Martins and Luthers and Misquotes

 

I snapped this photo from my seat at the Washington, D.C. restaurant where I had brunch with a friend last Sunday. I admired the chalk mural, and wasn’t surprised by the MLK Jr. and Obama visages—D.C. was abuzz with inauguration and MLK Jr. Day festivities, decorations, and souvenirs.

But something wasn’t right. Ah, I thought, it’s the quote. 

“Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would fall to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.”

Martin Luther King, Jr. didn’t say that. It’s attributed to Martin Luther. And there’s some debate about whether Luther himself ever actually said it.

After quickly confirming this (thanks, smartphone, and thanks, Wikipedia!) I mused with my friend about whether the artist knew or cared that MLK Jr. didn’t really say this. And about what difference, if any, it makes that the restaurant patrons will come away from their meal thinking that he did. And about how our 500-year-old Reformation rockstar Martin Luther is getting no credit. (Maybe I was sensitive to this, having just come from an Episcopalian worship service. I think the smell of incense is still clinging to me.)

Out of curiosity, I asked a waiter. No, he said, he didn’t realize that the quote was misattributed. And no, the artist wasn’t working at the restaurant today. Hm, I said, well, it’s just interesting to me. A little defensively, he replied, “Well, it’s not gonna get changed now, she spent a long time on it!”

Now, I won’t disclose the name of the name of the restaurant, lest I impact their Yelp reviews. Not that the foodies who come for brunch are all that concerned with historical accuracy regarding 16^th and 20^th century reformers. (Although I bet they’d be indignant if they discovered, say, that their ethically sourced specialty coffees were actually Folgers).

The thing is, this restaurant is located in the Columbia Heights area of D.C., less than a quarter mile from the intersection that was one of the flashpoints for the riots that erupted within hours of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assassination on April 4, 1968. The area was burned out, ravaged by the riots, and didn’t recover for decades. In the past 15 years, with the extension of the D.C. metro out that way, and the accompanying economic recovery, it has become one of the nation’s most rapidly gentrifying zipcodes. The white population there is booming, in the midst of what was a predominantly black and Hispanic neighborhood. 

All that to say, I tend to think there is significance in what we choose to remember or misremember when it comes to the people who have pushed for change, even given their lives for it. As the rector’s sermon that morning had pointed out, ours is a nation rife with historical amnesia, and we have a hard time maintaining enthusiasm for social change for more than about 20 years at a time. So I guess the quote is harmless to some degree, but I do wonder what harm ensues over time if we collectively neglect to let ourselves be confronted, really confronted, by the more pointed exposures of injustice and the summons to toil for justice that marked most of what MLK Jr. really did say.

At least it’s a quote that sounds like it could have been something MLK Jr. said. He planted every seed he could until the very end, when he reached the tomorrow when his world and work did come to an end, leaving a nation scattered with seeds that are still waiting to be watered and tended.

Meanwhile, in our nation’s capital, where every sound bite and slip of the tongue is subject to media scrutiny, I suppose time will tell which words we adhere to, whose inspirational and articulate ideas we really invest in. We choose what to remember. 

Little children to lead us

Today marks a month since the school shooting in Newtown. The media have moved on, of course, and discussions continue about what changes can or should be made to our gun laws. Meanwhile, we try to “process” what happened and our thoughts drift back to those at the epicenter of the tragedy who have embarked on the long, slow journey of grief.

I want to pick up where I left off a month ago:
“May the God who meets us in our fear and sorrow take us by the hand and lead us out in love.”

I wanted to share those words that Monday, but I also deeply needed to hear them myself. My own sorrow and fear felt overwhelming. From my work in recent years I know all too well what the immediate aftermath of a child’s death can look like for parents and siblings and communities. I can picture all too easily the raw expressions of grief when it seems the future has been snatched away forever, and the bewilderment of those who must somehow go on living in the aftermath of such tragic and premature loss.

Comfort emerges in different ways for different people, of course, and there’s no unilateral prescription for when and how healing might unfold. Over and over again, though, I’ve been moved by the way in which children themselves often have a sense of what to do or say in order to face heavy tomorrows. For as much as we adults fret about what to tell the children about grownup-sized tragedies, we also witness the mysterious ways in which their youth gives them access to deep knowing, the kind of knowing we have often become too jaded to recall. We worry about what to tell them; sometimes we just need to listen to what they are telling us.

Maybe that’s why we can hear truth when a child utters something that, were it to come from the lips of an adult, would sound like an empty platitude. When I listened to a 9 year old boy, a surviving Sandy Hook student, tell the evening news reporter that Sunday, “Well, we already made it through one day, two days, three days....I think it’s going to be okay,” I wanted to believe him (help my unbelief!) in a way that no grownup could convince me.

Children, while causing our hearts to fill with fear at the thought of something happening to them, can also surprise us as the bearers of pure hope and love. I’m not talking about cutesy ‘kids say the darndest things’ entertainment; I’m talking about the real wisdom embodied in their wonder, curiosity, and trust.

I’m sure many of us can recount times when “the God who meets us in our fear and sorrow and takes us by the hand to lead us out in love” has appeared to us in the form of a child--not just the Christ-child, but any child.

I’m remembering the huge stack of Christmas and holiday cards I distributed a year ago on Christmas eve as I roamed the halls of the children’s hospital where I was a chaplain. Made and donated by local elementary school students, they carried messages of cheer to kids and families who would be spending Christmas in a hospital room. Some were awkwardly funny (“Hi! I’m so sorry for you that you’re in the hospital. That’s terrible.”) and others were just poignant and honest, like this one (which I take the editorial license of translating as “I want you to feel better”):



I left handfuls of cards with various families, dropping them on bedside tables as anxious parents dozed or looked for ways to pass the time. The recipient I remember most, though, was the 19 year old boy who was all alone, his home life not much better than life in the hospital, whose incurable cancer would take his life just a few months later. On what would be his last Christmas eve, this young man who had so often bitterly expressed his anger and sadness was able to laugh and smile without restraint as he leafed through these crayon-scribbled notes. I watched as the honest well-wishes of those anonymous children touched his heart in ways that no one else could.

I think, too, of the 13 year old boy who unwittingly ministered to me recently, two days after the Sandy Hook tragedy, as I felt weighed down not only with Newtown, but with the pager I was carrying as the weekend on-call chaplain for two local hospitals. My mind and heart were heavy, and even my trusty “Be Not Afraid” reminder above the door in my kitchen could not forestall the sensation that the world is just teeming with brokenness and pain, that all we can do is wait for the other shoe to drop. Well, it was early Sunday morning, and I encountered the boy and his uncle in the hospital chapel; the boy’s 10 year old sister, his only sibling, had died during the night after a lifelong struggle with chronic illness. We sat, talked, lit a candle, and prayed, and then he picked up a Bible and suggested that we read his sister’s favorite Bible passage. Great idea, I said, what is it? “The ten plagues,” he replied, and proceeded to read aloud, about eight chapters of Exodus in their entirety. He calmly read, clearly comforted by the familiarity of the story and the feeling of connection to his sister.

And I, I who was worried about finding the right thing to say or do, I who was burdened by the thought of my Connecticut clergy friends who were facing their congregations that morning, I who felt helpless to change a culture of rampant violence and media circuses, I was given the gift of sitting and listening. Just listening, for nearly an hour, as this dear teenager read to me and to his weeping uncle. Just listening, reminded of how long and drawn-out those terrible plagues were, how long those Hebrews waited for deliverance, how long Pharaoh’s oppression was allowed to persist. Just listening, and letting my prayer align with the ageless cry to God: How long must we endure this pestilence?!

Are we really listening to kids? What are they saying? What are they really asking for?
How great would it be if the conflicting parties around the gun control debate could take a few cues from children. First do some playing, take a nap, and have a snack, and then let’s talk about assault weapons. We forget how adult-centric is the very notion of the right to bear arms. Enough votive candles and teddy bears--if we really want to honor the youngest victims of Newtown, let’s ask children their age whether 300 million guns in this nation make them feel more protected or more imperiled.

We have a long way to go until the wolf dwells peacefully with the lamb, but we get glimpses now and then of the little children who will lead us on that day when Isaiah’s vision becomes reality. Lead on, kiddos.

Farewell, 2012, and farewell, Dr. Arthur Caliandro

I was musing over some vintage images of Father Time and Baby New Year when I saw on Facebook (source of breaking news, for better or worse) that Dr. Arthur Caliandro, senior minister emeritus of Marble Collegiate Church in New York City, has died. My thoughts turned to the ecclesiastical passing of time, and the handoff of leadership from one generation to the next. I felt it would be fitting to close out the year with a nod to Dr. Caliandro and the legacy his ministry leaves. I didn’t know him personally, but I know he was beloved by many; I trust that others who did know him will share memories and tributes in comments here and elsewhere. I hope that the confluence of his passing and the passing of one year to the next might give us occasion to reflect on the sweep of history in which God has seen fit to bless the the ministry of the body of Christ in New Amsterdam/New York, and on the sweep of time in which each of us lives our sacred journey.

For 42 years Arthur Caliandro served as a minister at Marble Collegiate Church in New York City, succeeding Norman Vincent Peale as senior minister in 1985; he retired in 2009 Many of his sermons and reflections can be found at his blog and on Marble’s website.

During Caliandro's tenure, women came into leadership roles and the church’s media ministry expanded to reach millions. His time at Marble was a fruitful chapter in the church’s history, a history which dates back to 1628. The oldest congregation of the collegiate churches in New York, Marble is also the oldest congregation in the Reformed Church in America, turning 385 years old in 2013. It’s mind-boggling to think of how much New York has changed in that span of time, and amazing to think of how the gospel has been expressed in timely and meaningful ways all throughout.

For God’s servant Arthur and for all of us, a prayer from the Book of Common Worship:

O Lord, support us all the day long,
until the shadows lengthen and the evening comes and the busy world is hushed,
and the fever of life is over,
and our work is done.
Then, in your mercy, grant us a safe lodging,
and a holy rest, and peace at the last;
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.

In closing, here are some excerpts from Dr. Caliandro’s January 2009 sermon, “Always Walk Towards the Light.” May Christ’s light, so brightly reflected in people like Arthur Caliandro, beckon us forward into another new year.

“...You and I know very well that on life’s journey—and I believe life is a journey—there is an overwhelming abundance of darkness. There are dark moments when it seems as if a black shroud is put over your head and you cannot see anything. It is total, pure, unadulterated darkness. There are dark days when we see no light. The sun is not coming through, and we wonder will we ever see light again.

And then there are the dark periods, extended periods of depression, discouragement, disillusionment. Those of us who have gone through periods like this often call them 'the dark night of the soul.' I wish it on nobody, and if you have experienced it I know you feel the same. This darkness can be overwhelming.

Yet there is in this world, and always has been, from the creation of humankind, a light, a light that in the history of the world has never, ever gone out, and I can say with confidence it will never go out. This light always is. Yes, there will be dark days. Discouragement, depression. But the light is there. We have the power to choose to walk toward the light.

Something that always fascinates me when I am walking around the city is how, when I see a sidewalk, or a concrete wall, with a big crack in it, somehow, in some miraculous way, there will be a weed or a wildflower sprouting out. It is a miracle. Somehow a seed blew into that tiny crack, and once it got into earth which could nurture it, and a little bit of moisture was added, the seed began to germinate, looking, reaching for the light. When it found the light it began to grow and flourish, no matter how tiny and cramped the space. Light is life. There is no life without light.

….When I tell you—tell all of us—to walk toward light, let me remind you that you are also a source of light. The more you walk toward the light the brighter the light inside you will be. The thirteenth-century German mystic Meister Eckhart talked about this. He said that deep within the soul of every person is a sanctuary, a quiet place, a place of tranquility, a place where there is the light. It is the Christ-light. Quakers have done the best job in describing this light, because they live and worship and gather by the inner light of the Christ.

To experience our Christ-light we have to take some time. We have to go into that inner room and close the door to pray, to sense the light of Christ that is in us, and as time goes on and we nurture and give room for this light, we become different people. We have insight, the insight of the Christ.

Jesus said, ‘I am the light of the world,’ and I believe that He is. ‘Anybody who follows me will always walk in the light and have no darkness.’ Let light guide your footsteps, the light that never goes out.”

Be Not Afraid

 I’m struggling to find words today. I’m tempted to just re-post my piece “Herod’s Long Shadow” from a year ago.

And I’m tempted to take back some of what I said two weeks ago. The power of vulnerability? This week: the horrors of vulnerability. 

The deaths from Friday’s mass shooting in Newtown, Connecticut, simply do not seem so far away. It could have been anywhere. An elementary school. Teachers. Six year olds. Newtown, Anytown, Your Town. How do we face Monday morning after such a catastrophic Friday? 

The kids had drilled for this. The school was secured. The guns were legally owned. What could have prevented it? Who could have known? Despite all our efforts to ensure safety, especially safety for our littlest and most dependent ones, must we accept defeat, steel ourselves for the next inevitable and unpredictable tragedy? Must we live in fear of the worst? Does it just go downhill from here?

“Do not be afraid,” we hear at this time of year. Says the angel to Zechariah,  “do not be afraid.” Says the angel to Mary, “do not be afraid." Says the angel to the shepherds, “do not be afraid.” Says Jesus a whole bunch of times, “do not fear.”

I think it’s the hardest commandment in the Bible. Or maybe the hardest invitation to accept.

Fear not, despite the evidence.

Fear not, against your better judgment.

Fear not, and get some people to help you. You can’t do it alone. 

The cherished traditions of Christmas in a place like Newtown are robbed of their comfort. But the Christmas that points to a God in fragile flesh, that Christmas can stay. It can throb with the rhythm of pain that is Newtown’s heartbeat right now, and throb with the ache that resonates in all of us. That Christmas we will keep. Yes, the one where the solid foundation of God’s limitless love subjected itself to the slippery slope of mortal life, to the limits of skin and bone and breath.

The one where fear and love converge.

Mary traveling late in her third trimester. Scary. No shelter for the night. Scary. Going into labor in animals’ lodging. Being far from home. Running away to hide in Egypt because a deranged grown-up is going to hunt down innocent toddlers. Scary scary scary. 

Perfect love casts out fear, says 1 John 4:18. Our human love is far from perfect, that’s for sure, and a far cry from the kind of love that can dissipate fear altogether. Lord knows we’re human, and Lord knows things take time. God submitted to the drawn-out timelines of gestation and child development, after all.

I will fear no evil, says the psalmist, even in the valley of the shadow of death. For You, God, are there with me. We yearn for God to make love’s victory instantaneous and complete; God yearns to journey with us through the depths of fear, and patiently teaches us to love along the way.

 Today, behold the mysterious God-child who came to join us in our fear, the one who reveals the suffering-with sort of love that alone can restore us to our full humanity.

Today there is good reason to tremble in fear.

And there is good reason to venture out in love.

May the God who meets us in our fear and sorrow take us by the hand and lead us out in love.

Vulnerability

Today I want to commend Brene Brown to you, and point you to some of her work that I hope you’ll watch or read when you get a chance. Brene is a social work research professor at the University of Houston whose work is popular with a wide audience. Here’s a bit from her bio:

“Brené has spent the past ten years studying vulnerability, courage, worthiness, and shame. Brené spent the first five years of her decade-long study focusing on shame and empathy, and is now using that work to explore a concept that she calls Wholeheartedness. She poses the questions:
How do we learn to embrace our vulnerabilities and imperfections so that we can engage in our lives from a place of authenticity and worthiness? How do we cultivate the courage, compassion, and connection that we need to recognize that we are enough – that we are worthy of love, belonging, and joy?”

Her 2010 TED talk on vulnerability became one of the 10 most viewed TED talks; it currently has been viewed over 6.8 million times.

Her books include Daring Greatly: How the Courage to be Vulnerable Transforms the Way we Live, Love, Parent, and Lead (2012), The Gifts of Imperfection: Letting Go of Who We Think We Should Be and Embracing Who We Are (2010), and I Thought It Was Just Me (but it isn’t): Telling the Truth About Perfectionism, Inadequacy, and Power (2007).

Last week’s episode of NPR’s On Being with Krista Tippett featured an interview with Brene. You can listen here.

Brene’s work compellingly articulates how our willingness to be vulnerable is so essential to our capacity for connection in relationships. Her description of “wholeheartedness” as a way of living that embraces vulnerability and imperfection is finding broad resonance. Interestingly, she mentions in her On Being interview that part of what inspired her to capture her concept in the word “wholehearted” was the prayer she hears often in the liturgy of her Episcopal congregation, in which the gathered body confesses to God, “we have not loved you with our whole hearts.”

I recently read her most recent book, Daring Greatly, which explores these questions, as she summarizes on her website:

“1. What drives our fear of being vulnerable?

2. How are we protecting ourselves from vulnerability?

3. What price are we paying when we shut down and disengage?

4. How do we own and engage with vulnerability so we can start transforming the way we live, love, parent, and lead?”

Can you think of many people who wouldn’t benefit from exploring these questions a bit? Regardless of whether you find her points convincing or her books engaging, you have to admit that there’s something in her work that touches on our longings--or at least those of the several million people who’ve sought out her words. For me in the particular context of my first semester of a doctoral program, Brene’s ideas have offered some validation and encouragement. Her voice has been helpful as I try to understand the insidious “imposter syndrome” that bedevils so many of us; she offers language which describes the more nuanced mechanisms that lead us in the first place to such feelings of inadequacy and fear of being exposed. As Advent begins, I also can’t help but connect her reflections on vulnerability to the impending tableau of a newborn in a stable. If for no other reason, I want to better understand the richness of vulnerability because it surely echoes something about the character of a God whose power and whose desire for connection is revealed in such utterly exposed places as the manger and the cross.