You are currently browsing the monthly archive for October 2008.
When called upon to help a friend, a family member, or even a stranger most of us will do our best to rise to the occasion. For some helpfulness is a vocation. Social workers offer concrete services to people in need — sometimes without regard to whether or not the recipient wants that particular form of assistance. Police officers have a duty to help others, even to the point of defending those who have fallen in harms way. Firefighters put their lives on the line as well when a call for help sends them into extraordinarily dangerous situations.
Having been a social worker, and for a brief time, a chaplain for a police department, I have experienced the good feeling of being able to help; and, I have also felt the frustration of not having any tangible help to offer.
One icy January day, one of the elderly clients at the Boston settlement house where I worked called to say she was fed up with her living situation. Her absentee landlords had left the entire apartment complex without heat during one of the coldest holiday weeks on record. She wanted help, she wanted it immediately, and she wanted it from me. Together we were able to fuel a tenant’s group in the building, and put the landlords on notice that they could not neglect the rights and needs of their rentors anymore. Formerly powerless individuals found the power in numbers, and I was only too glad to be able to help them along that path of discovery.
Once, as a police chaplain, I was called to the side of a woman whose husband had committed suicide in their home. I felt utterly without resources for helping. The wife, her family and I huddled on the sidewalk, prevented from entering the yard by yellow tape that cordoned off the area. I didn’t have any chairs to ease their sore feet, or even a thermos of hot tea to offer the weary band as twilight deepened into a cold, inhospitable evening. All were strangers to me, and I was just plain strange to them. As lapsed Roman Catholics they didn’t know what to make of my presence. The woman I had been called to help seemed to feel slightly guilty about consorting with a Protestant clergyperson. I brought only my condolences, and a willingness to listen to the events that led up to this tragic day. Three hours later, I left feeling that I had not been able to help at all.
When someone needs help, and another is able to provide it, two people end up feeling better. But, helping isn’t just about being able to change dire circumstances or even providing concrete assistance. Showing up is part of the helping process. Helping includes being willing to be present in times of mourning and loss, being willing to be tongue-tied and uncomfortable, and even to walk away knowing the only assistance you’ve been able to provide is as intangible as listening to a very, very sad story several times over.
Unitarian Universalism is a non-creedal faith. Lots of people find that hard to understand. Some time ago a young woman visiting a congregation I served spoke up during the Joys and Concerns portion of the service. She described herself as relatively new to Unitarian Universalism. Like all Unitarian Universalists she found herself having to answer two questions posed by people who have only a vague understanding of our traditions.
“Why are you a Unitarian Universalist?” they ask, and “What do Unitarian Universalists believe anyway?”
She answers, “It’s not about particular beliefs, it’s what you bring to it.”
Her own journey described the truth of her understanding. Raised in the Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints she found herself increasingly at odds with what she was being taught. Finally, one day, she realized that a portion of her tithe, paid in one state, was going to pay for anti-gay marriage lobbying in two other states.
“I don’t believe in abortion,” she explained, “so I don’t go anywhere near Planned Parenthood. Why should I give money to a church when it doesn’t support my values?”
Removing herself from the Latter Day Saints was relatively easy. Living outside the church wasn’t easy. She was alone and lonely. Her mother suggested trying to connect with a Unitarian Universalist church. She took that advice, and found a congregation and a tradition that embraced values close to her heart.
What she brought to Unitarian Universalism was a firm conviction in the worth of every being and a desire to see justice distributed fairly to all. The story of how those convictions grew in her is a part of the complex story of her becoming. Her passion and convictions grew despite some who tried to tell her she was just plain wrong. Her yearning for companionship and community brought her to a Unitarian Universalist congregation. She has faith, her own hard-won faith, which blessedly she found others share.
The American Beauty Rose with its deep pink petals and pleasing fragrance seems to be the ideal for which the concept of beauty was created. The name suggests that this rose is native to American soil, even though the truth is that the first of its kind was cultivated in France under a different name altogether. The ‘American Beauty Rose’ is so much a part of our language that the 1999 film American Beauty only needed to use the first part of the phrase to conjure up images that would be fulfilled with thousands of blushing petals as the story unfolded.
There is another plant that carries the name American Beauty. The American Beautyberry is a native to Florida more formally known as callicarpa americana. This American Beauty comprises a series of gangly sticks that serve as branches; outsized, ungainly leaves of simple design; and flowers that grow in tiny clusters sometimes too small to be noticeable. This is not the American Beauty we’re accustomed to picturing. It is an awkward plant with uninspired flowers. But, in the fall, the American Beautyberry earns its name with a striking display of distinctive, glowing, purple-violet berries clustered around the branches.
Glowing in Beauty
A year ago, we had one American Beautyberry on the property. Now, I’m encouraging more than half a dozen plants that seeded themselves, and I will welcome more. Yes, it can be dull in winter, and unnoticeable in the spring and summer. But, in its autumn splendor it has earned the name American Beauty. More than that, this hardy plant is a true native, it is ‘American.’ The fruits are a delight to the eye and they attract birds who love the berries. It is at home in a harsh and withering climate, it has a will to survive and even to thrive, as it gives pleasure to some and nurtures others. And, even though it seems outrageous to think of a lithe young woman rolling in a bed of purple berries — this is the plant I would choose to call the true American Beauty.
(The following is an imaginative creation based on facts reported in the news January 9, 2008.)
Virgilio’s body flopped to the left, and Dave propped it up. Almost immediately it began to sink to the right side, and Jim gave it a quick shove back to an upright position. Sweat popped out on Dave’s forehead, Jim swore, and Virgilio who was beyond fear and frustration, flopped forward. Dave jumped in front of the office chair that held Virgilio’s lifeless form and urgently waved Jim into the doors of the Pay-o-matic.
Jim fingered the Social Security check in his pocket, plastered a smile on his face and prepared to meet the clerk at the counter. This, Jim decided, as he waited for the clerk to get off the phone, was all Dave’s fault.
“Dave,” he muttered, “you got some dumb ideas.”
When they were still kids, Dave led them into a scheme to lighten the fruit stand at the local Mom and Pop. Virgilio with his just-off-the-boat looks, and a nice imitation of an Italian accent learned at his grandfather’s knee was to provide a distraction. His job was to engage the store owners in a broken-English query for directions to the distant wharfs. Meanwhile, Dave and Jim were supposed to quietly scoop as many fruits as they could into their waiting pockets. Then all those glowing oranges and polished apples would turn a nice profit for the three boys. The scheme might have worked, too, if Dave hadn’t been the most fumble-fingered kid in the city. Six apples freshly purloined apples hit the floor at once, and the would-be thieves were lucky to escape with only epithets hurled at their retreating heads.
Dave could never think beyond petty theft. He attempted to make them high-profit newspaper boys by organizing them to steal stacks of newspapers from the honor system dispenser on the corner. They stuffed them down their backs and walked across town to sell them on other street corners. A week of success gave the lads walking around money. One day, Dave saw a police officer approaching as he scurried off with papers packed in his pants. Smiling broadly, Dave thought he had escaped detection, until a resounding smack nearly hurled him off his feet. The officer grabbed his arm in the same moment as delivering the blow. A blow which hurt not at all because it was buffered by newsprint.
“You didn’t think I’d notice your backside is shaped just like a pile of newspapers, did ‘ya?” the cop laughed.
Thank goodness the crime was small, the take just nickels and dimes, Dave got off with a warning. Virgilio got worse from his father when he, too, was caught, and Jim couldn’t screw up the courage to continue on alone.
They were all sixty-five years old now, and roommates to boot. They made it from one end of the month to the other with three Social Security checks. There was enough for rent on a one bedroom place with Virgilio on the couch, and Jim and Dave squashed into a tiny room with twin beds. They ate regularly, if not well, and had a nip now and then. Then came the morning, Virgilio didn’t wake up.
Jim and Dave sat and pondered poor Virgilio’s body, and eventually their dismal prospects. Without Virgilio’s income their fragile balance would teeter. The rent would loom large, and they’d soon be out on the street. As they spiraled down the unpleasant picture of their immediate future, Jim spotted Virgilio’s check on the coffeetable. Three hundred and fifty five dollars – rent for a month and a half. Dave said it first.
“If we could cash that check, we’d be okay.”
Jim nodded dully, and barely heard the next sentences. Soon he found himself hauling up Virgilio’s arms, helping to pull worn slacks over his hips, and hoisting him finally into the office chair on wheels. They tied Virgilio into his seat and covered the ties with an old jacket. They made it unseen and unheard out to the street, where Dave revealed the rest of his plan.
“Look,” he said, “all you got to do is tell them Virg is sick, and can’t come in himself. They know his face at the check cashing joint. I’ll stand outside with him, and if they won’t let you cash the check, I’ll make Virg wave to them.”
Jim was now desperate to convince the clerk to cash Virgilio’s check with its counterfeit signature. The clerk looked skeptical, but, Jim launched into a long story about the illness that left Virgilio too weak to walk, and gasping for air.
“He needs to stay outside. If I bring him in here, you’ll have a dead man on your hands.” Jim stated with conviction.
A commotion in the hall drew Jim’s attention away from his impassioned pleas. There stood Dave surrounded by appalled onlookers and one incredulous cop. It seems that several people noticed the odd way the man in the chair flopped back and forth under Dave’s ministrations, and the cop had been having breakfast just across the street. Dave and Jim might be desperate but they would never be successful desperados.
One of the groomsmen seated the mother of the bride. Next in the procession was Patches, a charming collie-cross who led the parents of the groom to their seats with her tail wagging. She threw a wag and a canine smile in my direction as she took up position in the center aisle. Patches sat and extended her paw to the ringbearer and groom as they approached. Then, the bride made her appearance, and gathering her ivory skirts, she made her way slowly down a flight of stairs to the sandy beach below. As the soft silica threatened to engulf her every step, her progress down the makeshift aisle on her father’s arm became a bit more arduous. The groom quietly signaled his mother to tighten up on Patches who was sure to want to jump up in greeting of her favorite lady in white.
I wondered briefly if the sea breeze at my back would carry our voices to the one hundred happy witnesses perched precariously in folding chairs. Taking a deep breath I warned the bride and groom that I might seem to be shouting at them, but, I would have to work hard to be heard over the insistent waves of the turning tide. They smiled, nodded their assent and we embarked on a ceremony both ancient and modern.
Readings from Hafiz, Buddha, and Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, mingled with the voices of friends wishing this couple a lasting friendship to support their love. Drawing on traditions hundreds of years in the making, the couple exchanged vows and rings. They also exchanged gifts of sea water and shells in a ritual we crafted for this singular occasion.
Ministry brings me the gift of entering peoples lives just at the moment when they want to mark their greatest joys and most expansive hopes. Poring over readings in my office, our conversations ranged from the practical to the purposeful — What names should they take after the service? How dearly they hoped to be raising children soon.
With a lot of talk and a good bit of laughter, we fashioned from snippets of conversation a vision for this couple’s future. Then, on the beach, when she turned to him, and he turned to her, and the vows they’d written brought both smiles and tears to their eyes — I knew their vision held true and we were witnessing high times at low tide.
Old North Bridge: Battle for Freedom
This year Florida voters have been asked to consider adding a line to the state constitution that limits marriage to one man and one woman. The proponents of that addition aren’t concerned that four laws in Florida already prevent gay and lesbian couples from obtaining marriage licenses in Florida. They are concerned about the so-called ‘gay agenda’ and the general morality of the populace. The same people who put forward this amendment are trying to undo ‘domestic partnership’ laws in several Florida cities and counties. They believe, it seems, that people only deserve the protections of our society when they love the opposite gender, and when they enter into state sanctioned ‘holy matrimony.’
But, the genie of freedom has already left the bottle. Men and women know they are free to love ‘whomever they will.’ They also know that love doesn’t have to be blessed by the church or recognized by the state to be real love. They know the choices are there, beyond the will of a few, and they will have their freedom and their love in generous measure.
We’re marching on a bridge to freedom. We aren’t carrying guns, and likely no shots will be fired. But, I can see the whites of their eyes, and I can see the fear-of-the-other that dwells there. I will keep on marching until they understand that my freedom to love includes them, too.
Prayer is a practice, and it is possible for Unitarian Universalists to practice prayer. At least that’s what I hoped to demonstrate in the service last Sunday. We attempted to practice prayer in music and words and silence. I talked about prayer, hauling out the Latin meaning behind the word to describe it as something ‘obtained by entreaty.’ Unlike the modern notion that prayer is a petition before God, the ancient meaning leaves the question of who is the subject of entreaty open to a broader interpretation. I reminded this congregation that cherishes their fiercely freethinking members that one does not have to believe in a deity in order to pray. Prayer can be an interior search, a conversation with the self.
As described by Erik Walker Wikstrom in his book Simply Pray, prayer might be divided into four phases. Naming, I suggested, can become the process of calling out the wondrous and delightful events of a day. Knowing might be a habit of self-discovery that allows one to consider the good we do as well as the good we fail to do. Listening can resemble both contemplative prayer and the no-thing-ness of Buddhist meditation — it waits without words. Finally, Loving will lead us toward compassion for all of creation, and most importantly, out of the meditation chair and into the world in the spirit of the Unitarian Universalist affirmation which reminds us that ‘service is our prayer.’
I admit I was a little nervous about the possibilities for failure in a service that attempted to both open the door on prayer for non-believers and immediately immerse everyone in the practice of prayer. Our Music Director wrote calm music for a Celtic Blessing and chose two other beautiful songs for the choir. We interspersed the choral music, words about prayer, and silence in a service that I hoped made prayer possible. At the close of the service, one of the members approached with excitement. He realized during the silence that he had been having problems with one of his siblings, and at the same time he began to imagine what he could do to repair the relationship. “I’m not one for meditation of any kind,” he said, “but something really happened to me today.”
Something really happened to me, too. True, I was touched by this and other stories that came my way after our prayers. But, more than this, and without planning it, I gave myself the gift of beginning to pray with this community of caring.
I didn’t have a name for it. But, it was a butterfly that drew me to Tallahassee. The nameless black and white butterfly entered a dream with a message of hope My dreaming self knew all I had to do was protect the delicate creature.
At the time, I was living in Massachusetts and the only black butterfly I knew was the Swallowtail. It didn’t resemble my nocturnal visitor at all. But, still I knew that black and white stranger was an important member of my inner council, turning aside the discouragement that coursed through my life.
I was compelled to paint the triumphant conclusion. By daylight, I sketched the newly emerged butterfly with wings unfurled, poised for flight from a dead branch of a desolate and dying tree. An inner voice was telling a tale of the transformations I needed to embrace. My dead branch of fear grew from a tree choking on a lack of confidence.
Confidence doesn’t grow on trees, nor does courage. I had work to do. Feeling like a butterfly-in-waiting I painted and wrote and talked myself into attitudes that might help me to spread my own wings. I became more assured in my search for a new ministry, and took flight long enough to land, happily, at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Tallahassee. Arriving in July, I was amazed to see my dream butterfly alight on the flowers in our front yard. During each spring and summer, they appear in twos and threes every time I pass through the garden. I have adopted them, and they have adopted me. I like to think they carry confidence and courage on their two-toned wings.
