This Isn't What They Meant by "Suffrage"

By the time anyone reads this we will be either one day away from the election or it will be Election Day in the good old U.S. of A. In case it has escaped your notice (which means that you’ve been living under a rock or in complete denial) there is a major election going on. Those who vote will be deciding things like the Presidency, state and local offices, various amendments and, for some, whether or not they can buy beer on Sunday.

I’m not going to say anything about the beer on Sunday thing. Do whatever you want there. For the rest, I will not (to the relief of many) endorse a candidate here. If I want you to know who I may be supporting with my vote, you already know. If you don’t know, speculate all you want. All you’ll get from me is a knowing smile.

Still, I do have something to say about this whole election hoopla. Are you ready? Here it is:

Just shut up.

Yeah, that’s right. Zip it. Shut your cake hole. Silence is golden, so here’s your chance to get rich.

Pretty much all I hear from any candidate is why their opponent is a moral degenerate with either the IQ of a turnip or the devious mind of Ming the Merciless. It’s the fashion in America to slam the opposition with as much half-truth and innuendo as the airwaves and print media will allow. I’ve been suffering through so many TV and radio blitzes, automated phone calls and mass mailings that I’ve worn out the mute button on the remote, broken the knob off my radio, thrown my phone across the room and put barbed wire around my mailbox. Supporters of various candidates can’t seem to understand why I won’t join them with torch and pitchfork in hand to chase the evil miscreants out of politics and, preferably, out of the country all together. They want to claim America from someone else who wants to re-claim America from them. I just want to re-claim my life from all these people. I don’t think that this is the kind of “suffrage” that people have fought and, in some cases, died for.

I peruse a couple of social media sites because they help me stay in contact with friends and family. Social – get it? These days, there is very little that is “social” about it. Mostly what I see are people who, most of the time, seem to be reasonable and level headed. When there is an election, however, these same reasonable and level headed people become rabid, foaming-at-the-mouth, name-calling, mean-spirited individuals who act like they don’t have the good sense that God gave a rock.

When the day after the election arrives, we’ll be inundated with all kinds of reasons and excuses as to why one candidate (or initiative, or referendum) passed muster and another didn’t. We’ll also begin to see people posturing for the next election. As if the one we just had wasn’t painful enough, we’ve got to start the whole thing over again – no time for binding our wounds, no time for finding ways to make things work and no time for treating people with respect. This is America, where the only thing that seems to count is winning. After all, that’s why we have American Idol and Survivor. We want to see winners and we want to mock losers. “Give me your tired, your poor and your huddled masses” has become “Get lost, loser. We don’t have time for you.”

I believe that the most dangerous threat that America faces is not from terrorists or economic crises. The most dangerous threat to America is Americans who have lost respect for one another. When we have lost that, we’ve lost respect for the reason America exists in the first place.

Throughout Election Day and the days after, consider that it may be possible for Americans to take part in the process of government because we love our country and not because we hate someone else whose ideas are different from our own. Consider the possibility that when it’s all done, we might still respect and even care for one another.

Wouldn’t that be a truly great way to honor America?

The Story at the Next Table

“You look like a preacher!”

I looked up from my two eggs over medium and coffee to see a big man in his 70s, wearing a button-down sport shirt and holding a Huddle House cup standing over me. I think I had glimpsed him briefly when I came in, sitting with a local Baptist pastor at another table. My time was limited and my attention on my schedule for the day, so I immediately got a seat on the other side of the restaurant. I placed my order and started perusing my so-called “smart phone.”

The waitress brought my breakfast and refilled my coffee. It was as I was digging into my eggs that the accusation of being a preacher boomed out over me like a klaxon alert horn. I gazed up into unwavering blue eyes. I really didn’t look like a preacher. Sure, I was wearing a polo shirt and khakis, but I could have just as well been a clerk at Auto Zone. I gave what I thought was, for me, an appropriate answer: I pointed at him and said, “You take that back!”

He stood there for a few seconds and blinked. Then he proceeded to sit across from me without an invitation and started talking. It was then that I realized that I had been sold out by my Baptist pastor acquaintance. This guy knew what I had done in my previous incarnation as an employee of a Large Religious Organization. I really didn’t want to talk about it, especially to a stranger. I didn’t have to. In his booming voice, Klaxon proceeded to tell me all about how he was a retired pastor.

“Oh great,” I said to myself. I was going to have to speak Christian-ese with this guy when I just wanted a quick breakfast before heading off to work. I explained that I was retired from the Large Religious Organization. With that intense curiosity about other people’s personal lives that is common with preachers, Rev. Klaxon asked me what I was doing now. I explained that I worked as a chaplain with a local hospice organization.

Usually that’s enough to dampen any casual conversation. People just don’t know what to say to a person whose job it is to work with dying people. “Oh,” they say. “That’s good.” Then they wander away to find someone with a more comfortable calling, as if I was the angel of death and they might catch something if they talked with me for too long.

Rev. Klaxon was not deterred, however. He started telling me of his own hospice experience. He spoke of his wife and how they had been married for decades. He told me of the last ten years of their marriage and how he cared for her as Alzheimer’s increasingly claimed her mind. Rev. Klaxon told me stories that were both funny and tragic at the same time of how hard it was taking care of someone struggling with the loss of their basic identity. Finally, he’d had to turn over her primary care to a hospice organization as it just became too much for him.

All the time he was talking he smiled, occasionally chuckled and sometimes looked sad. My eggs got cold as I listened and my heart hurt for him. Rev. Klaxon didn’t need another pastor-type person to talk Christian-ese with him. He didn’t need deep philosophical answers or long quotes from the Bible. He just needed someone to hear his story. He needed to know that it all mattered – his marriage, his wife’s struggles with Alzheimer’s and his realization that he needed help.

I suppose that’s what all of us want, really – to know that someone hears us and that our story is important. That’s part of what we do in hospice and it should be part of what we do as human beings. It’s way past time that we stopped talking and began listening. We need to stop being so engrossed in our own story and realize that there is another story crying to be heard from the person at the next table or the one passing us on the sidewalk.

American society tells us that we should be engrossed in ourselves to the exclusion of all else. Most of reality TV exists for the sole purpose of making us feel superior to those on the screen. You need look no farther than that Honey Boo Boo tripe on The Learning Channel (The Learning Channel?! Really?!) So many of us are living First Person Singular lives. It should be a First Person Plural world. “I” needs to become “We.” We are healed of our own spiritual and emotional pain largely to the extent that we embrace someone else’s.

Rev. Klaxon asked if he could pray. “Of course,” I said. He said a prayer and got up to leave. “Nice talking to you,” he said. “I enjoyed it,” I answered.

“Thanks for reminding me to listen,” I added in my mind. I paid my check, left a tip and left for the Hospice office a half hour later than I had wanted. When I arrived, I told the story to Teresa, who keeps our office running.

“God puts you where he needs you,” she said.

“Thank God,” I thought, and prepared to listen to someone else’s story.

I'm Younger Than That Now

I tend to relate everything to music. There is a soundtrack playing in my head to events past, events present and events yet to come. Songs come and go, of course. Sometimes there is a song or piece of music that stays with us no matter how old it is or how long ago we heard it. It seems that there always something happening in our lives that make that particular song relevant, even if it is 20, 30, 40 years old or more.

Bob Dylan’s song My Back Pages speaks to me every time I listen to it. It doesn’t have to be the original version, either. I also really like the version recorded by The Byrds – Roger McGuinn’s jangly 12-string Rickenbacker does something wonderful for Dylan’s words. Together, they help me understand what it means to be younger than I used to be.

Crimson flames tied through my ears; Rollin’ high and mighty traps.
Pounced with fire on flaming roads; Using ideas as my maps.

 

I’ve spent most of my life following a road plotted on someone else’s map. Whether well-meaning or malevolent, there has always been someone who was telling me where I needed to go and when I needed to get there. I wasted a lot of time following their directions. Like an old man, I allowed myself to be led to points of view that were compatible with “the norm,” whatever that is. Because of that, it’s been a struggle for me to discover – and in some cases rediscover – the ideas that will allow me to create my own map. Charting my own course is a risky business, but I’m tired of plodding along a prearranged course for the nodding approval of those who haven’t a clue and don’t care about what’s important to me. It’s time to create a map of my own thoughts and ideas. Where will it lead? If I told you that I knew, I’d be lying. It could be like one of those medieval maps that sort of faded out after a certain distance and said “Here be Dragons!” So be it. Better dragons than “Here be Mediocrity!”

Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.

I’m younger than I used to be – in my mind. Physically, not so much. Still, it’s what’s inside our heads that counts. For me, it’s time to return to the attitude of questioning authority and to decide for myself what I’ll believe politically, socially, and theologically. There are some in the religious establishment that will take issue with that. They will allow me to believe what I want, as long as it’s what they believe. If I choose to be different, they will not welcome me into their circles. Again, so be it. I don’t want to be part of a circle that demands that kind of conformity.

Half-wracked prejudice leaped forth; “Rip down all hate,” I screamed.
Lies that life is black and white; Spoke from my skull I dreamed.

You’d think that in this, the Year of Our Lord 2012, we would be free of the repugnant prejudices that have plagued us practically forever. But no – we still decide someone’s worth based solely on things like race, gender, religion, politics or anything else we can find to separate us into “Us” and “Them.” We’ve become like the principal in that rerun I saw of the old Welcome Back, Kotter series. Mr. Woodman looks at Kotter and says, “There are two kinds of people, Kotter: Us and Them and they’re Them. Come to think of it, you’re Them too!”

Life is not simply black and white. It never will be. It never was. If anyone tells you that life is simple or that choices are easy, they are lying to you. We all have to navigate our way through varying shades of gray to find our way to wholeness. The way isn’t the same for everyone, no matter what we’re told. Sometimes I want to tell the world. Sometimes I want to scream it.

Yes, my guard stood hard when abstract threats too noble to neglect
Deceived me into thinking I had something to protect.

So many people are talking about protecting so many abstract concepts that I find it hard to keep track. We have to protect our way of life against faceless, nameless threats from without or within. We have to protect ourselves against people who have different accents or different ideas about worship or a different way of life. What are we really protecting? Is it our own sense of superiority? Perhaps it’s our comfort in being a majority. Whatever it is, the political/religious pundits will make strident calls and appeal to our basest fears until they get what they want. Meantime, we’ll get what we’ve always gotten when those kinds of people wield power: the proverbial shaft.
 

Good and bad, I define these terms, quite clear, no doubt, somehow.

I have to decide for myself what I should do, what is good and bad in my life. There are plenty of guides out there. Some are trustworthy and many are not. Still, it’s my life and I will be held responsible for the choices I make. I don’t want to be led about and told what is good for me. I don’t want to be told what stand I should take or whom I should love. That was then. This is now.

Ah, but I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.

The Alchemy of Age

In case you haven’t noticed – and judging from the lack of comment I’ve received, you haven’t – it’s been a long time since I’ve added to this blog. Strangely enough, I’ve been busy. Since my “retirement” from a Large Religious Organization, I’ve been on the lookout for something else. I want to re-group and re-purpose myself. I’m looking to find a new reason for starting the day and new things to talk about when I get home. People keep telling me that “it” is out there somewhere. They just don’t have a clear idea where or what “it” is.

Neither do I.

Still, I recently finished something that gives me at least a glimmer of what “it” might be. This spring, I launched on an adventure that brought me no fame and no fortune. It actually cost me a pretty good chunk of change when all was said and done. That’s how my life tends to work.

In lieu of gainful employment, I embarked on a chaplaincy internship. Ron, a good friend and former colleague in the aforementioned Large Religious Organization (hereafter referred to as the LRO), called me and told me about an opportunity that had come up very quickly. If I wanted to be part of it, I needed to decide and get my application done in about 24 hours. Thanks for the lead time, Ron! Anyway, I filled out my application and sent it (along with the non-refundable $50 fee) to the Care and Counseling Center of Georgia. After a few days and an interview, I was officially a Chaplain Intern for Presbyterian Homes of Georgia. I would be working Philips Tower, a senior independent living center in Decatur.

I had no idea what I was getting into, but it was an opportunity to explore not only a possible interest and a new area of service, but to explore who the last 27 years of loyalty to the LRO had made me to be. I should have been nervous. Really, I was more curious than nervous and looked forward to it. Sitting around searching the internet for possible employment will make anyone look forward to just about anything.

I had never worked with senior adults. The minimum age to be a resident of the PHofGA is 62. Most of our residents were well above that. Would I have anything to offer them? After all, I had spent my career dealing with the issues faced by college students. Would they want to accept anything I had to offer? They didn’t know me. Why should they be open to anything I said or did? What about the staff I would be working with? Would they allow me to be a real part of life at Philips Tower? It would take some kind of magic or divine intervention to make it all come together.

It would take some kind of alchemy.

The basic definition of alchemy is creating something of great value – usually gold – out of a common substance believed to be of little worth. I spend three months in an alchemical cauldron of people from different places who led different lives and who now found themselves residents of the same 10-story high rise. Into the cauldron they poured their personalities and quirks, their preferences and their experiences and their faith. To that mix I added my own experience, whatever expertise I had and my hope to be part of something bigger than myself.

 

I found myself amazed. I now believe in the alchemy of people. Remarkable things happened when we worshipped and celebrated communion together or when we talked together or when we simply encountered one another in the hallway. I had arrived hoping to witness alchemy. I stayed to become part of the gold.

Why? Simply, it was the people. Most of the residents were glad to see us on a daily basis. They supported us as we were trying to support them. I was humbled at the extent of their experience and the lives many had led. Some were sad. Some struggled with physical illness or limitations. A few were dealing with things that happened early in their lives but were so horrific that they were still in pain. Some were happy to still be able to talk or laugh or sing or pray.

I didn’t get the chance to thank everyone like I needed to and should have. I’ve never really been good at that anyway. Still, it’s important to be able to say that these people became part of my life and I’m glad for that. Some I will never forget.

For Ilene, who told people that I was her adopted son and who told great off-color jokes, thank you – I’m still laughing. For Jim, who was a high school classmate of baseball great Joe Torre, thanks for the stories. For Dorothy who never could remember what she had told me so she told me again every 5 minutes, I miss your smile. For Gwen, sharp as a tack at age 105, you inspire me. For Ben, who sometimes struggles for answers, I’m right there with you.

For the staff of Philips Tower, I thank you too. Mary, my supervisor, always wanted me to be more open and more transparent. I’m trying, Mary. Thanks for all you did for me. Bob, the funniest Activities Director around – I miss hearing rock and roll in the office. Rae and Belinda, thank you for your support and acceptance – and thanks, Rae for letting me play the djembe. Connie, empress of the office, we will continue to pray without ceasing. Stacy, thank you for accepting me as a part of the staff. Russ, I appreciate all your encouragement. Shawn and the Blue Men who keep things running – it was a great ride. And Scott, who got there two weeks before I left, I’m glad we reconnected. Who knew a former student would show up and be a fellow staff member?

I don’t know what the future will hold for me. I wish that I did. If I can find a place for myself that mirrors the alchemy of age that I found in that senior living center, I will be more than happy. I will be re-purposed.

I Believe...?

I believe in God.

For some people, that sounds like a naïve statement. They ask, “How can you believe in God when there so much evil in the world?”

“Where is he?”

“If God is so good, why are things so bad?”

“If God cares, why does it seem that he’s never there?”

I know a number of preacher-type people who have snappy answers to questions like that. They’ll say it’s all about being faithful in trying times or that God is testing us, or that it’s all part of a plan that we are too small to see completely if we can see it at all. There are a lot of quick answers delivered from pulpits and heard on radio and television that sound deep and full of wisdom. They are not. They are shallow, pietistic platitudes. Often these statements are followed by a plea and a passing of the offering plate.

If someone actually has the temerity to point out how shallow and devoid of real truth these platitudes are, they are accused of having weak faith, or of being against God. As if these pious pontificators have a pipeline directly to God that is not available to you and me! They are quick to point how spiritual they are and how in tune they are with God and the Bible while they sell their books and their DVDs. “Come on and sing these deeply meaningful choruses while we tell you what to think, how to think and where to think.”

I’ve had enough.

I’ve had enough of religion that is based solely on feelings. I’ve had enough of religion that is based solely on inductive reasoning or on examining each phrase and word of the Bible under a biased microscope of whatever the popular theological method is today. I’ve had enough of an overemphasis on orthodoxy, orthopraxy and ecclesiastical correctness. I’m tired to death of the theological theme park we’ve made of our faith.

Do I sound bitter? I won’t apologize for that. I’ve seen too many good people who were seeking God be hurt by those who claim to be his messengers. They came with open hearts looking for truth only to find that truth was being jealously guarded by self-appointed spiritual storm troopers. The religious Nazis doled out minute quantities of the bread of life, quickening the hunger for the whole grain of truth. They then slammed the doors because someone didn’t look like them or sound like them or think like them or was not a supporter of the same political party.

Now, back to my opening statement. I believe in God. I just believe less and less in those who claim to have a hammerlock on his truth or his will for this world. It will be very interesting one day, when these very self-important people find that God is so much bigger than they are, bigger than their church is and bigger than their faith is.

I still don’t know the answers to many of the hard questions about suffering and evil. I’m very willing to explore the questions with someone who is a fellow seeker. I’m not as willing to sit still and be told to conform to someone else’s choices of acceptable faith.

Faith should be more than “acceptable.” It should be transforming. The problem is that so many people want to make God’s choices for him as to who should be transformed and what form that transformation should take. That’s a very dangerous game that I’m not willing to play. The costs of that kind of conformity are just too high.

Goosed

I was walking the dog the other day and saw some geese flying over my neighborhood. This is a common occurrence, as we have a pond nearby and Canada Geese are wont to make it their semi-permanent home. I find this interesting because there are much more interesting places to spend your time than Oliver Hardy Lake in Milledgeville, Georgia. Notice that the name is Oliver Hardy Lake and not Oliver Hardy Pond even though it’s about the size of the average the cattle watering hole on area farms. People do enjoy making things sound grand, especially when they’re not.

Having a background in both ministry and leadership, I have heard my share of goose stories over the years. Usually it’s the same stuff about why geese fly in a ‘V’ formation and why they continuously give off that honking sound while flying in said ‘V’ formation. The prevailing wisdom that comes from people who are not really in a position to know these things is that geese use the flying ‘V’ because it creates less drag and makes flying easier. Therefore the geese can fly much farther. It’s an example of working together, cooperation and, I suspect, knowing your place in the overall structure. The moral of the story is that we should all cooperate and know our place. The high paid gurus of leadership and evangelism will say it differently, of course. It’s their job to make it sound that acting like a flock of geese is something to which we should all aspire.

Then there is the idea that geese continuously honk at one another as a method of encouragement as they fly. I find this interesting, because I’ve never heard of anyone who spoke fluent goose. Who knows what they are really saying or if they are saying anything at all. Maybe they just enjoy making noise.

On the day that Maya and I spied the geese flying above us, I noticed that there were at first only two of them, honking their black-and-white heads off as they flew. Then a moment later a third goose appeared, honking and doing his best to catch up with the other two. I was fascinated to see that the first two geese did not slow down nor did they appear to even notice their cousin who had, apparently, gotten a bit of a late start. As the flying leadership lesson passed above, I saw the third goose trying to head in the same general direction as the other two, but he was never included in the formation and so was on a bit of a different path. He had to make his way on his own.

A third thing we in the leadership biz sometimes hear about geese is that each goose in the formation gets a shot at being the leader as they rotate in and out of the point position in the flying ‘V.’ So far as I can tell, there is no real evidence to confirm that. Still, it’s a good story and helps keep people happy. "Don’t worry," we’re told. "You geese in back will get your turn eventually, just be patient. Be supportive. Conform."

I have nothing against geese. They are a great part of nature and I love to watch them fly. The wild goose is an ancient image for the Holy Spirit, being untamed and free. Still, I have to wonder if a flock of Canada Geese is the example we should follow in leadership and in faith. Well paid people use this idea to “goose” us toward working in cooperation with the establishment. Is that where we need to be? Do we need to be in a group in which we are simply interchangeable parts? What if we take off late? Will there be no place in the formation for us if we don’t meet someone else’s schedule?

I’m not sure where I “should” be. There are a lot of people who are glad to tell me where I should be, if I ask and sometimes even when I don’t. I have decided that there is a big difference in where people say I should be and where I think I am.

Let the flock move on. My heart is with the wild goose that flew alone.

I wonder where he ended up.

Behind the Masks

 We are one week past Halloween at this writing. I really enjoy Halloween and I don’t care who knows it. For some, it has become fashionable to crusade against the day, calling it an occasion to honor Satan or to glorify evil or be otherwise anti-Christian. Most of those people haven’t done any real research into the history of the day or to consider its origins. That’s not really why I’m writing just now. If you’re interested, there is a wealth of real information on the subject. Just steer clear of the obviously biased and/or fictional writings of those who want the day abolished completely.

I will say, however, that there are those who have taken the day hostage and are forcing us to pay exorbitant prices to survive the event. I refer, of course, to anyone over the age of 12 who goes from house to house demanding candy under the threat of property damage. There really ought to be a law that if you are old enough to shave, you are too old to “trick or treat.” That was driven home to me when I saw someone in a Halloween mask driving an Escalade into my neighborhood.

Still, Halloween makes me think. This year, as I watched the many people from other neighborhoods and even other counties clog the streets of my own neighborhood causing traffic tie-ups and worse, I thought about masks.

There are all kinds of masks. There are masks specifically for Halloween, made to resemble things familiar, scary or unsettling (clown masks are the worst). There are masks used for dramatic purposes on stage. There are masks worn by health professionals to limit the spread of potentially harmful germs. The greatest mask of all time is worn by one of the greatest fictional heroes of all time. He embodies strength, mystery and justice with a little violent fun thrown into the mix. He stands head and shoulders above all others. You know who I mean…

Batman.

Yes. The Caped Crusader himself. Not the one in the silly TV show of the ‘60s. I’m speaking of the Dark Knight, the one whose name is whispered by criminals and malefactors of Gotham City. Batman was created by Bob Kane and Bill Finger in 1939 and was arguably at his best when written Frank Miller. Batman is the coolest of all comic book characters and not because he has the best toys and gadgets (although who wouldn’t kill for a real batmobile?).

What makes Batman the most interesting of all the masked heroes is the fundamental question of his identity. The iconic mask/cowl of Batman hides the face of Bruce Wayne – we all know that. The real question that must be asked is this:

Is Batman really Bruce Wayne or is Bruce Wayne really Batman?

It’s all about who the character really is. Is Batman a persona put on by Wayne in order to fight crime or has Batman become the dominant personality who uses Bruce Wayne as a mask to function in society? Believe it or not psychiatrists, psychologists and writers have discussed this at length without coming to a final conclusion.

The question, or course, is much more than an armchair analysis of a comic book character. It’s the question that we all need ask ourselves about ourselves. Do I wear a mask and does anyone know the person behind the mask? What face or mask do I present to the world? Is the face that I choose to show others a true reflection of who I am or is it a character I create for my own purposes? Do I hide my true self in order to protect myself from the world? Is there anyone actually behind the mask?

We live in a society that values image over reality and style over substance. Because of that, the temptation to create a mask that reflects what society wants to see can become overwhelming. We succumb to the demand and we create faces that allow only a small portion of ourselves to be seen. We hide the parts of ourselves that seem afraid or weak or simply contrary the political and social constraints around us. We become afraid to tell anyone else who we are inside – our “secret identity.”

We may fool others but we confuse ourselves. After a while, we have no idea who we really are. Are with the person or are we the mask?

My hope and prayer is that the question will be answered before it becomes irrelevant – before the mask and face merge forever and a person is lost in the process.