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9.15.2019Sunday Morning Heresies: I am the WayJohn recorded Jesus as saying. I am the way the truth and the light, no man comes to the father but by me. And then, when John was the last disciple standing he recorded Jesus fully empowered in Heaven as saying. I, Jesus, have sent my angel to give you this testimony for the churches. I am the Root and the Offspring of David, and the bright Morning Star. And the Spirit and the bride say, Come. And let him that heareth say, Come. And let him that is athirst Come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of life freely. And the conditions He put on that Whosoever were... exactly nothing. And it is His final word because it is the last thing in the book. Oh, except that one last thing were He says that if anyone adds anything to what he says all the plagues will be upon them. Gee... Come to think of it... Christendom does look a little poxish doesn't it? 9.08.2019Sunday Morning Heresies: Upside Down
Acts 17:6
These people, who have turned the world upside down, have now come here! ..................... And indeed, there were moments of world flipping. But mostly, for the next two thousand years, they argued amongst themselves. . 9.01.2019A New Series: Sunday Morning Heresies
Luke 9:61-62
And another also said, Lord, I will follow thee; but let me first go bid them farewell, which are at home at my house. And Jesus said unto him, No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God. ...........
63 And the young man walked away. And as he walked home he was sad, for the traveling Rabbi was so enchanting.
64 But when he reached his house, his mother was pulling the bread from the oven. And his father clapped him on the back and showed him what he had been working on. And the girl across the road, the one whose family would soon received the dowry money smiled at him. 65 And he lived happily ever after. 5.28.2019Lament So I was just trying to have a nice memorial day ride. And Rocinante had come out of the shop recently with a major fix that seemed to be working. But as soon as I got out of town she had issues. I made my destination, but she did it again coming home. Sudden - full engine stoppage on the downshift. After three, very hard to take, restarts, her battery was starting to go. I pulled off the main drag. Took my helmet off and called Alivia to Lament. I am really getting worried about whether she is reaching her lifespan. I registered my complaint with my maker and watchers. And then this van drove up in front of me. My God is a smartass. 4.07.2019Beer and a Bump
The Chester Club and Oyster Bar only takes cash. Which is good, because the pay-phone hanging
on the wall, and the jukebox, only take quarters. There is a long bar along the
right wall. There are two pool tables on the left. It is the only establishment in this
skid-mark of a town that is open after 2pm. It was dark, raining, Rosie was
parked for the night and I was famished.
I stood at the door and did not knock, because it was wide
open to the night. The Club part of Chester Club made me wonder if I was even
allowed in. My long vision is good, so I
made out, in the neon gloom, a chalkboard that says what’s for dinner. Oysters
and burgers. I realized the bartender was staring at me. She had a - seriously, don’t eff with me – vibe
going on. She looked like she could go two rounds with Muhammed Ali. She called
out to me. “You gonna come in, or you gonna stand there? If you’re waiting for
the fuckin Maître de, it could be a while.”
I bellied up to the bar.
Every other human at the bar appeared to be male – the preferred parfum was fish. It was Cammo Couture and I was glad I had put a hoodie over
my jeans - because I usually dress up a bit for dinner. I was freezing. I looked up and down the bar. The preferred beer was Bud or Bud light - in cans. The bumps were Jack Daniels. Down at the end, I saw a guy with what looked
like Rainer in a bottle. I pointed at him and said “I’ll take the bottle – no bump.” End guy nodded his head at me. I contemplated
what alliance I had just made. I knew I was not getting a glass with the
bottle. I wondered aloud about my food
choice. “Guess, maybe, this is the place
you oughta eat oysters.” Man on my right
spit tobacco on the floor at my feet, and said “Only tourists eat oysters in
August.” I was relieved because I don’t
actually like oysters. “You get a lot of tourists in here?” He looked me up and
down. “Nope.” I ordered a burger.
The game was on the TV up in the corner, but most people were
turned around watching the pool tables. An ancient man who might have been mummified
sat on a folding chair in the other corner, he had a lap full of money. I wasn’t playing pool.
While I waited for my burger, I attended to my beer and stared at
the cooler in front of me. It was completely covered in bumper stickers. The
sticker consensus was Pro-pot, boobs and bikes, and anti-Meth. This encouraged
me, because I have boobs and a bike, and I guess I do approve of pot over meth. My
plate arrived – I was the only person in the place eating food. I did not care. Girl’s gotta
eat. The Bartender dropped back into a story aimed at the spittin man, which I had apparently
interrupted with my hunger. The burger was perfect, the fries were hand cut and miraculous.
The story beat both. It was about a local who just went to the State Pen for stabbing
his own father. “I punched him in the nose, right here in this bar, not a week
before he did it – I should have hit him harder.” she said. “He was born outa
his mother’s asshole” said my right-hand mate.
About the time my burger is carried away and my beer is
replaced, a young couple comes in. The only two places are to my immediate left.
Dude sits by me. He orders a Bud and a bump. She orders a fruity cocktail and a
bump. I decide to try some conversation. I ask him if he has a pick in the game. He counters with
a statement so racist, I can’t repeat it, about the players who don’t look like
him but make money he never will. He follows up with a homophobic slur against
the same players. I decide to talk about bikes. I gain a little traction there.
After a short convo he declares his intention to piss and goes to the back.
His wife slides over to me. She has another drink and bump. She
gets a wooden coin with her second bump - turns out you get one with every third
drink. It gets you a free drink. I admire her prize – she lets me have it. “Doesn’t
look like you’re ever going to get to your third.” She laughs. The coin says the bar is
rated by The New York Times – this is when I realize that I am sitting in the
seat of the impossibly possible.
I ask if they have kids, and turns out they have a 9-year-old
daughter. She is obviously proud of her, and I get the parent-teacher
conference report. I tell her about my 9-year-old grand-daughter and we agree
that at 9, girls are really cool. We reminisce about being 9, and having a full
slate of girl powers that have not yet been turned in to acquire woman powers. She says her girl is starting to get a little bit of sass. I
launch into my standard Mother’s Union lecture
# 14, about how important it is to train girls to say ‘no’ by letting
them say ‘no’ to you once in a while. “How are they gonna learn if they don’t
practice?” She laughs and says “I actually
agree with that – but you need to repeat that to my hubby - he’s big on obedience”
and she goes out front for a smoke.
He slides over, calls for another beer and
bump, and side-eyes me. I re-calibrate and repeat my basic premise. “I know you
want her to be able to say ‘no’ to some jerk someday, right? You’re likely not
gonna be there when it happens. How is she gonna know how to do that if you don’t
teach her how to do it?” He looks puzzled.
He wants to argue with this but he can’t figure out where to grab the argument.
I plow ahead. “You’re the father, and the father needs to take control of this.
You pick the time and the topic, make sure it is not a health or safety thing –
something you don’t actually care that much about. You watch for your moment.
It needs to be a time when she really wants to say no to you but is naturally
afraid to do so. Then set it up so she wins a small battle. An intentional
retreat on your part. Let her ‘no’ stick. This has to happen every so often for
a while.”
He blinks a couple of times and says “But she has to do this
respectful like.”
“Of course! but it can be strong and respectful. I am sure you do this all the time by
demonstrating what strong and respectful looks like. You could even get your wife in on it, and play-act
the whole thing in front of her sometime.”
He takes a long draw and then purses his lips and stares at
the ceiling.
He looks at me like he sees me for the first time. He speaks
what may be a novel sentence for him.
“I cannot argue with this – you have given me something to think
about.”
I finished off my bottle with an equally long draw. I wished the
house a good night. Took my wooden coin and walked off into the night.
.
8.18.2017Hitler Youth
I don’t write much about my work. Not because
there are not fabulous, hilarious and heartbreaking stories at school. I could write something worthy every day. But
by definition and law, the students own their stories, and like the decades of counseling
clients and pastoral conversations, their stories stay in my heart until time
erases most of them.
But this summer no one is untouched by the ugliness of the
overt racism and white supremacy in our streets, our newsfeeds, and in our
government.
After the election last year, especially in January I noticed
an uptick of boldness of the dark side of the Force in our school. Mostly misogyny.
But with swift attention it seemed to quiet.
This August I find myself wondering if the Hitler Youth are
going to show up in September. When I
looked at the video of Charlottesville, what bothered me most was how many young
men were in the pictures. Not much older than my flock.
So, I am thinking about being ready. Ready personally. Ready
professionally. To deal with the evils of racism and White supremacy in
whatever form I can identify it. I do not judge the thoughts, philosophies or
tactics of others fighting evil. I might engage them, but I do not judge them. I
was heartened to see Antifa and Pacifist clergy facing danger together. It will
take everyone to survive this. All I can
do is contextualize the fight to my own life, heart, mind and
situation. So I am getting ready.
Personally. Daily questions. Am I patrolling my own thoughts words and deeds
for the constant and absolutely culturally pandemic toxins that cause me to
cling to my privilege or disadvantage our employees and students of color? Am I
owning these thoughts, words and behaviors and rooting them out? For me this is spiritual. I work at all times
in all places for a once, and ever, brown-skinned Palestinian Jew. I don’t ask What Would He Do? I ask What Is He Doing? Here, now. I try and do
that thing. He never does racist bullshit. He never protects privilege. He sees, listens to, and gives voice to the oppressed. He also
never gives up on anyone.
Professionally. I work at a school where the16-21-year-old
student body is majority underclass. With a high percentage of trauma survivors.
A high percentage with mental health issues. Higher than the general population
in gay, queer, trans. Our student body is about 60% white, 30% Hispanic and 10%
other. Our school is a voluntary program on a community college campus. I have a college diversity policy that is
clear and bold, and the administration above me will back me up in the
enforcement of it. I am in charge of discipline for 250 young adults. I have a
lot of latitude. I can send them home to change their shirt. I can release them
from the program in a moment if I think it is warranted.
But my goal is not to get rid of my overtly racist students.
I have had a few. I have been lucky to have dealt with them one at a time. They are young,
and I refuse to give up on them just yet. Here is what I have done, and will
always try and do. (All of this presumes no physical violence, or direct
threats of violence – which always warrant dismissal)
1- Protect the direct
victim if there is one. I start by accepting their testimony. And they get to
be pissed off, and they get a pass on words they used in their own defense. Then I
protect the school environment by at least temporarily removing the offender. I
act as swiftly as I can. This is one of those rare times that I have no problem walking
into a class and publicly removing someone. It is a small school. This is
noticed.
2 – Then clarity. I use my voice. To say No, nope, and in no
way. To one and all. With the offender -
conversation - but strong, and in
the end hierarchical, conversation. This is where I use all the privilege I can
muster. And whatever personal and spiritual power that has been put into me. If they don’t accept this and the restrictions
it will place upon them, they will be gone. They get mad, but I have yet to lose one at this point.
3- If they accept the discipline put in place, then we
continue the conversation. I Affirm their personhood, and treat them with respect
that they are not dishing out. Why? Because I want, even for a moment, to
separate their personhood from their ideas and behaviors. This would be the
first step they would need to take to become ex-fascists. I tell them that I
want them in my school and that I want them to graduate. If they accept this
from me, I am winning.
4- I try not to kick them out. If the victim does not want
to sit with them in class, then the offender gets moved. I may move them from
the high school to the GED program. But if I dismiss them, they use that to
fuel their delusional persecution story. If I keep them, then for every hour, for each
day, that they bring their personhood through the door to try and pass Algebra
class, and at least stifle their racism at the door, they are living in the
liminal space that makes at least possible, their salvation.
.
2.19.2017Filling Station
Sometimes I am just not very mindful. I am particularly awful about the gas
tank. My coupe is in some ways lacking bells
and whistles, which I like; but it doesn’t nag you about the gas, which can be
dicey. Sure, there’s a light if you want to look at it, but if you wanted to
look at that, you would see the gauge, now wouldn’t you? And as I said, mindful
– not always so much. I often end up with a quart or so of juice and a
big-thirst engine.
So the other day I was out on the freeway when
something made me look, and then look for the nearest exit. I pulled into the
very first opportunity – pert near dry.
Here in Oregon we don’t pump our own gas – it’s
the law, which makes for regular conversations with strangers. The boomer
getting ready to quench my thirst seemed a wee bit distracted. When he had to
ask twice about my octane preference, he apologized. “We’re having a little
problem with the customers behind you. – sorry”
I looked. Two young black men in a beater. A
red-headed pump boy waving his hands at them and calling into the store on his
radio. I set the parking brake and got
out of the coupe.
I asked my guy. “They
having trouble paying for their gas?”
“I don’t know – they said something
racial to the kid, and he’s pissed.”
I
looked deeper. The two men in the car were agitated and yelling at each
other. I stepped over the hose going
into my tank and walked to my trunk. A managerial woman came out of the mini-mart and waved off
the young pumper, who asked her if he should call the police. “Not yet.” She
gets down by their window and is saying that 10 bucks won’t cover the 30-dollar
tab. Ginger pumper is writing down their plate and getting out his cell. I walk up with my card out and said to the
manager, “I’d be happy to pay their tab.” She stares at me – “Seriously?” I look at, and listen to, the guys in the car who are still
yelling at each other - in KISWAHILI. "Um, yes, be my pleasure."
“Jambo, Somali, then?”
“What? Yes.” I have their attention.
“The prophet Jesus, peace be upon him, would like to
buy your gas today, is that ok?”
“What? YES!
While the relieved manager ran my card, we chatted; the
driver had said “Fill it with ten dollars" , and pump guy had only been mindful
of the first words. The Somalis now had a full tank and exactly ten bucks
between them. The fellow riding shotgun was advising that they drive off having
paid what they had promised. The driver thought this might be a bad
idea. I told them I would go their bail,
but that a better tactic in the future would be to give the money they had to
the pumper up front. And not use the word ‘fill’. Shotgun thought that paying first was not a
good idea, as then there would be no reason for the pumper not to pocket the
bill and give them no gas. Good African sense. We settled on show the money for
clarity, and give it over when you got the gas. We discussed the inadvisability of
driving off, as they could be chased or found.
I got my receipt for their gas and mine, and wished
them well.
They thanked me in both languages and faiths. We shook hands”
“Please, I must know your name” said the driver. I leaned in.
“I am Madame Moto-Muzungu de Bujumbura. Amani. Go
with God.”
And two laughing Somalis drove off shaking their
heads.
The manager said – “That was the best mom talk I
have heard in a long time.”
And maybe it was, because the Mother’s Union is an
international organization. Or maybe it was white savior complex, ‘cause I can
come down with that on occasion, Or just burning some cheap privilege. Or maybe I invented Gas-Splaining. I don’t
know. What it felt like was Luck – my unbelievably consistent luck. Why should
I be so privileged, to get to be useful, so often? If I was any good at taking care of my car, I
would not have been there.
The red-headed kid looked at me and looked at my
pretty red sportscar and said “Must be nice to be rich and able to throw money
away.” Oh, son. I don’t actually have much money to throw away, but I am rich –
when I remember how rich I am.
Boomer pumper opened my car door and said “Have a
good evening, ma'am.”
I said “I always do.” Whenever I pay attention.
.
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