Could be worse!

Right now, where I am in Watertown.

While living in a Kenyan village in the late 80s, I often traveled by “matatu.” A matatu is a small truck with a cab rigged onto the back. Folks climb in, and when the thing is full, the driver heads down the road. This form of travel has it’s dangers and is not for the easily frayed. The “departure time” is “when the truck is full.” And “full” is a subjective term, which could involve people hanging off the back, a goat braying in the middle of the cab, or sitting check-to-jowl with 25 people in a space designed for 10. My friend Viddy, with whom I often traveled, when the loading of the matatu got absurd, would say, “Could be worse!” Viddy had a great sense of humor, and she’d seen it all, so I followed her lead in laughing rather than getting steamed up about the craziness.

I was reminded of Viddy’s “Could be worse!” exclamation this afternoon when the fire alarms went off at the church where I serve. I lept up to see what was going on, forgetting to save the document I’d been working on for about an hour.   I gathered on the lawn with the Haitian women who had been cooking stew for hours in the kitchen and the children of the preschool that meets in the lower level. Just after I had called the fire department, a huge thunderstorm started. Huge. The preschool director moved the children from one spot to another trying to keep them from getting drenched. Once the firemen had determined the church building was fine (still not sure what tripped the alarm), I realized that a huge piece of glass which had been resting in the drying rack on the sink had shattered all over the sink and the counter.

Could be worse!

Everyone is safe. No fire. That counts for a lot.

I haven’t seen Viddy in 25 years. But she still helps me keep things in perspective. And when I get home tonight, I’m going to pull out this classic kids’ book, which is also a good lesson in remembering to complain about and fear the things we should complain about and fear, and to let go of the rest. Stay dry, everyone!

In the fullness of their time

Graduates and families celebrating at Perkins

All graduations are inspiring. The sound of “Pomp and Circumstance,” the robes, the proud parents, the festive decorations, the articulate young class representative quoting some hero or heroine. Love it.

But graduation at the Perkins School for the Blind is a truly beautiful, sacred occasion. I had the honor to join them last Friday, when eighteen wonderful young adults got their diplomas and walked off the stage into their futures.Their particular circumstances meant that the road to that moment had been particularly rich and challenging. And they had made it there with the support and love of a courageous and loving community of staff, teachers, and clinicians. They move out into a world where it is very hard for a young person with disabilities to find meaningful work, and where cuts in government funding and people’s assumptions about what they can and cannot do will create obstacles. They will need strong wills, caring friends and family, resilience, and all the academic and life skills they gained at Perkins in order to thrive.

If you live in Watertown, and you’ve not been to Perkins, make it your goal to show up there this summer. Take the official tour. Come to one of their public events. Get to know one of the staff members. And whether you go or not, sign this petition, so that young people like the ones who graduated last week have access to the same books you enjoy.

Here’s the invocation I offered at the graduation. May we all find ourselves in the fullness of time.

In the fullness of time: After all the beginnings -

New friends, new pathways, new semesters, new music to learn,                                     new insights, new buildings on campus, new discoveries about your                         wisdom, your body, your beauty, your goals….

In the fullness of time: After all the middles -

The study sessions, the tutoring, the hanging out in the snack bar, the                            rehearsing and memorizing, the drafting and editing, the joys shared                            and  the friendships forged,  lives weaving together through countless                          conversations, the sounds of the 7th inning   stretches, and the quiet of the                  middle of the night

The rain and the snow and snow and more snow, and seasons and                               storms and warm  sunshine

In the fullness of time:  After all the endings -

 Assignments completed, grades given, lessons lived and learned,                    teachers  retiring, the last notes of songs sung, the math MCAS finally over, the last radio show signed off, the film wrapped, after the shock of Patriots Day losses at the Marathon, and after the heroism of first responders, the letting go of small hopes for larger ones, small kindnesses for expansive compassion

In the fullness of all this, you are here and you are full of so much. May the one who created you and this moment bless this time of celebration.

May you be filled with amazement at the beginnings, the middles, and the endings, and may you know that you have come through it all in order to live, and love, and give, and thrive

May you breathe in the fullness of this time, and know that the fullness of time is a good time, your time, holy time, this time, and it opens up into more — more beginnings and middles and endings, where you will be blessed and filled again.

May God bless those who brought you to this moment — teachers and parents and donors and groundskeepers and cooks and mentors and pastors and friends — those whose hands and hearts gave tirelessly and generously to bring you to this full time.

May God bless this gathering, this time, and fill it with joy and thanksgiving.

Memorial Day 2013

At the Watertown Memorial Day Parade

My eyes filled with tears as the Watertown Police marched by. How could I not cry? They had been called to serve recently in ways they could never have predicted, and they had done so courageously and nobly.  April 19th was quite a day. But now, here we are, standing in the sunshine on Memorial Day, with the remaining suspect in the Boston Marathon bombings in custody, and all of us still here, still free.

I interviewed twenty people at the Watertown Memorial Day parade, asking them why they had come out for this event. Only one mentioned those who had died in the armed forces, which is the official reason we mark Memorial Day. But everyone said something about community — community they love, relationships close to their heart. My brother is a detective with the police force. My daughter is a Scout. I’m a veteran and want to honor other veterans. I came here from another country and found good neighbors who welcomed me. I grew up here and know everyone in the parade. I love living in a neighborhood where people take care of one another & exchange house keys.

Such a community is exactly what those who serve in the armed forces intend to guard. And on Memorial Day, that’s what matters. I didn’t ask anyone at the parade for their view on the “war on terror” or their position on using drones in Pakistan or their feelings about US-Israeli relations. Today we give thanks for the people we hold dearest and the community that makes a space for us and upholds us day to day, and we celebrate those who put themselves in harm’s way on our behalf.

Here’s the prayer we offered yesterday at Good Shepherd, in honor of the occasion. It is excerpted from a prayer by my friend and colleague, the Rev. Jennifer Phillips.

We remember all those who have given faithful service to our country, and especially those who have given their lives on our behalf; we pray you, God:

hold in your perfect light and love those who laid down their lives generously in military service; keep vigil with those who bear the outward or inward wounds of war; give your mercy to those who carry burdens of conscience or troubled memory; gather into your everlasting arms those who may die on this day;

lift up all those who grieve for loved ones who died in the armed services and for those who are missing in action; lend strength to the families who bravely watch and wait; grant wisdom, courage, and restraint to those who bear authority under the pressure of peril;and grant that we may never forget the many whose brave, sacrificial, and faithful service built up the heritage of liberty we enjoy.

We pray in your most Holy Name. Amen.

A Welcome Space

Last week I listened in while MIRA Field Organizer Renato Castelo trained a group of volunteers to register newly naturalized citizens to vote. He spoke in one room, while 250 about-to-be-naturalized people sat in another room, holding small American flags and listening to last minute announcements.

Renato spoke with so much energy and commitment. It was clear that it meant a lot to him to extend the invitation to vote to people. It was clear that he is passionate about citizenship, with its rights and responsibilities. He told the volunteers that as someone whose family came to the United States for a better life in a stronger democratic system, what was happening that day was close to his heart.

That this was happening in Watertown, so soon on the heels of the Boston Marathon bombings, was significant. Renato and the volunteers he was training were refusing to give in to nativism and mistrust of otherness in the wake of the Tsarnaev brothers’ heinous crimes. They were affirming their support of the overwhelming majority of today’s immigrants who come to the US to work hard, participate fully in a democracy, and live in peace alongside others. Surely this, too, makes Watertown Strong.

There Goes The Boat

Photo by Lisa Parsons

My friend Lisa snapped the photo above from her car. She happened to be driving near Franklin Street with her kids in the car today when the FBI hauled away “The Boat” — You know, the infamous boat in which suspect #2 was discovered a week ago today — a week ago right now, actually!

Lots of people have asked me to share my sermon from last Sunday at CGS. And lots of people have asked me to say something about how things are going as the days pass in Watertown. I preach from notes, and my sermons tend to be fairly particular to the moment, so I don’t have a text to share from April 21st. But I will share a few thoughts here that take ideas from the sermon and meld them with my answer to the question, “So how’s everybody doing now?”

When the resurrected Jesus appeared to his disciples, he breathed on them, and he gave them his peace. He breathed peace into them — the last of the three gifts of the paschal mystery. In his death, he gave them the first two gifts — his body and his blood. In his Resurrection, he gave them the third — his breath. Through baptism, we are called to breath peace into the world, through the power of the Holy Spirit. That’s a life’s vocation.

It’s hard to breathe peace when you are afraid. It’s hard to sing, hard to breathe the words that speak truth to power, hard to inhale enough oxygen to exhale the word, “hope.”

Folks in Watertown are trying very hard to breathe. Seeing the boat being hauled down the street is the kind of moment that catches one up short – -takes one’s breath away for a moment, brings back to mind the threat to balance, safety, and sanity that last Friday embodied. I’ve talked to a lot of people this week who’ve said that hearing sirens or loud noises have brought them to breathlessness. Are we safe again? Is everyone “caught” who needs to be caught? What’s next?

We’re doing what we can, as we can, with lots of help from great friends, schools, and resources. For some, for me, getting together to sing helps a lot. Ana Hernandez helped us breathe peace at CGS last Sunday, leading us in “Open my heart” and “Be not afraid.” We also passed the peace, a gesture that may seem rote or trivial as a line in the bulletin, but when fully embodied, is an amazing affirmation that reconciliation is true and possible and in the air we breathe.

God bless our breath. And God bless our words, as we explain to our children the boat moving up the street, the lockdown drills now routine in public schools, and our conviction that even in the face of all this, we keep moving forward and working for a peaceful future for all.

View from the Churchyard

Franklin Street — with FBI agents and gapers

 

See the big yellow banner? That’s our church’s front yard. See the orange barriers? That blocks off the scene of the apprehension of suspect #2 in the Boston Marathon bombing. See the crowd of people dressed in black? Those are FBI crime scene evidence specialists. What a view.

Who would have “thunk it”? Right here in Watertown, right here in our neighborhood, a major crime drama came to a head. I spent most of today inside our church, talking with and praying with residents of Watertown who had “sheltered in place” on Friday — people who had been awakened to gunfire, had police search their backyards, tried to explain the whole thing to their children without scaring the be-jeezus out of them.

I know there’s been a lot written about the “spirit of Boston.” Certainly on facebook you can find meme after meme declaring that we’re wicked strong around here. What I heard from folks today supports all that. But it adds another layer, too. What I heard was a lot of compassion. Folks understand that people in many places in our world have to “shelter in place” often. Children in many places in our world grow up with a police presence all around them and/or hearing gunshots in the neighborhood. Although Friday was a hard day, it was also a day that drew them closer to the heart of their global neighbors, and closer to the heart of a God who grieves the suffering we cause to one another.

Tomorrow we gather for worship. It’s still Easter season. And at CGS Watertown, we’re going to sing “Alleluia’s” till the cows come home, in thanksgiving for the freedom to gather, thanksgiving for all those who exhausted themselves to keep us safe, and thanksgiving for a God who is already bringing healing and restoring hope in our community.

 

 

Sardines

Not a fifth grade party

When I was in fifth grade, I loved nothing better than a game of sardines. One person hides somewhere in the house. Then everyone goes searching for them. When you find the hider, you quietly join them in the hiding place. Last one to find find the hider is the loser & hides next. My friend Cara was the Queen of Sardines; I never beat her, even when we were playing in my house.

I hadn’t thought of sardines for years, until I was squished up against a variety of other people in the #71 bus this week. We looked like a can of sardines, and we were as quiet as fifth graders playing the game.  But no one was having fun — that was pretty clear. Americans, in general, and New Englanders, in particular, are accustomed to having some personal space, and hate being part of a moving can of sardines.

Next time I find myself cheek to jowl with strangers on the #71 (or elsewhere), I think I’ll break the silence. Might as well laugh about it, or at least commiserate. Maybe we’ve been smooshed together for a reason. As my wise friend Curtis would say, “What’s the invitation here?” How could the Spirit, who often shows up in the midst of awkwardness, when we are feeling out of sorts or looking goofy, breathe renewal here?

In the meantime: apologies to the nice lady whose hair I accidentally pulled when I grabbed the seat-back as the bus lurched forward.