World Water Day: some random thoughts

Today is World Water Day. Water is not ubiquitous for everyone — issues with water present a crisis to 300,000,000 people in emergency situations every year.

Three hundred million people is a little over 4% of the people in the world. Just for reference, it’s also the approximate population of the United States; imagine if everyone in the United States didn’t have access to clean water… Most of us do, but some people don’t. For example, think about homeless people living on the streets or in their cars. For them, water isn’t a matter of walking in to the next room and turning on the tap.

I lived in Sonoma County years ago during a severe drought. I lived out in the country, and we got our water from a well. It didn’t take too long for the well to go dry. As a result of this, we had to have water trucked in every week for our basic needs. This wasn’t considered safe for drinking, so we also got bottled water delivery. I was in college then. The campus was only a few miles away and, ironically, had a large aquifer running underground. We went to the gym there to shower. In Marin County just to the south of us–one of the most affluent locales in the country–water rationing was in effect, limiting residents to 50 gallons per person per day (we averaged 22 gallons per person per day).

This went on for a couple of years. And then it started raining again. As a matter of fact, we went from drought to flooding. At first, people continued to use much less water than they had prior to the drought–but then our old water-use habits began to sneak back in. Even so, I never thought about water in quite the same way.

5 [Jesus] stopped at Sychar, a town in Samaria, near the tract of land Jacob had given to his son Joseph, 6 and Jacob’s Well was there. Jesus, weary from the journey, came and sat by the well. It was around noon.

7 When a Samaritan woman came to draw water, Jesus said to her, “Give me a drink.” 8 The disciples had gone off to the town to buy provisions.

• John 4:5-8, The Inclusive Bible: The First Egalitarian Translation

This bible passage continues to tell of an infamous woman caught in a web of sexual sin and lies. But these verses are also important in both what they say and what they don’t say. Jesus is frequently searching for some alone time in scripture. Here he is, catching a few of those moments, sitting under the relative coolness under a shade tree to take refuge from the blistering noontime heat and sun. He’s in Samaria, but at a site that has historic significance. Walking through the desert has made him thirsty, and when a woman shows up to draw water from the well he asks (or demands, depending on which translation) that she give him a drink.

“Every day, all around the world, women are connecting with water. Indeed, water is at the core of women’s responsibilities in many societies, and millions of women and girls spend their days collecting and preparing water for cooking, cleaning, drinking and maintaining sanitation.” -The Nature Conservancy

The activity of water collecting and hauling is and always has been an important part of “women’s work” in much of the world. Not only is it critical in providing for their families, but it is also vital (e.g. vitas, “life giving”) for the women themselves–providing them an opportunity to be with other women for a brief time. This Samaritan woman had been shunned, not allowed to go get water when the other women were there in the cool of the morning; she had to go later, alone, during the heat of the day.

In the orthodox church, this woman later becomes St. Photina (Greek) / St. Svetlana (Russian), names that mean “light” and “pure.”

Interestingly enough, ultraviolet light is being used to make water pure, a technology that may well provide drinking water to many people around the globe. Maybe this invention should be called the Photina.

Water Questions & Answers from the USGS

Life… and death

I’ve lost two friends recently, people who were significantly older, people who I count as dear friends–but as spiritual mentors and guides and role models as well. Neither of their deaths was a surprise… but I’ve been hit more deeply than I could have anticipated. My life was enriched by each of these people, Bill and Margaret; their deaths have left that hollow empty place in my soul.

My friend Donna posted on Facebook today about the death of one of her students–the first of her students to die. Donna wrote:

The first of my former students passed away yesterday: Kirby Capen ’07. She successfully petitioned the Engineering Program to allow her to take ASL as her foreign language. Between graduating and taking an engineering job in the field of energy efficiency, she won a grant from Projects for Peace to teach beading to teenage girls in Ghana, working to create relationships of understanding across deaf and hearing communities and across religious backgrounds. May her memory be for a blessing.

Some people life a far longer lifespan and accomplish far less than this. Indeed, Kirby’s memory, even though I never met her, blessed me today.

And so I looked at the link that Donna posted, to KirbyStrong, a blog-diary on the life-and-death struggle written by the family…

One post in particular struck me. It’s called “Kodesh.”

Kodesh

24 Jan 2012
By Robert

When my mother died in 1994, we sat Shiva for 6 days. At some point Owen, 5 years old, said to Joel’s mother on the phone, “Nanny died and we have been having a party ever since.”

This past weekend we were overwhelmed, in the best sort of way, by a flood of Kirby’s friends from all her walks of life. Burgundy Farm Country Day School first through third grade; CHDS, fourth through eighth grade; School Without Walls (SWW), high school; Smith, Engineering, Morrow House, Hillel, signing table; PowerCon; New York City; Capitol Hill; Temple Micah; and blood relatives. (With overlaps: Smith/NYC, CHDS/Capitol Hill, Temple Micah/Capitol Hill etc. etc.

Our neighbors opened their houses and hosted Kirby’s visitors, we filled beds on A Street and 9th Street. P, B and J played guitars and harp all day Saturday, filling the house with music. We ate, we drank, we washed dishes and cleaned up then started all over again. People came to Kirby’s bedside as individuals and in groups, singing to her, reading poetry to her, telling stories, reminiscing, showing her pictures, praying for her, crying, and sometimes just holding her hand as she appeared to sleep. We shared Shabbat dinner and Havdalah (end of Sabbath) services together, surrounding Kirby and embracing each other as we recited the prayers and performed the rituals.

As the Rabbi was leaving I shared my observation and concern that it was like an awake wake. Was this the right thing to be doing? He replied:

“The two words are
“Kodesh and chol
“This is the Havdalah prayer—we separate kodesh (holy) from chol (ordinary).
“The Hebrew word chol, besides meaning ordinary\secular\profane—also means sand. Sand is what flows right through your fingers. No grain of sand sticks to any other. This is chol—a totally unconnected world.
“Kodesh is the opposite—Kodesh is cleaving together—adhering—community. This is why the Hebrew word for marriage is Kiddushin—the married couple is bound together in the most unique way. Kodesh\holiness is in community.”

Kirby recently described herself as a networker, a connector, someone who brings others together. She has brought us all together in a community of holiness.

Life and death, the ordinary and the holy, separateness and sticking together, the bitter and the sweet. It’s all intertwined–sometimes messily, sometimes more cleanly. I pray comfort for the family and friends of Kirby. I wish that everyone had such a loving family and friends. (My friends Bill and Margaret did too.)

May we all work to be blessings to each other and to the whole world. May be all be brought together in a community of holiness.

SynchroBlog: Hope

Hope in the promise of yet another spring to come
is what keeps us from chopping down the firewood
of the apparently dead trees of winter.

 

A Christmas Message from Sister Joan Chittister

I’ve said it before: if the Catholic Church had the vision to ordain women to the priesthood, Joan Chittister would be the Pope. Here’s her Christmas message that I got in today’s email. You can find more or sign up for her emails at benetvision.org.

Now and here bells everywhere are ringing again. The gift boxes are heaping up. Everybody’s saying it: “Christmas Blessings… God bless you at Christmas time… Christmas Peace to you and yours… Merry Christmas.” But is there any truth at all to any of this manufactured joy? Or is this, at best, nothing more than an exercise in auto-suggestion: Say it often enough and you’ll think it’s true, whatever the facts to the contrary.

Christians, after all, at least from one perspective, live a very schizophrenic life. As Paul puts it in one of his letters to the fragile communities of the early church, “Your standards should be different than those around you.” But at Christmas time, those standards can get terribly confusing. The Christian standard says that Christ, our Peace, has been born. But look around you. The other standard, the real public norm, the front page of our daily newspapers, says that there is no such thing as peace anywhere.

So, are we simply kidding ourselves when we put up manger scenes in our parks, and weigh our churches down with bark-covered, life-size crèches, and decorate the crib sets under our Christmas trees? Will the world ever really come to peace? In fact, is there really any such thing as peace? And, most of all, what do we have to do with it? What are we singing about? (It depends, I believe, on what you think “peace” means.)

One kind of peace is a state of life that is free from chaos and turbulence, from violence and institutionally legitimated death. That kind of peace happens often enough in history to show us that such a thing is possible. But don’t be fooled: that kind of peace can be achieved as easily through force as well as through justice. In the latter, little is gained by it.

But there is another kind of peace. This kind of peace does not come either from the denial of evil or the acceptance of oppression. This kind comes from the center of us and flows through us like a conduit to the world around us.

This kind of peace is the peace of those who know truth and proclaim it, who recognize oppression and refuse to accept it, who understand God’s will for the world and pursue it. This kind of peace comes with the realization that it is our obligation to birth it for the rest of the world so that what the mangers and crèches and crib sets of the world point to can become real in us—and because of us—in our own time.

The award-winning foreign film “Joyeux Noël” reminds us of another Christmas Eve. This one in Europe during the bloodiest period in WWI. Knee deep in wet snow and ice that jammed their weapons and froze their souls, two armies—one French and Scottish, one German—faced one another across a barbed-wired field. Hundreds of fallen soldiers had already died on both sides of the rough and blood-soaked land. Then suddenly, the Christmas truce began. The men put down their weapons, ceased for awhile to be soldiers, and bowed their heads while they listened to the other side sing Christmas carols.

That is the kind of peace—disarmed, foreign to hate, and receiving of the other—that was born in the manger we remember at Christmas time. That is the kind of Christmas peace we must ourselves seek to be. Then “Merry Christmas” will really mean something.

Bill Hopper follow-up (from his family)

Dear Friends of Bill (and Mollie) Hopper,

We are sorry to have to tell you that our father died this past Monday, December 12th, nine days before his 86th birthday on December 21st.

Many of you know that he had been suffering from COPD for several years, and often his breathing was quite difficult. He contracted pneumonia after he had been taken to the hospital for an unrelated health problem a couple of weeks ago. Fortunately he had seen each of his three daughters very recently. Laura and Katie were with him on Thanksgiving, Jane was able to see him for a couple of days after he was moved from the hospital to a skilled nursing facility, and Mary Ann and Mark arrived to see him the day before he died.

Our parents had many friends and we know that their friendships with all of you gave them great joy and comfort. Bill and Mollie loved to keep in touch with all of you and to visit (and be visited) whenever they could.

There will be a memorial service for our dad on Saturday, January 21st at 3:00 p.m. at Westminster Gardens in Duarte, California. There will also be a second memorial service at Louisville Seminary in early February when his ashes are interred with our mom’s in the seminary’s memorial garden.

In lieu of flowers, we would appreciate memorial gifts to any of three organizations that our dad valued very highly – Louisville Seminary, the overseas mission of the Presbyterian Church, or Westminster Gardens, the wonderful community where Bill and Mollie lived for 15 years following their retirement.

The addresses are listed below.

Thank you all very much for your friendship with our parents. They were always very grateful for the part that you played in their lives.  There is a recent photo of our mom and dad at the end of this email, with the photo file attached.

Sincerely,
Mary Ann Kearns
Jane Adamson
Laura Hopper

Memorials may be sent to:

• Louisville Seminary
  Mr. Dale Melton
  1044 Alta Vista Rd.
  Louisville, KY   40205

• PC(USA)
  PO Box 643700
  Pittsburgh, PA   15264-3700
  make the check out to PC(USA) and write on the memo line E864015-World Missions

• Westminster Gardens
  Judy Thorndyke
  1420 Santo Domingo Ave.
  Duarte, CA  91010

William H. Hopper, Jr. – 1925 – 2011
Mollie Brown Hopper – 1925 – 2010

In Memoriam: William H. (Bill) Hopper, Jr.

A dear friend of mine died this morning.

From San Gabriel Executive Presbyter Ruth Santana Grace:

It is with deep sadness that I share the news that the Rev. Bill Hopper has passed away. He died early this morning. As you know, Bill dedicated his life to the ministry of the Church of Jesus Christ as a missionary, executive, pastor, leader and much more. He will be deeply missed. I am confident that the heavens opened to receive him as he crossed over from this life to the next; I am equally confident that God’s voice was heard echoing, saying “This is my servant and son, in whom I am well pleased.” We will let you know of plans for his memorial service once we have them. Please pray for his family as they make this journey – may they experience the hope of the resurrection and the love of Christ through friends and family.

I got to know Bill a number of years ago when I was working at Westminster Gardens, a local retirement community which was then exclusively for those who had served the Presbyterian church as missionaries, ministers, or some other capacity under the denominational Board of Pensions. Bill was the president of the Residents’ Association then and I was serving as the Director of Communications, so we worked together on several projects. As we got to know each other, I shared with him that I am a lesbian; he shared with me that one of his and his wife Mollie’s three daughters is also a lesbian. Since then I have spent quite a lot of time with Bill. Despite the fact that Melinda and I are the age of Bill’s daughters, and Bill was of an unknown-to-me age at least as old as my own parents, I always felt that we were friends. Check that: I knew that we were friends.

When Melinda and I legally married in 2008, it was in our church, and Bill and Mollie (who preceded him in death) were among those who gathered to witness the occasion and to rejoice with us. This meant and still means a lot to us.

Always a gentleman, Bill was born and grew up in Birmingham, Alabama. His father was a Presbyterian minister who was an eloquent preacher. Bill was a PK–a preacher’s kid–so there were certain expectations of him, some by his family, others by his friends. Many PKs rebel in some way: Bill’s way was in a socially acceptable one; Bill loved baseball.

As a kid, Bill would listen to the Birmingham Barons on the radio. He was a big fan of his home team. The radio announcer for the Barons was Bull Connor–who would later become in many ways the face of the racist, segregationist, Jim Crow South. I don’t know what Bill’s father’s theology and politics were, but when Bill found out about Bull Connor and what he stood for he stopped listening to the broadcasts. (I’m no Dodgers fan, but I’ve listened to the voice of the Dodgers, Vin Scully, for much of my life. It would be hard to say, “No more,” and turn off that voice forever.) Bill’s love of baseball continued, however–something that he and I shared. But his love for justice and equality and all things progressive were far greater–something else we shared.

Bill served as a missionary in Iran and Pakistan. Although the political leaders of those countries have changed since then, much of what we read now was true then. The three daughters lived their formative years in Iran, with one of them having been born there–they express remorse that they can never return to the land of their childhood. Bill contracted a powerful form of malaria in Iran, which cut their service short in order for him to return to the United States for medical treatment. He served the church in other ways for a few years, but he and Mollie felt like they needed to return to the mission field, so they got and assignment in Pakistan; they served there until his malaria returned. As Ruth said above, he served the church at every possible level: from the mission field to the local church to presbytery, synod and General Assembly. For a number of years he led the commissioner training prior to each year’s GA–something vital to the success of our then-annual conventions.

Well into his retirement, Bill and former PC(USA) Stated Clerk Clifton Kirkpatrick–a colleague, neighbor, close friend and tennis partner–decided they would write a book together. I played a small part in creating that book, What Unites Presbyterians: Common Ground for Troubled Times, so I know that Bill did much of the heavy lifting, while Cliff read the chapters and made suggestions and corrections. It was a good collaboration, and one they enjoyed, so they wrote several other books together after that. Something special about Bill, though, was that he wasn’t one who only associated with people who held the same theological and/or political views. Bill was a friend to many people regardless. Bill was the embodiment of grace.

Bill was active in the Witherspoon Society (now part of Presbyterians for Justice), More Light Presbyterians, the Covenant Network of Presbyterians, and was a supporter of That All May Freely Serve. He encouraged me, prodded me, helped me, and occasionally gently guided and tempered me in my work with those groups and for those same causes. Bill was an ardent supporter of women’s ordination and service, of racial and ethnic civil rights, and of many other causes. I don’t know if anyone will ever know his full effect on the world though, because he was so modest about his own contributions.

At the same time, he had a great dry sense of humor, and was a wonderful conversationalist and story-teller. He had a deep, somewhat gravelly voice and that Alabama-Kentucky accent which was so easy to listen to. He delighted in sharing stories about his children and grandchildren in way that I loved to hear.

Even though I know that he’s now rejoined with his life and life-ever-after partner Mollie and other friends and family members in the presence of the Christ who he served and loved in life, I will miss him a lot. I am proud that he was both a friend and a mentor, and I am a better person for having known him. Thanks, and God bless you, Bill Hopper.

* * * * * * * * * *

I forgot to say something important! Bill was one of the few people I know who liked fruitcake. A long-time tea-totaller, he even liked the booze-soaked ones. Every year someone would likely give me a fruitcake for Christmas (or I’d rescue one from someone else), and I’d make sure that it went to Bill. He’d have a tiny sliver every day for months–and would enjoy it immensely. If someone gives me a fruitcake this year I’ll make sure to have a tiny slice and think of him.

Transgender Day of Remembrance

We all have friends. Some, of course, are closer than others. Some are close enough that we call them our chosen family.

I had a friend named Greg who was like that.

Greg was transgender. More accurately, Greg was bi-gender–the only person I’ve ever known to use that terminology. Ze (a gender-neutral pronoun often preferred by transgender people) was also Delia (deh-LIE-a) but the personal expression that I knew best was Greg.

[I know this sounds weird. That's because I don't have the right words, not because of the person I knew and loved. Greg/Delia wasn't a multiple personality. Ze flowed freely back and forth, but was mostly integrated into one being. It's hard for me to explain, but I never had a problem with it because of the human being who ze was. But since I knew Greg best, I'll use Greg for this post.]

Greg lived in the Tenderloin District of San Francisco. Ze had a great old apartment at Geary and Leavenworth. The Tenderloin is a very rough-edged place with its obvious homeless people, substance users and sellers, and sex workers, but it’s also very real, with many charms (even if they’re a bit frayed). From the street, the building looked run-down and funky, but as soon as you crossed through the solid wood door you were in a beautiful place built in the 1930s. To get to Greg’s apartment you walked up two sweeping round staircases with thick carpeting and polished wooden bannisters. It was a world unto itself. (Go here for a fascinating look at the Tenderloin.)

We spent many hours in hir (gender-neutral possessive pronoun) apartment. This was in the mid-1980s. I lived in the Castro, but Greg wasn’t as comfortable there–and Delia definitely was uncomfortable there. We cooked and ate together, we laughed and told stories. We went to the movies. We often went to a bar on the corner of hir block–the Hob Nob Lounge.

The Hob Nob was a mostly male-to-female transgender bar but there were some older gay men who hung out there too. This was the kind of place that opened at 6:00a.m. and stayed open until 2:00a.m. There was a little bar with about five barstools, and about four tables: the capacity of the place had to be around 20 patrons. This was the epitome of a Tenderloin dive bar. The bartenders were all very protective. I’m not petite by any measure, but the one who was there most often when I went in absolutely dwarfed me. I certainly wouldn’t mess with hir! It was best to walk in with someone who was a regular customer–someone like my friend. Unlike in the Castro, drinks were cheap and they were strong. I mostly knew the daytime clientele, since I didn’t often stay in the Tenderloin after dark unless Greg and I were having a slumber party. I was busy living my wild lesbian life in those days, but I probably averaged a trip to the Tenderloin once or twice a week.

Greg had come to San Francisco from Dallas. He (and I use that intentionally here) had grown up in a small West Texas town that a queer kid can’t wait to get away from. Ze had a strong Texas accent and a great laugh and a twinkle in zir eye that made you want to know the story behind it.

But, as with all of us, there was baggage. The worst part for Greg was being estranged from family of origin. It was “bad enough” for them when Greg came out as a gay man, but when ze came out to them as transgender/bi-gender, they just couldn’t listen any longer, so ze left and they never talked again. Greg wanted to be a happy-go-lucky person, so that was what ze projected, but there was so much more that wasn’t let out that it led to self-medication. Not just the alcohol consumed at the Hob Nob, but ze also got into drugs–marijuana, then both speed and heroin. And then Greg got AIDS and quickly died.

I miss Greg. I miss Delia. I’m only reminiscing. There’s no lesson here. Well, I guess there is: people are people, and you never know how wonderful someone is until you take a risk and get to know them. This is true no matter what their worldly condition is. I’m just glad that I once had Greg in my life.

+ + + + +

Transgender Day of Remembrance is on November 20. For more information go to http://www.transgenderdor.org/.

Occupy Wall Street | Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography

I’m re-reading Jesus: A Revolutionary Biography by John Dominic Crossan. It’s a short book, but not a quick nor easy read for me since there’s so much to process. (Assume however that since it’s a re-read that I recommend this book highly.)

In this book, Crossan talks about the socioeconomic status of Jesus: not the well-educated, suburban Republican Jesus invoked by so many so-called Christians of our time, but the historic Jesus of his time and place.

Read this excerpt. Think about the current corporate greed and the Occupy Wall Street, Occupy Everywhere movement that’s going on. Compare the social structure and percentages of Jesus’ time to our own. How can there be any question as to where the REAL Jesus would stand?

__________

Whether we read “carpenter” with Mark or “carpenter’s son” with Matthew makes little difference in a world where sons usually followed their father’s professions in any case. But what exactly was the social or economic class of a tekton, here translated as “carpenter”? The immediate problem is to avoid interpreting a term like carpenter in modern terms as a skilled, well-paid, and respected member of the middle class. But the only way to do that effectively is to discipline our imagination with both social history and cross-cultural anthropology.

Ramsay MacMullen has noted that one’s social pedigree would easily be known in the Greco-Roman world and that a description such as “carpenter” indicated lower-class status.[1] At the back of his book he gives a “Lexicon of Snobbery” filled with terms used by literate and therefore upper-class Greco-Roman authors to indicate their prejudice against illiterate and therefore lower-class individuals. Among those terms is tekton, or “carpenter,” the same term used for Jesus in Mark 6:3 and for Joseph in Matthew 13:55. One should not, of course, ever presume that upper-class sneers dictated how the lower classes actually felt about themselves. But, in general, the great divide in the Greco-Roman world was between those who had to work with their hands and those who did not.

An earlier study by Gerhard Lenski helps put all of that in a wider cross-cultural frame of reference.[2] He divides human societies, by technology and ecology, into hunting and gathering, simple horticultural, advanced horticultural, agrarian, and industrial societies. The Roman Empire was an agrarian society, characterized by the forging of iron plows, the harnessing of animal traction, and the use of wheel and sail to move goods. It was also characterized by an abysmal gulf separating the upper from the lower classes. On one side of that great divide were the Ruler and the Governors, who together made up 1 percent of the population but owned at least half of the land. Also on that same side were three other classes: the Priests, who could own as much as 15 percent of the land; the Retainers, ranging from military generals to expert bureaucrats; and the Merchants, who probably evolved upward from the lower classes but who could end up with considerable wealth and even some political power as well. On the other side were, above all, the Peasants—that vast majority of the population about two-thirds of whose annual crop went to support the upper classes. If they were lucky they lived at subsistence level, barely able to support family, animals, and social obligations and still have enough for the next year’s seed supply. If they were not lucky, drought, debt, disease, or death forced them off their own land and into share-cropping, tenant farming, or worse. Next came the Artisans, about 5 percent of the population, below the Peasants in social class because they were usually recruited and replenished from its dispossessed members. Beneath them were the Degraded and Expendable classes—the former with origins, occupations, or conditions rendering them outcasts; the latter, maybe as much as 10 percent of the population, ranging from beggars and outlaws to hustlers, day laborers, and slaves. Those Expendables existed, as that terrible title suggests, because, despite mortality and disease, war and famine, agrarian societies usually contained far more of the lower classes than the upper classes found it profitable to employ. Expendables were, in other words, a systemic necessity.

If Jesus was a carpenter, therefore, he belonged to the Artisan class, that group pushed into the dangerous space between Peasants and Degradeds or Expendables. I emphasize that any decision on Jesus’ socioeconomic class must be made not in terms of Christian theology but of cross-cultural anthropology, not in terms of those interested in exalting Jesus but in terms of those not even thinking of his existence.
[1] Ramsay MacMullen, Roman Social Relations: 50 B.C. to A.D. 384 (New Haven, CT, and London: Yale Univ. Press, 1974), pages 17-18, 107-108,139-140,198 note 82.

[2] Gerhard Lenski, Power and Privilege: A Theory of Social Stratification (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1966), pages 189-296.

Troy Davis

Here in the San Gabriel Valley of California there’s a nearby town called San Dimas. I frequently go to San Dimas, since that’s where the nearest Trader Joe’s is located.

Jesus was convicted in a Jewish court, and then went through the appellate process of being brought before Herod, who didn’t provide any legal relief from that decision. When Jesus was executed it was between two common criminals. In the gospel of Luke, the one on the right acknowledges Jesus as the Messiah. Jesus responds to him with a message of love and forgiveness—assuring him of his eternal place in Paradise. This theif, San Dimas (or Saint Dismas in English), was never canonized by the Church. He’s only a saint by tradition—one of the people’s saints. As a matter of fact, he is unnamed in scripture: his name is also a tradition. Dismas comes from Greek, and means “sunset” or “death.”

Luke 23:32-43

³² Two others were also led off with Jesus, criminals who were to be put to death. ³³ When they had reached the place called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there—together with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left. ³⁴ And Jesus said, “Abba forgive them. They don’t know what they are doing.” Then they divided his garments, rolling dice for them.

³⁵ The people stood there watching. The rulers, however, jeered him and said, “He saved others, let him save himself—if he really is the Messiah of God, the Chosen One!” ³⁶ The soldiers also mocked him. They served Jesus sour wine ³⁷ and said, “if you are really the King of the Jews, save yourself!” ³⁸ There was an inscription above Jesus that read, “This is the King of the Jews.”

³⁹ One of the criminals who hung there beside him insulted Jesus, too, saying, “Are you really the Messiah? Then save yourself—and us!”

⁴⁰ But the other answered the first with a rebuke: “Don’t you even fear God? ⁴¹ We are only paying the price for what we have done, but this one has done nothing wrong!”

⁴² Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your glory.”

⁴³ Jesus replied, “The truth is, today you’ll be with me in paradise.”

Today a man is most likely going to be executed by the State of Georgia. This man’s name is Troy Davis. He was convicted, and the conviction subsequently went through the appeals processes. All the while, Troy Davis (who had never previously been convicted of any crime) has persisted in proclaiming his innocence. Most of the witnesses who testified against him have recanted their testimony, and large numbers of people—ordinary people and some of great repute, like the Pope, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, former US Presidents and other elected representatives, and former FBI Director Sessions—have stepped forward and said no to this impending execution.

But the Georgia Board of Pardons and Parole has denied any further action on the part of Troy Davis and his lawyers to save his life. The execution of a man who may well not be guilty is to proceed in a matter of hours—just about at the dismas of the day: death followed by the sunset at 7:35 p.m.

No, I’m not comparing Troy Davis to Jesus. I do believe that if this injustice is carried out, Troy Davis will be with Jesus in Paradise. But things happen today as they have throughout history that are wrong—and they’re things that WE do, that WE create. May God have mercy on our souls.

Synchroblog – The Devil Made Me Do It

Okay, so I wasn’t going to participate this month. The topic is just too weird, and there are way too many bizarro things out there attributing things to an evil entity with lots of names.

… what are some weird, whacky or just plain different things you’ve heard taught about Satan as you’ve been a member of this tribe called Christian? What do you think of those ideas? How have they shaped your perspective (or not) about Jesus and this tribe? This month is wide open for being fun or being serious … because this subject could run in many different directions depending on the tradition you come from. So as you write and as you read, please remember to have grace in abundance for the journey that each has been on.

And then… I ran into this. (Don’t ask how I got there. I can’t even remember because this strangeness chased it right out of my head.)

Gays Make New Devil DNA Squirt Gun

Yes, once again teh gays are in cahoots with Satan, this time to homo-convert young boys via “playthings.” And remember: “Nothing is worst than homosexuality.” Tyson Bowers III (who I’d never heard of before, and who apparently has no life of his own so he has to spend the time that God gave him attacking others) says so right here! Sigh…

You can find all of the posts on this month’s synchroblog here. Now excuse me because I have to go wash my mind out with soap to get rid of this stupid ridiculous, homophobic imagery.

Other posts from this month’s synchroblog:

• Jeremy Myers at Till He Comes – The Devil Made Me Go To Church
• K.W. Leslie at More Christ – Devilish Misinformation
• Marta Layton at Fidesquarens – The Christian Jihad
• Bill Sahlman at Creative Reflections – The [one who will go unnamed] Made Me Do It 
• Kathy Escobar at kathy escobar – the stranger (who’s a little to familiar) & the shepherd
• Liz Dyer at Grace Rules – Have You Inhaled Demon Spirits?

A Hymn for September 11

When Sudden Terror Tears Apart

This hymn text was composed by Dr. Carl P. Daw, Jr., Executive Director of The Hymn Society of America and Canada, five days after the terrorist attacks of September 11, 2001. He explains:

“As you will understand, it has been hard to concentrate on office work this week. One of the ways I have dealt with the situation is to write the text quoted below. You are welcome to use it or to pass it along to someone you think might want it. Hope Publishing Company is waiving the usual fee as long as the copyright information appears.” “The text may be used without charge in any worship context as long as the copyright statement is included.”

C.M. Suggested Tunes: Bangor, Detroit
or C.M.D. Suggested Tune: Third Mode Melody
Other hymn tunes may be found in The United Methodist Hymnal metrical index on page 926. You might consider tunes for, Amazing Grace or O God, Our Help In Ages Past.

When sudden terror tears apart
the world we thought was ours,
we find how fragile strength can be,
how limited our powers.

As tower and fortress fall, we watch
with disbelieving stare
and numbly hear the anguished cries
that pierce the ash-filled air.

Yet most of all we are aware
of emptiness and void:
of lives cut short, of structures razed,
of confidence destroyed.

From this abyss of doubt and fear
we grope for words to pray,
and hear our stammering tongues embrace
a timeless Kyrie.

Have mercy, Lord, give strength and peace,
and make our courage great;
restrain our urge to seek revenge,
to turn our hurt to hate.

Help us to know your steadfast love,
your presence near as breath;
rekindle in our hearts the hope
of life that conquers death.

---

Additional information on Dr. Carl P. Daw, Jr. can be found here.
Copyright © 2001 Hope Publishing Co., Carol Stream IL 60188. All rights reserved.

Cancer: my story… and some unsolicited advice

This week I’m celebrating ten years as a cancer survivor. I honestly believe that God has given me a responsibility of ministering to others with cancer along with my own personal celebration. Yesterday morning I met a man whose spouse is undergoing treatment for cancer, and later in the day Melinda shared with me that a colleague friend has been recently diagnosed; I wrote this letter to the friend and his spouse. I post it here in the hope that it might help someone else.

Dear friends,

Ten years ago this week I was discovered to have colon cancer. It wasn’t through any standard diagnostic procedure. I was feeling really sick (but I thought I’d get over it in time). But Melinda was worried about me, and she rushed home late at night, interrupting a business trip (fortunately she was driving, and only up in the Central Valley). She took me to the ER. Pretty soon I was going through the entire battery of tests, then meeting the woman who was to become my surgeon. I was in the hospital for three weeks after having a whole lot of my guts removed (and a week in a drug-induced coma for the ultimate in pain management). When I went to see my surgeon for my first follow-up visit, she said, “You weren’t ready to hear this before, but you were only two to three days from being inoperable.” Of course she was right!

Who’s ever ready to hear any words that have to do with ME or someone I love having cancer?

After a period of healing from my surgery, I then underwent chemo since there were cancer cells in several of the lymph nodes that were removed during my surgery. I hated it. It made me sick and weak. My veins got thin and I had to have a chemo port inserted. I had what’s called “chemo brain” (the chemicals made it hard for me to think even to the point of doing day-to-day activities). I became light sensitive and had some other side effects. But if I had to do it again, I’d say, “Let’s get started!”

Now, even 10 years afterwards, I still see the oncologist every six months. I have to have bloodwork a week before I see her — at which time my anxiety builds and builds. Fortunately, with only one exception, she is able to say to me, “Perfect! See you again in six months.” (The exception turned out to be nothing, but it was scary getting to the point where we knew that.)

So I didn’t die at the outset when I easily could have. I didn’t die after the surgery, which was also a fairly strong possibility. Also, the statistical prognosis for my kind of colon cancer isn’t good: only a 50% five-year survival rate. And yet… here I am, alive and kicking!

Things that help are: having [your loved one] around; having a back-up person when [loved one] needs a respite (and [loved one]: taking an afternoon-off break when you need one); keeping a positive, affirmative attitude even on the worst days (I know that sounds contradictory, but it’s important); and keeping your sense of humor. [After I'd been home for several days, still feeling lousy and weak, Melinda brought in the DVD of "Shrek" which I hadn't seen yet. It made me laugh out loud. It was then that I knew that I was going to live. I hadn't been sure up until that point.]

If your treatment is going to involve IV chemo, I really recommend getting a chemo port at the outset. It’s a little one-way valve that is put in your chest, and they can then administer the drugs through that instead of stabbing you every time you have to have a session. It often isn’t offered until after patients start having problems, but I strongly believe it should be discussed up front. Talk to your oncologist about it. My other suggestion is to drink water; you can’t drink too much of it, and it keeps your veins plumped up and washes out many of the impurities. Do what the doctors say — and listen to the nurses, because their help can be invaluable. And DON’T believe statistics or anything else negative. Every person is an individual, not a number! Oh: and remember to enjoy every day because — cancer or not — life is short.

If there’s anything Melinda and I can do for you — including virtual hand-holding from afar — just let us know. We are big believers in prayer and positive thought, so know that we’ll hold you that way too. You aren’t alone.

Strength and love,
Sonnie

p.s. I also recommend a sweet little book called Kitchen Table Wisdom. I’d send you my copy, but I still pick it up and read from it…

Reflections: Calamity Song

I’m not a huge fan of music videos. With few exceptions that I’ve seen, they’re frequently just poorly-done and weird, seemingly having little to do with the song being sung. Maybe that’s part of my growing up before MTV’s “Video Killed the Radio Star” — since my own soundtrack was sung by those radio stars.

Not only was my soundtrack sung on the radio, but I also grew up in fear of nuclear annihilation during the age of the duck-and-cover drill (which even little kids knew was a ridiculous and futile exercise). It seems like we don’t think much about this particular route to the end-of-the-world any more; there are too many other paths that lead to the same destination.

But then this morning I read NPR’s introduction to and subsequently watched the embedded video of The Decemberists’ “Calamity Song.” Inspired by David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, it’s well worth a watch. And a listen. And a think.

Even if we’re beyond the immediate threat of the Cold War and the fingers poised over The Button, there are still far too many ways in which the result of human behavior is bleak, leading up to a time “’til all that remains is the arms of the angel.”

Calamity Song
(Colin Meloy – The Decemberists)

Had a dream
You and me and the war of the end times
And I believe
California succumbed to the fault line
We heaved relief
As scores of innocents died

And the Andalusian tribes
Setting the lay of Nebraska alight
‘Til all that remains is the arms of the angel

Petty greed
Queen of supply-side bonhomie bone-drab
You know what I mean
On the road
It’s well advised that you follow your own bag
In the year of the chewable Ambien tab

And the Panamanian child
Stands at the Dowager Empress’s side
And all that remains is the arms of the angel
And all that remains is the arms of the angels

And you’ve receded into loam
And they’re picking at your bones
Will call cold
We’ll come home

Quiet now
Will we gather to conjure the rain down?
Will we now
Build a civilization below ground?
And I’ll be crowned the community kick-it-around

And the Andalusian tribes
Setting the lay of Nebraska alight
‘Til all that remains is the arms of the angels
‘Til all that remains is the arms of the angels

How To Train Your Dragon

So my post is a day late… again. But here it is regardless!

This summer’s guilty pleasure is the movie How To Train Your Dragon.

I know: it’s from last year. I’m frequently behind when it comes to movies. Let me just say that I find this movie to be timeless.

One of the things that I love about so many of the animated features over the past 10-15 years is their explorations of being different in a different-is-good way. Characters like Shrek and Fiona, Belle in Beauty and the Beast, everyone in The Incredibles (okay, so not Buddy/Incrediboy — I kept waiting for his redemption. But I digress, as usual.)

For one thing, How To Train Your Dragon has beautiful music. It’s worth it to watch just for that.  It also features a boy who is basically a loser who doesn’t relate to the values being impressed upon him by his father in particular and his society in general. Here’s the thing: he’s not perfect. He makes mistakes. But he learns from them. He also teaches everyone else in the process and saves the world, but that’s the fantasy part. And we loved the dragon Toothless. Toothless looks and acts a lot like our semi-wild cat Ernie.

As a queer person, I also saw queer subtext in this movie. Don’t get me wrong: I see queer subtext in lots of things where a non-queer person might not. It’s my own filter. But I saw Hiccup (the main character) as a gay boy growing up. I also saw Astrid as a baby dyke — after all, she was the only character in the movie who carries a labyris. (Even though there was the intimation of budding romance between these two characters that isn’t necessarily in the happily-ever-after part of the script.)

Anyway, both Melinda and I love this movie, and we’ll probably watch it over and over again!

Finally, here’s a sort of tongue-in-cheek review of this movie:

Do not let your children watch this movie! I, like any good parent, screen movies before allowing my children to view them. And what I saw made me physically ill:

There is a young boy who is growing up in a village that kills dragons. This young boy wants to be like everyone else but there is something different about him (incidentally his mother apparently died when he was very little). No matter how hard he tries he cannot fit in. Then one day a certain event causes him to realize his true inner feeling: he wants to study and understand dragons, not hunt them. Now let me point this out: This is exactly like gays! They start out like everyone else but some traumatizing event in their lives causes their minds to start acting a little off! Obviously a gay analog.

Of course if the movie had just stopped there and had been about the boy overcoming his sinful feelings and becoming a fearless dragonslayer, all would have been well. But of course he explores his new feeling, all the while trying to hide them from his dad. At one point his dad comes in to his room while he is writing dragon stuff down in his journal and he frantically hides it (obviously a reference to gay magazines). Now here’s the worst part, and is a warning for everybody else: the boy spreads his love of dragons around the village, and soon everybody is a dragontamer, not a dragonslayer. It’s just like in real life! One gay man starts talking about how gay he is, and pretty soon everybody in the whole country is as gay as can be!

And… since this is part of a Synchroblog, here are the other posts on the subject of Summer Books and Movies:

• K.W. Leslie at The Evening of Kent – My Summer Reading List, Thus Far
• Liz Dyer at Grace Rules – 12 Movies and a Novel
• Maria Kettleson Anderson at The Real Journey – Fiction, Movies and TV
• Steve Knight at Knightopia – Down We Go
• Jeremy Myers at Till He Comes - A Book That Invades Your Dreams
• Andrea at Andrea’s Balancing Act – What Do My Favorite Books Say About Me?
• Tammy Carter at Blessing the Beloved – Loyalty and Valor
• Steve Hayes at Khanya – Summer Reading
• Kathy Escobar at The Carnival in My Head – movies + books = summer fun
• Peter Walker at Emerging Christian – This is for All the Lonely People 
• Carie at Carie’s Garden – Thar Be Dragons