Reflections
James Galluzzo
A Circle expands forever
It covers all who wish to hold hands And its size depends on each other It is a vision of solidarity It turns outwards to interact with the outside And inward for self-critique A circle expands forever It is a vision of accountability It grows as the other is moved to grow A circle must have a center But a single dot does not make a Circle One tree does not make a forest A circle, a vision of cooperation, mutuality and care By Mercy Amba Oduyoye
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It was a busy time, but no matter. I had to take out my garbage which I carry over to the parish dumpster, a simple choice. My mind was in neutral.
I lifted the lid to toss in my contribution and saw to my shock the upper half of a body lying on garbage sacks gathered into a lumpy mattress. More bags served to blanket the lower half of the man’s body. His eyes were closed. He was young; his hair as black as the garbage bags, falling in long spiral curls. My mind jump shifted into high gear panic mode. Was this a dead body tossed into the dumpster? Then his eyes opened, his arms grabbed his own possessions in a backpack. The man struggled out of sleep to his own fright. He spoke. I spoke. I don't recall what either of us said. Words of surprise, shock, fright, fear, astonishment, packed together like a snowball ready to throw. “Are you gonna report me to the police?” “I only call the cops for a corpse!” “I just wanted in from the rain and a safe place to sleep.” “I’m fine. Just need a shower.” “I had no idea anyone was in there. I thought you were dead, dumped there by an attacker.” He arranged the sacks to cradle his body. He took my garbage for a pillow. I lowered the lid and backed away to go back to my house. But I couldn’t leave him that way. How could I ever explain this to my guardian angel or to my friend who told me the story of the Good Samaritan? I turned back, lifted the lid again and told him he could come to my house for a shower, wash his clothes, have something to eat, take a nap, even stay the night. He would be safe. I introduced myself, told him who I was. His name, he said, was Justin. He borrowed my bathrobe, threw all of his clothes into the washer, took a long shower, and while his clothes were drying, we got better acquainted. Justin is 27, a full blooded Native American. His father is Sioux, his mother, a Dakota. He was born in Portland where he still has relatives. He was raised on a reservation in Montana. He did not graduate from high school but he did get his GED. He successfully passed his initiation into the tribe with the traditional sweat lodge ceremony. He loves the outdoors, feels very close to the earth and God, especially on the sacred mountain of his tribe near the border of the Rocky Mountains. My turn. I told him when I was in junior high my family lived on Puget Sound near a Native American family of the Coast tribe. I had a friend my age in that family and he taught me so much about the forest, its trees, its wildlife, berries, edible plants, digging clams at low tide, picking oysters, roasting a whole fish on hot coals in the outdoor fire pit. I felt like I could have been adopted into their family and tribe. Justin had a job in Portland fixing and rebuilding wood pallets. His problem was transportation. He caught the earliest bus possible, transferred twice more and always was 45 minutes late. His boss tolerated this for a few months but finally let him go. I invited Justin to supper, a simple soup with lots of vegetables and pasta. If he wanted he could stay all night on the pull-out bed. He thought he would. He wanted a cigarette. He said he smoked three or four a day. That’s not nearly as bad a habit as I once had! He pledged to smoke outside, not in the house and he headed for the closest store, taking his backpack and clothes sack with him and walked into the night. He didn’t return. I do not know why. I had been very careful not to be intrusive, to be respectful of him and his native ways. He had remarked that it was hard for him to ask for things, to seek help. How to I end this story? I don’t know. Author: Don Durand Don't look for
days or weeks or years to be great; that's nearly impossible. Look for moments. You possess the power to affect each moment and little or no power to affect the past or the future. Make this moment great. I trusted the Church. I trusted the Church to have the Truth and to teach me about it. The Church did not. What the Church taught me was that I was not good enough. Not good enough for the Church as I was and therefore not good enough for God. Because I was not good enough as I was, I needed to pray like the Church thought I should pray; I needed to practice the rituals the Church said I must to become closer to being “acceptable” to the Church and to God. And because I wasn’t good enough, my mind concluded that I was bad. And because I was bad I always sought to please God, please the Church, please my parents and teachers, please my friends and total strangers. It was like I was supposed to see within their minds what they desired and then I was to act appropriately to bring about the desire that person sought. This was a great burden and was a lot of work. And I couldn’t do it.
This heavy burden seemed to change in 2002 when my mother died. I loved my mother deeply and miss her still. But I think that perhaps with her death I didn’t have any reason to “please” anyone any longer. Over the last 14 years I have moved to a different place. These days I find the holy on my walks to the ponds with Lori and Leon and all my other dogs that came before. There are the guardians, the tall fir trees around the ponds that watch over and guide me. There are the deer, ducks and other water birds, the osprey, eagles and Canada geese, the nutria and beavers that make me feel part of the “family of things” to quote Mary Oliver from Wild Geese. As part of the family of things I am included, and not only me, but everyone and everything. I am good enough out here by the ponds where God is. God is in the breeze, the leaves fluttering to the ground in fall, in the ice on the ponds this past week, in the stillness, in the coldness of the day. The Cedar tree on top of the hill holds me between its bifurcated trunks and listens intently to me when I talk. It seems as if the God Within is walking with me though the grass at the ponds and seeing that “everything is good”. Because this feels so right I do not understand why the Church never once taught me the Bible was metaphor. What was the Church hiding by not talking about metaphor, by not saying that the “rules” didn’t matter, by not telling me that I was complete, whole and holy? By its teachings was the Church putting me down to build itself up? The Church makes mistakes. But it may have gotten one thing right. That is community. The Church brings people together in community. What community means to me is that I have relationships and empathy with many different people. However, the Church ought to do away some of the liturgy and make time for individuals to tell their stories of how God moves in their lives. Those stories would make better sermons than what many pastors and priests give. These days I walk (almost) every day to the ponds. It is holy there. I am held and heard. I can hear the Voice that guides me. If I am not in the stone building in Portland on Sunday, I am, indeed, in communion with the holy and tending to holy things at the ponds. Only love can move effectively across boundaries and across cultures. Love is a very real energy, a spiritual life force that is much more powerful than ideas or mere thoughts. Love is endlessly alive, always flowing toward the lower place, and thus life-giving for all, exactly like water. In fact, there is no form of life that does not need water. No wonder water is such a universal spiritual symbol.
When you die, you are precisely the capacity you have developed to give and to receive love. Your recognition of this is your own “final judgment” of yourself, which means you become responsible for what you now see—not shamed or even rewarded, but just deeply responsible. Not surprisingly, this seems to be the universal testimony of people who have gone through near-death experiences—and returned to tell about them. If you have not received or will not give this gift of love to others, your soul remains tied to a small, empty world which is probably what we mean by hell. God can only give love to those who want it. If you still need to grow in love and increase your capacity to trust Love, God makes room for immense growth surrounding the death experience itself, which is probably what we mean by purgatory. Time is a mental construct of humans. Why would growth be limited to this part of our lives? God and the soul live in an eternal now. If you are already at home in love, you will easily and quickly go to the home of love, which is surely what we mean by heaven. There the growth never stops and the wonder never ceases. If life is always change and growth, eternal life must be infinite possibility and growth! So by all means, every day, and in every way, we must choose to live in love—it is mostly a decision—and even be eager to learn the ever deeper ways of love—which is the unearned grace that follows from the decision! I can only end with Pope Francis’ plea and question from “The Joy of the Gospel”: “So what are we waiting for?” Thich Minh Thien’s Reflection on Kindness
Someone gave me a book as a gift entitled, “The Book of Joy” co-authored by his Holiness, the Dalai Lama and Archbishop Desmond Tutu. One statement in the book attributed to the Archbishop has stayed with me. The statement was, “We grow in kindness when our kindness is tested”. Kindness has been defined and described in different ways over time. The Webster definition states, the quality or state of being kind”. In our Buddhist practices, the term “Metta” or “Loving Kindness” underpins how we relate to each other and the world. It is key in Christian practice as we are admonished to “love thy neighbor as you love yourself”. It the Jewish community, acts of charity and loving kindness are central to the Torah way of life. The Quran has over 200 verses about compassionate living and stresses that righteousness is not in precise observance of rituals but in acts of compassion and kindness. So, no spiritual practice or religion can claim a monopoly on the teaching that embrace kindness. Even in a non-denominational environment life our great Republic; Abraham Lincoln’s vision of working for the healing of a nation, with “malice towards none, with charity for all” led our country out of a war that pitted brother against brother. Amid a vitriolic environment or situation, or when we are besieged by fear, anger or a sense of self-righteousness, it is possible to become more gracious, kind and gentle as the words of Archbishop Tutu suggests? Can we let our engagement with our neighbors, family friends and acquaintances with whom we disagree, shape us into kinder people. When we are angry or feeling self-righteous or when uncharitable and dehumanizing speech is where we initially go, relying on our mindful practices and Metta can let us look at what is our part in this situation. Simply being reactionary or responding in snarky rhetorical punches might feel good in the moment, but does nothing to bring us closer to a kinder, gentler place. Choosing kindness may open possibilities that insults will surely close. Even if we are met with resistance to our kindness, we can choose to respond with loving kindness and compassion, recognizing that we all are suffering. Being kind, gracious and gentle does not mean we avoid rocking the boat about issues we feel strongly about. We are all connected and called to stand against cruelty and stand up for the oppressed. That is how we rock the boat. Kindness, graciousness and gentleness are a means with which we should struggle for justice. In an address to university graduates, Paul Sanders said, “…what I regret most in life are failures of kindness; those moments when another human being was there, in front of me, suffering, and I respond…sensibly. Reservedly. Mildly.” That represents moments where we are not mindful of our interconnectedness, where we view a situation from a selfish and/or short-sighted position. We realize that suffering exists and that we individually cannot end the pain, fear, loneliness, anger, etc. that affects so many. But we can respond with kind words, a smile, a recognition of the suffering we see before us, especially when it brings to a mindful place, our own feeling of being uncomfortable. In each situation, we get the opportunity to test our kindness and we grow. by Don Durand
It has been my observation that passengers boarding the MAX train, looking for a seat, will usually seek out like for like. Older folks sit with older, younger with younger, Hispanics with Hispanics, white with white, black with black, Asian with Asian. I don’t judge this to be overt racism or ageism, just an unconscious comfort zone decision {to be argued another time}. So, I was surprised and pleased recently when a black teen took the seat next to me. He draped his skateboard over a leg as he sat down. I nodded and said “hello”. He answered and settled back for the ride. Even this much conversation was unusual, I thought, crossing both age and racial boundaries. I tentatively started a conversation, of no consequences really. I tired the Blazers first. That got us started. I tried to use younger vocabulary than I am used to. He helped me be cool. (Hopeless). I admitted I didn’t get “rap” music. He certainly didn’t get opera! And so, we rambled on, getting closer to giving up and ending the conversation. Then, from somewhere outside myself, I said to him, “do you mind if I ask a somewhat personal question?” He visibly tightened and mumbled, “What do you want to know?” I don’t know where this came from but I said, “Have you ever experienced prejudice because of... (He flinched)... “because of skateboarding?” Oh, my! His eyes lit up, his face gleamed. He became animated. The unspoken thought: “They always ask about race and nothing happens. Nobody even asks about skateboards.” We exchanged skateboard stories the rest of the trip. He told about adults yelling at him, MAX officers threatening him with tickets and fines and people poking at him with canes. I told him of a time I was almost knocked down by a boarder who very athletically stopped just in time. I had not seen or heard him, but I am hard of hearing and weak of seeing. He swore at me. I explained and apologized. Then he said he was sorry, too. I wished I was young again and athletic to get a board. The almost accident turned into a god moment. So was this lively, funny, rewarding conversation for this old white guy and young black dude. His stop was next. We shook hands. He waved from the platform and skated off. The train moved on. All in all, it wasn’t about race or age. Or was it? by Paul Matthews
To this hearth which is a heart, welcome. Welcome to our hearts. Welcome to our breath seeking to be a story. May those without a place today find welcome here. May those without a tongue be brought to utterance. May the story which hovers above our heads find hospitality. May the song which crosses between living an dead be part of what we sing. Welcome to the fabulous Names of things Share |
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