The Comma

I spent last weekend at the Whidbey Institute at a leadership program that will stretch over four weekends throughout the coming year.  Our group of eighteen folks was drawn from all over the country, plus we even had a fellow from Canada, and from all different arenas (the “private sector,” government, the non-profit world, and the church.)  We will be gathering four times around the theme of “seasons of leadership,” and so we started with the fall.  Fall is a season of letting go, of stripping down to essentials, and never a season I would choose to start a year-long program.  It seems to me a time of looking back, not looking forward.  But I was reminded at this retreat that in all the shedding and letting go, what is really happening is that seeds are being scattered in unfathomable abundance, planted all over the place. This is a perfect time to start something- not with a big splash of showiness, but with quiet planting.

I imagine I’ll have lots to tell about the year as it unfolds, but for a start I want to say that this last weekend, one thing we did that I loved was we read a lot of poetry.  Preachers do that a lot anyway, but business executives and managers not so much.  It was great.  So great in fact that it made me want to post some of that poetry here.  Then I realized there might be copyright issues, and tracking down something like that takes me to the outside limit of my organizational skills.  So I decided instead to post a poem I wrote over ten years ago.  I wrote it back when my dog Jake was still not much more than a pup, and I was imagining him when he was older, maybe curled up in front of a fire place on a farm I might own some day.  Now I do live on a farm, and that young pup Jake grew old, and slept by a fireplace very much like the one I imagined, and died last spring.

I offer this poem today in honor of Jake, and of all seekers.

VILLANELLE FOR THE AGNOSTIC PREACHER

That old dog dreams of work and field and flock.
They are his heritage.  A good dog, he,
all black and white and solid as a rock.

Those collies, they rejoice to find the stock
that found the farthest field.  How peacefully
that old dog dreams of work.  And field and flock
fill up the shepherd’s days and evenings’ talk.
I wish that I could know such certainty,
all black and white and solid as a rock.

But I will claim each lonely late night walk
and while I wrestle with the mystery,
that old dog dreams of work and field.  And flock
the crowds to hear the self-sure preachers mock
the questions.  Crowds want crisp theology,
all black and white and solid as a rock.

I wonder what might open this heart’s lock.
Is any good God watching over me,
that old dog, dreams of work, and field and flock,
all black and white, and solid as a rock?

Last Wednesday afternoon I stood in the parking lot of Terminal107 Park, the Port of Seattle land that had been the home for Nickelsville since late July.  It was 1 p.m., the time which had been given as the deadline for Nickelsville to move.  Although the camp itself was almost empty of people, the tents were still up, and twelve folks who had decided to stay in defiance of the order to leave were sitting around almost casually.  There was yellow “police line, do not cross” plastic tape around the encampment, circling the orange plastic fencing that always surrounds Nickelsville.  On the other side of the yellow tape a crowd of us, friends, reporters, observers, Nickelodians, stood watching what would happen next. 

After a Port Police announcement had been made three times, telling the people in the camp to leave, a bus arrived and a whole bunch of police officers (I have read some estimates of up to eighty) came out.  They lined up two by two and began walking into the camp.  The crowd on the other side began to jeer.  A woman next to me said, “I’ve never seen anything like this.  What are they all here for?  You could build a homeless shelter with the money being spent right now.”   Then she said it again, louder.  Then, as if to make sure every one heard her disgust and outrage, she said it again.

As the police went into the camp, they spread out, looking through the tents and walking up to each of the folks who had stayed there.  The arrests were calm and as each person was taken out, the crowd waved and cheered the one who had just been arrested, calling out his or her name.  Reporters and news cameras caught the “action,” such as it was (not much action, actually.)   When all the people had been removed, the crowd also moved away.

 I was left with very mixed feelings.  I have been a Nickelsville advocate since I first heard of this community.  I love their defiant spirit, their refusal to be silent about their plight, and their insistence that they, as homeless people, have some intelligent solutions to offer related to homelessness.  I also believe that the Nickelsville model offers a very workable response to homelessness in Seattle.  I believe that public agencies and city and state governments could provide space and work as partners with the community of Nickelsville, and that the partnership could be a good one.  And I wish that Nickelsville could find a long term home.

However, I also know that the Port of Seattle officials tried hard to work with Nickelsville and were unable to achieve a partnership.  The Port, more than any other agency, tried to join with Nickelsville in moving forward.  Port officials extended the time of Nickelsville’s stay far beyond what any other public agency has done.  They examined many options before concluding that an eviction was necessary.  They volunteered to help find an alternate site. 

I did not heckle the Port Police.  They were not the problem on Wednesday.  I do not disparage the Port officials.  They were not the problem either.  Nor do I blame the people of Nickelsville for wanting to stay where they were until they could move to a permanent site.

I do not know what the solution will be.  Nickelsville is now relocated at Keystone UCC, in a very temporary situation.  Seattle still needs more safe and secure places for people without homes, and Nickelsville is one of those places.  And there are times one has to take a stand.  I do not judge people who come to the conclusion that “now” is that time.  

But on Wednesday, what I found discouraging was the “either-or” mentality that seemed to be n the air.  Such a mentality makes people chose sides, identifying “good guys” and the “bad guys,” and belittling anyone with an alternative perspective.  If we are to live in a world where all people are treated with dignity, then we have to start by ourselves treating all people with dignity.  That includes all people, those with whom we agree, and those with whom we disagree.  I know that is very hard to remember in times of great stress, and Wednesday at Terminal107 Park was such a time.  Still, I long for us all to find another way.  

I say all this because I have seen the unhelpful effects of “either-or” thinking in so many areas of my own life.  And I know such thinking is tempting- it really lets me be “correct” and dismissive.  But what I have discovered, over and over again, is that in politics, in the church, anywhere, an “either-or,” approach is a dead end.  It stops dialogue, undermines cooperation, silences difference of opinion, and closes off creative thinking.  At its worst, it justifies destruction in the name “being right.” 

So I am making my own shout out here- how about we all work to minimize “either-or” thinking and to listen to one another, to increase dialogue, and to disagree with grace rather than name-calling or animosity?   I am not the first person to suggest such a path of course.  In fact, I heard it from a guy named Jesus.  And he is someone whose example I am trying to follow.

I think Sunday afternoons are different for preachers and parishioners in many ways.  We preachers have just finished some of the most intense work of our week.  Parishioners on the other hand can see their weekend winding down, and are either stretching out that time as much as possible, or gearing up for Monday morning. 

I’m reflecting on this because I am reflecting on sermons, and what happens to them once they’re preached.  After we leave the sanctuary on Sundays, what are we thinking about? And once we’re heading home, how much are we thinking about the sermon?

And in this way, I think Sunday afternoons for parishioners and preachers are probably the same.  Some sermons, even the ones I thought were pretty good, I forget immediately.  The moment has passed and we all move on.  Many sermons I remember pieces of- particular illustrations or points I made stay with me.  But every once in a while a sermon follows me, through the rest of the day, through my week, and even longer.  It might be because it felt like a particularly good sermon, or a particularly bad one.  It might be because the response of the congregation was especially strong.  And sometimes it is because the questions the sermon raised are ones with which I continue to live.

In many traditions, sermons are supposed to answer questions, not raise them.  A retired preacher said to me recently as he was walking out of church: “My homiletics professor taught me that I should never scare up more rabbits in one sermon than I can chase down.”  He went on to add that I had got the rabbits running that morning but he thought I had caught them all before the sermon ended.  Well, sometimes I don’t catch all the rabbits.  Sometimes I come to the end of the sermon and just watch those rabbits scatter, scurrying under pews and into corners and through windows and doors and out onto the street.  Maybe it’s inevitable when the topic is big and the time is limited.  When I get home on Sunday afternoons after those kinds of sermons, I might even find that a particularly persistent rabbit has come home with me.  

Because we have been addressing big questions of life and faith, this summer our series of sermons have been rabbit scattering sermons.  And one sermon has kept coming back to me.  The question was, “How do I decide what s the right thing to do?”  Those of you who heard the sermon might remember that I asked friends and family how they answered that question.  And though the sermon was written and preached almost a month ago, the question is still with me.  Those times when a sermon keeps on preaching are precious to a preacher, even when it is preaching to her. 

And I have discovered that others are still thinking about it too.  I am especially hearing from those who answered my inquiries before the sermon.  They are returning to me, telling me something else they have thought of.  Some of those thoughts are profound.  Or a new issue they are facing.  Some of those issues are huge.  Or just that they are still thinking.  Still chasing their own rabbits. 

All of that reminds me that this is no easy question, and there are no simple answers.  Yet every day we have to make choices, we are called to decide, and we try to do the right thing.  This leads me back to anther topic we looked at in this summer sermon series, another one that scared up a whole bunch of bunnies, and one that is also still with me.  “Why bother with church?”  And I guess one answer is, you all help me keep looking at the question of doing the right thing, and looking for more than simplistic answers.  You help me ask that question in big ways as well as in personal ways.  And then, most importantly, you help me live into the answers, no matter how tough they are.  Thank you.

I just returned from two weeks away, on my farm at first and then down to Yosemite National Park in California.  During that time I was pretty much out of the loop when it came to “news of the world,” and that was especially true the week before Labor Day, when I was backpacking.  So when I came back to “civilization” it was stunning to hear of an uproar over the President of the United States’ plan to address the school children of the United States on the first day of school.  I think being out of the media loop for awhile gave me a heightened awareness of the nonsense that we have been hearing all summer.  In fact, even more than nonsense- the hateful rhetoric has passed for political discourse this summer has been exasperating. When our president says that summer is the “silly season” for politicians, he is being extremely generous. 

 All summer I have listened to news reports where people drown out congressional representatives home for the summer and hoping to discuss health care reform.  I attended a town hall meeting with Congressman Rick Larsen in Coupeville, hosted by the League of Women Voters.  It was only the determination of a 4’10” woman who must have been a first grade teacher in another life that kept the meeting from disintegrating into a shout-down.  (Remember when our teachers had to say it?  “We will not continue until the room is quiet!”  That was her)  My time away was a nice break from all of that.

 But then I came home, and as soon as I was within radio range I began to hear the latest.  People who were saying that our president telling school kids to work hard and stay in school is some kind of “political” speech.  It makes me long for a bumper sticker or a t-shirt or something that simply says “Stop the Hate.”

 Stop the hate.  I know good people disagree with one another.  I also know we can do that in a way that does not cut off conversation, or disparage the other person, or destroy community.  I have seen it done.  In this congregation we have learned how to differ with one another without the shouting.  We have learned that the conversation itself, and how we have it, is as important as the conclusions we come to.  We have learned to honor the perspective of people with other thoughtful understandings on an issue.  We have learned not to yell.  We are not perfect at this, but we have learned, and we are learning. 

 Perhaps this is a cry in the wilderness, the call of a woman fresh from vacationland.  But still it seems worthwhile to make the request.  And perhaps if we begin to spread this around, it will make a difference.  Let’s be evangelical about it- a commitment to revel in the conversation, honor differences, and listen as well as talk.