholarship. Yearning to further her education she worked and saved her money and enrolled at Langston University in Oklahoma where she completed one term before running out of funds and returning home to Texas.

Climbing the ladder of success always begins with stepping on the first rung. Often, it means keeping one hand on the rung in front of you while raising the other to take the hand of one who has gone before you.

In 1915 at age 23, Ms. Bessie moved to Chicago to live with her older brother where she became a beautician and a manicurist in a south side barbershop. One of her customers was a man named Robert Abbott, the publisher of the Chicago Defender who told her stories of the pilots returning home to America at the end of World War I.

Something in the stories captured her imagination and the young woman who had spent her life as a girl in the cotton fields of Texas decided that she would like to fly.

She took a second job in order to save money quickly so that she could pursue her dream to be a pilot, but at that time American flight schools did not admit either blacks or women. Robert Abbott encouraged Ms. Bessie to study flying abroad and later she received financial backing from a banker, Jesse Binga, and the Chicago Defender.

One day Ms. Bessie’s brother John, who had served in France during the war said, “I know something that French women do that you’ll never do…fly!” That remark prompted her to travel to France, after teaching herself to speak French.

On June 15, 1921, at the age of 29 and fifty-eight years after the Emancipation Proclamation, Ms. Elizabeth Coleman graduated the Federation Aeronautique Internationale becoming the first African American woman to achieve a pilot’s license.

Still, Ms. Bessie continued to dream. She remembered her first step on the ladder of success and that her brother's hand had been there to help her up. Her dream was to establish a flying school for African Americans in the United States. She knew it was a risky dream, filled with challenges and obstacles, but she was willing to work hard to achieve her goal.

She began her career as a "barnstorming" pilot, performing riveting demonstrations of aerobatics including loops, figure eights, and near-ground dips. This earned her the affectionate nickname of 'Queen Bess" and "Brave Bessie".

She didn't mind. Whatever brought in the crowds, and with them, the money she needed to make the freedom of the skies available to everyone.

"The air is the only place free from prejudice, " she said, and throughout her career, she would only perform at air exhibitions if the crowd was desegregated and permitted to enter through the same gates.

Tragically, although she saved her money and came close to her goal of opening a flight school for Blacks in the United States, Bessie Coleman was tragically killed on April 30, 1926. 

During a rehearsal for an aerial show, the airplane she was in unexpectedly went into a dive and then a spin, subsequently throwing her from the airplane at 2,000 feet. She was not wearing her seat belt because she was of small stature and needed to lift herself up so she could see over the side of the plane.

She died instantly. Upon examination of the aircraft, it was later discovered that a wrench used to maintain the engine had jammed the controls of the airplane.

Ms. Bessie was 34 years old.

Funeral services were held in Florida, before her body was sent back to Chicago. While there was little mention in most media, news of her death was widely carried in the African-American press. Ten thousand mourners attended her ceremonies in Chicago, which were led by activist Ida B. Wells.

Despite this tragic fate, Ms. Elizabeth Coleman's legacy of flight endures and she is credited with inspiring generations of African-American aviators, male and female, including the Tuskegee Airmen and NASA astronaut, Dr. Mae Jemison, who carried Bessie Coleman’s picture with her on her first mission in the Space Shuttle when she became the first African American woman in space aboard the Space Shuttle Endeavor in September 1992.

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia.

The Light of Deep Wisdom: Maya Angelou

 

"I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel."

I think of all the wonderful and wise quotes attributed to Maya Angelou, this one has impacted me most. I first read it written on the wall of a college classroom where I was doing a presentation on Reproductive Justice and Abortion.

I realized, in that moment, that while the information I was about to give them was important, my attitude, the way in which I presented the information so that it would have an impact and be retained, was even more important.

Indeed, I think I understood more clearly than I had ever before that this was one of the key components of leadership. This one sentence has changed the way I see myself, the way I present myself to others and the way I have taught and mentored future leaders in my care.

Maya Angelou was born Marguerite Annie Johnson on April 4, 1928 in St. Louis, Missouri, on April 4, 1928, the second child of Bailey Johnson, a doorman and navy dietitian, and Vivian Baxter Johnson, a nurse and card dealer.

For the first three years of her life, her family lived in her maternal grandparents home. Angelou's older brother, Bailey Jr., nicknamed Marguerite "Maya", derived from "My" or "Mya Sister".

Ms. Maya's life story has been documented in a series of seven autobiographies, primarily focusing on her childhood and early adult experiences, The first, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings (1969), tells of her life up to the age of 17 and brought her international recognition and acclaim.

When Angelou was three and her brother four, their parents' "calamitous marriage" ended, and their father sent them to Stamps, Arkansas, alone by train, to live with their paternal grandmother, Annie Henderson. In "an astonishing exception" to the harsh economics of African Americans of the time, Angelou's grandmother prospered financially during the Great Depression and World War II, because the general store she owned sold basic and needed commodities and because "she made wise and honest investments".

Four years later, when Angelou was seven and her brother eight, the children's father "came to Stamps without warning" and returned them to their mother's care in St. Louis. At the age of eight, while living with her mother, Angelou was sexually abused and raped by her mother's boyfriend, a man named Freeman. She told her brother, who told the rest of their family.

Freeman was found guilty but was jailed for only one day. Four days after his release, he was murdered, probably by Angelou's uncles.Angelou became mute for almost five years, believing she was to blame for his death; as she stated: "I thought, my voice killed him; I killed that man, because I told his name. And then I thought I would never speak again, because my voice would kill anyone."

It was during this period of silence when Angelou developed her extraordinary memory, her love for books and literature, and her ability to listen and observe the world around her. Her wisdom, she maintains, was born of suffering.

Ms. Maya was an accomplished person in a variety of ways. She published seven autobiographies, three books of essays, several books of poetry, and is credited with a list of plays, movies, and television shows spanning over 50 years.

She became a poet and writer after a string of odd jobs during her young adulthood. These included fry cook, sex worker, nightclub performer, Porgy and Bess cast member, Southern Christian Leadership Conference coordinator, and correspondent in Egypt and Ghana during the decolonization of Africa.

Ms. Maya  was also an actress, writer, director, and producer of plays, movies, and public television programs. In 1982, she was named the first Reynolds Professor of American Studies at Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. She was active in the Civil Rights Movement and worked with Martin Luther King Jr. and Malcolm X.

Beginning in the 1990s, she made approximately 80 appearances a year on the lecture circuit, something she continued into her ninth decade of life. In 1993, Angelou recited her poem "On the Pulse of Morning" (1993) at the first inauguration of Bill Clinton, making her the first poet to make an inaugural recitation since Robert Frost at the inauguration of John F. Kennedy in 1961.

Here are some of the things she has said which have personally guided me:

“When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”

"The desire to reach for the stars is ambitious. The desire to reach hearts is wise."

"Hate, it has caused a lot a problems in the world, but has not solved one yet."

“In all my work, what I try to say is that as human beings, we are more alike than we are unalike.”

“Life offers us tickets to places which we have not knowingly asked for.”

“I can be changed by what happens to me. But I refuse to be reduced by it.”

Angelou died on the morning of May 28, 2014, at age 86.

Although Angelou had been in poor health and had canceled recent scheduled appearances, she was working on another book, an autobiography about her experiences with national and world leaders.

During her memorial service at Wake Forest University, her son Guy Johnson stated that despite being in constant pain due to her dancing career and respiratory failure, she wrote four books during the last ten years of her life. He said, "She left this mortal plane with no loss of acuity and no loss in comprehension."

I hope something good happens to you today.

Bom dia!