My First Sermon on the Streets

This season is a really hard time for me. For some of us, this holiday season is a time we remember what we have lost or what we have never had.

The person in our gospel, John the prophet, came to his people in a time of hardship. The people of that time were living in fear and loss. They had lost their homeland to a foreign ruler. They had lost children and loved ones. They had lost their freedom. Many lived in terrible poverty. Worse, they were losing hope.

And along comes this guy named John who lives out in the wilderness and eats bugs and wild honey. He comes as a prophet. He comes to tell people that there still is hope. That, in spite of everything happening, in spite of all their suffering, there is hope.

But before John could give this message, he went out into the wilderness. You might say he went on pilgrimage—only it was a rather long one, where John went out into the desert to search for God. It might have been a long search. It is hard to search for hope. I feel like that is what those of us who went on pilgrimage were doing a few weeks ago; it is what we are all doing every day. Searching for God. Searching for hope.

Sometimes hope is hard to find. When I remember the times in my life of pain and darkness, sometimes I can only ask the question that Jesus did on the cross. “Why, God why?” Sometimes that is where we are. We cannot always see hope. Hope is a scary thing. When things seem to get worse and worse, when there seems to be no answer to our problems, we are afraid to hope. I’m sure there were many people who listened to John’s message of hope, John’s message about the coming of Jesus, and simply thought; “I can’t see any way out right now. How can there really be hope?”

I think God understands that. In another story, this prophet John loses hope himself and Jesus has to assure him that it will be ok in the end. Sometimes all we can remember is that God is there, with us, in us, suffering with us, walking with us in our pain. Finding hope is often a long, painful journey. This advent season is a time of hoping against hope. Sometimes it means just grabbing at that tiniest, smallest bit of hope that God is still with us and that things can get better.

There is another thing I find interesting about this gospel reading. When God sent a prophet to announce Jesus’ coming, to give people hope, God did not send a well educated person. God did not send a king or a trained religious leader. God sent John, a man without a home, a man who lived in the desert, a man most people probably thought was crazy. God usually does things like that. God always chooses to speak through people who the rest of world doesn’t think much of. God sends salvation through people who everyone else thinks are nobodies.

In this community, I have met many prophets. Oftentimes, in bible study or in this service, I don’t say much because I feel like I need to listen to the amazing wisdom of this community. You have all taught me so much. And so I want to step back now and do just that, listen to your wisdom.

The Gold Crowned Jesus

Today, I have been thinking of a favorite story of mine by Korean poet Kim Chi Ha. It reminds me of Jon Sobrino's reformulation of salvation: "extra pauperes nulla salus." There is no salvation without the poor. In their struggle for liberation, the gospel is most fully articulated. As I work alongside folks living on Boston's streets, I feel this more and more. The story goes like this...

There was once a cement statue of Jesus outside of a church. This Jesus wore a gold crown, but under the statue, many people slept. In the morning, rich men and priests would walk past these people asking for help. But they were always ignored. Finally, one morning, one of these poor men was filled with despair. “I have nowhere to live! I cannot bear this cold and misery anymore.” Then he looks up at the statue of Jesus. “This Jesus might be the savior of those who have enough to eat and have a home. But he has nothing to say to me!” The beggar begins to cry and as he does, he feels gentle drops fall onto his own head. He looks up, and lo and behold, the statue is weeping.

Suddenly, the man notices that Jesus is wearing a golden crown and, realizing its value, he reaches for it. At this very moment he hears a voice: “Take it, please! For too long a time I have been imprisoned in this cement. Feeling choked in this dark and lonely prison of cement. I wish to talk with poor people like you share your suffering . How eagerly I’ve been waiting for this day to come. Finally you have come and made me open my mouth. It is you who saved me.’ These are the words spoken by the gold crowned Jesus.

‘Who put Jesus in prison?’ the startled and frightened man asks. ‘Who were they?’ The Jesus made of cement answers: ‘People like the Pharisees did it, because they wanted separate him from the poor in order possess him exclusively.' Then the man asks: ‘Lord, what is it that has to be done for you to be released, for you to live again and stay with us?’

Jesus answers: “If people like you, that means the poor, the miserable, the persecuted, and kind-hearted people are not going to liberate me, I will never become free again. Only kindhearted people will be able to do it. You opened my mouth! Right at that moment when you took the crown off my head, my mouth opened. It is you who liberated me! Remove the golden crown. For my head, a crown of thorns will just be enough. I do not need gold. You need it much more. Take the gold and share it with your friends.’

Just then, the priest of this rich church comes by and sees the man take the crown. He raises an uproar and the poor man is arrested and the crown is replaced. The statue becomes cold cement once again.

How often does the church replace the gold crown and ignore the gospel of the poor?

The Moses Complex

More and more, I feel like I am running out of words in ministry. Or, not out of words, but out of the ability to use them properly. This morning, I led a prayer, sending out a group of pilgrims. I had so much in my heart to say, so much emotion, so much love for every person present. Yet, when the time came to pray, I fumbled for words and forgot people's names and nearly broke down crying. What sounded beautiful in my head came out in jumbled pieces.

At first, I felt shame and embarrassment. People deserved better than that! And, for goodness sakes, I know I can pray!! I have done public prayer before.

Then I thought of Moses. As I have walked a pilgrimage with members of my field ed parish, a song has been going over and over in my head.

I, the Lord of sea and sky,
I have heard my people's cry...
I will speak my words to them.
Whom shall I send?"

Moses wasn't so sure about this call, especially when he realized it was going to involve speaking. He stuttered and stumbled quite a bit, so the story goes. Yet, God uses Moses anyway in a powerful way. Moses' excuse that he could not speak didn't keep him from being an instrument of liberation for his people.

So, that is what I am banking on. That God's work is not simply a performance where the right words are said at the right time in the right way. That God's work makes use of broken, stammering people. That God can use me, even when I stutter and stumble and can't find the right words.

Here I am, Lord. Is it I Lord?...
I will hold your people in my
heart.

Coming Out Redneck: Cross-Country Trip, part 2

The hotel might have been a little run down, but I loved the beaten up old town. Made me feel right at home. The TV stayed on for only a short time, but I was angered by what I saw (ok, T.V. makes me emotional, especially after 12 hours of driving). It was a reality show on repossessions, where people are delivered repo notices for their cars and then asked to answer five questions for the opportunity to win it back (called “Repo Games”). The guy labeled a “dumb redneck” who actually managed to win his car back was ridiculed. We got to laugh at the fact that rednecks don’t know where to find all the Six Flags theme parks in the country and the director made sure to poke as much fun (otherwise known as humiliate) the guy who could not afford to keep his car. The Awl calls this “poverty porn,” “a field guide for the slanders used by those that believe that debt, poverty and bad circumstance are always the result of bad decisions and poor breeding.” And, of course, rural and small town folks that don’t travel much, live relatively simple lives, and are perfectly content with that are always the results of “bad breeding.” Since when did working folks in America become backwards hicks unworthy of the sympathy or respect of the wanna-be professional class?

The next day started out poorly. We spent the better part of three hours coaxing, cajoling, and finally wrestling the one ton horse into the trailer. We would have never made it without the help of our new friends the horse boarders. Some people might call them rednecks, but they were as helpful and hospitable as everyone else we had met thus far. The soil is so rich in this part of North Dakota that it is sticky; sticky in the sense that it soon covered our shoes, pants, and, of course, the entire truck by the time we hit the road. We were all happy rednecks now.

I slept through Minnesota, since I was driving Wisconsin. We got around our first big city, Minneapolis/St Paul without a hitch. Then on to the rather unkept interstate through the great dairy state. I was disappointed to see more corn fields than dairies from the road. I have a soft spot for milk in all of its forms and for the animals that produce it. As far as I am concerned, milk is just about the most perfect food ever invented. I waxed nostalgic at the memory of making my own cheeses, yogurt, and various other products as a teenager on a small goat dairy farm. It was always amazing to see a vat turn from boiling milk into soft curd cheese just begging for my garden chives and heirloom garlic. I miss those days.

My cheese longing was met at our dinner stop in little Windsor, WI at the Mousehouse Cheesehaus (see picture above). Finally, real food, at least some of it locally produced. I had already begged a stop to buy bread, apples, and cheese to save my stomach the pain of McDonalds. Unfortunately, my only option had been Wal-Mart. What could be local foods produced by local people and feeding the local economy was generally boxed and processed and served by underpaid waitresses who could not find any other job in Timbuktu. But, finally, I got my amazing sandwich with local cheese and ham. What a feast! Of course, we could not leave without their homemade fudge and cheese.

Skirting around Chicago led us to stop in Rockford, though not before witnessing a stunning sunset over a lake on the border of Illinois. It was slightly comical to drive into a cheap inn in the middle of Main Street in a city with "population: 200,000" hauling a trailer and taking up half the parking lot. Two little kids came rushing out asking to pet the horse (who, unfortunately for them was not in the mood for visitors). They had seen one once on a farm, but we were a novelty. “Oh, I wish my four year old was awake,” another woman gushed. “She loves animals.” What was part of life in rural America was a petting zoo novelty to their urban counterparts. We were staying at a cheap inn in the less affluent part of town and I noted again differences between rural and urban poverty. Kids go hungry either way, but inner city kids play on asphalt and broken glass and breathe air thick with fumes.

Indiana and Ohio treated us to corn fields in ever increasing size, a testimony to U.S. obsession with corn. Or, at least, the obsession of agribusiness with corn. I could not help but think of the small farmers who had lost out on this increasing mono-cultured crop climate. I could not help but think of all the small farmers of Mexico and Central America who were losing their small scale, locally developed corn varieties as they were forced to leave their ancestral farms and migrate north when U.S. agribusiness won out on NAFTA and flooded our southern neighbors with cheap corn. These same farmers were showing up in the American heartland to work for poverty wages picking crops for agribusiness. The U.S. consumer is losing too, filling our bodies with more corn than it was ever meant the handle and, according to researchers and doctors, increasing our propensity for heart disease and diabetes. Besides, the food taste terrible. I was also increasingly annoyed by the difficulty I had finding places to refill my water, since I refused to spend money on something so common as water.

I also thought about the small farms that were still left, searching for some way to stay viable. Not far from the highways we passed, the Amish tended crops in an agrarian culture that had survived the Industrial, “Green,” and Information Revolutions. I noticed, even on the commercial book racks in convenience stores, the simple and austere spirituality of the Amish infiltrated popular religious culture. Religion was kinder here, at least on the surface, less about proving points and more about inspirational reading, simple living, and loving the land affectionately known as “God’s Country.”

As the rolling plains and fields gave way to oak decorated hills, we wound our way slowly to Pennsylvania. It was getting dark as we pushed through the state, but the early Appalachian Mountains with tiny towns nestled in them were a welcome sight. A sliver moon hung out above the trees whose names I did not know, trees that looked different from the towering conifers of the Pacific coast, looked a bit tamer and certainly shorter. I wanted more pictures and I wanted to stop more often, but we had a schedule to keep, so I contented myself to watching the deep river ravines cut through the tree studded hills until it was too dark to see.

Our last morning went quickly, after a stop in a small hotel right off the highway in the middle of nowhere, weaving through the last of the Appalachians and into Virginia. Williamsburg, with its fine colonial homes and signs remembering Indian attacks (but apparently not settler attacks on Native peoples), was full of revolutionary nostalgia and horse pastures. We left the horse to one of those pastures before heading off to my train stop.

Now, as I weave my way by train through the urban chaos of the Eastern seaboard, I wonder what brought this small town redneck all the way across the country. Part of what brought me (aside from scholarships and grants) is a search for answers, answers to the pressing problems of my people, the rural working folks of the forgotten regions of the U.S., and a quest for a way to use my faith to answer that call.

The Soul of the West: Cross-Country Trip, part 1

I fell in love with the continent and country I call home all over again as I drove across country with my sister and brother-in-law. We packed into my sister’s truck with her massive German Shepherd that always wanted more of my seat than I was willing to part with and towing her restless Thoroughbred mare. I fell in love, not with an abstract idea, or a government, or a flag—but with the beauty of the land and the culture of its people, especially in the tiny, rural towns that dot the nation. All is not well in the American countryside, it is true. There were plenty of trucks guzzling a good portion of the world’s oil to deliver food and goods over long distances, there was GMO corn everywhere, and horrible plastic tasting food at every rest stop. But there were also friendly and helpful small-town clerks, stunning mountain lakes, welcoming horse boarders, and incredible local cheeses.

We started out early from my hometown and I think I teared up a bit driving away from the only place in the world that I think of as home. But a new adventure awaited me and I felt a bit like Bilbo from The Hobbit (a book conveniently tucked away in the back seat), trudging away, half excited, half dreading the long five day trip that lay ahead.

When we crossed the Cascades under the shadow of Mt. Baker, I was amazed, as always, at the distinction between the two sides of the state. On one side, my own side, we have enough rain and clouds to create part of the largest temperate rain forest on the continent. But as you start down the pass on the eastern side, the landscape gives way to dry expanses of farmland and even some high desert. My sister was thrilled to watch the tumbleweed. We might get all the rain, but our eastern neighbors get the long growing season.

The neck of Idaho gave us fantastic views of glacier fed rivers and lakes nestled in the heart of more conifer forests. No matter where I am in the world, I am a sucker for mountains. And they just kept getting bigger. In Montana, one of the least densely populated states in the country, we entered the great Continental Divide, full of signs for fishing and hunting and the occasional Bible verse. Butte showed signs of deep mining, cutting massive holes into the earth and rendering the land useless for anything else in future generations. But the mountains kept coming and running rivers followed us on our way as we drove through vast stretches of public land.

When I was greeted by a store clerk in Idaho with; “Hello, ma’am, have a great day!” I knew I was still in small town U.S.A. where hospitality is a way of life. At gas stations and corner diners, people always greeted us and sometimes helped guide the unwieldy trailer out of gas station stalls. I felt right at home in my flannel shirts and boots.

I was highly amused in a Montana gas station stop by the items for sale. There were special brands of huckleberry chocolates, soaps, and candies, a testimony to someone’s entrepreneurship in marketing a local (and may I say, delicious) product. On the magazine rack, cowboy magazines mingled with “Creation Magazine” and the “Biblical Archeological Review,” a testimony to the power of a peculiarly American form of fundamentalism. What I had to buy, though, were the postcards in black and white of various Montana activities. Two men fishing—why, that was a stress reduction seminar. Meet someone driving by in a pickup? That’s the communications network. And a treehugger? Well, those are obvious out of towners holding on to trees for dear life as grizzlies sniff the air underneath their flailing legs. This last one—well, I suppose I am a treehugger at heart, as you might surmise by my last post. But I understand the point. With urban environmentalists, we rural folks sometimes feel like they think of nature as a giant teddy bear to be embraced. It may be that, but it is also cruel and unpredictable, both a giver of life and a destroyer. This dark side seems to be missed by many a treehugger.

We left the giant trees and towering mountains behind when we crossed into North Dakota. We entered into the land of rich farmlands and grassland. Its little shops on the roadside had a more eclectic feel and I finally saw a herd of bison. As we moved east, the rivers were growing smaller and cornfields were growing larger. We stopped at the far east end of the state for the night, navigating through tractor roads between fields of soybeans and corn to find the stable for the horse. My sister was frustrated after an hour of bumping through the fields and I was trying to keep from laughing when I wasn’t holding on for dear life. Why did I sign up to drive this part anyway? Well, at least I was driving to the beat of Reba McEntire’s “I’m a survivor.” And the tires weren't stuck in the mud yet.

We drove through an enormous mono-cropped farm with a runoff facility that smelled so bad we could barely breathe. Monsanto dutifully had an office nearby, clearly supplying the patented seeds that have replaced the small farm varieties of a half century ago. The only living thing that seemed to survive the invasion of pesticide infested corn and soybeans were the wild sunflowers smiling with bright yellow faces on the edges of the fields. With small farmers pushed out and large, corporate farms dominating American agriculture, our food quality is going downhill. After all, I was standing (or bumping over) some of the richest bottomland in the country (known as the “Red River Valley”), but all there was to eat was highly processed, corn fed hamburgers or chicken on white buns and served with plastic tasting fries that had been trucked in from who knows where and sold by giant multinational chains. Oh, and I could also buy corn syrup sodas flavored with caffeine. My stomach was in revolt.

When we finally arrived at the stable, we were met by a middle aged couple living in between the cornstalks with a small herd of horses. We gratefully left the horse to find a place to sleep.

The Trees

I walked through the farm I grew up in; I said goodbye for a time; I said goodbye to the trees. The wispy little Vine Maple, not much larger than when I was a child, reminded me of the joys of childhood and the mystery of the world around me. I remembered the time I stepped out into the dark and a large elk stood under its branches, looking straight at me. I walked further to my sacred spot, the spot I used to watch the sun set every night, the place I found peace. With my mom’s dog business, it is much louder, but the stand of Hemlocks is still there, especially the large one that towers over the cleared field. I stood and the tree whispered to me of peace. I lingered a bit, thinking of all that I had learned and experienced. “Don’t forget us.” I took a sprig from its branches and walked on under the old spruce, a tree from which I never emerged without sap all over my hands and clothes. I also remembered dreaming up a story underneath it as a child. “I gave you creativity,” it reminded me. I smiled and moved on.

The stand of alders was next. “You taught me how to dance,” I told them. We had a swing at one time set up there and there was still a spot in the dirt where we used to slow ourselves down, draging our feet. The great Hemlock near the barn loomed ahead. “You taught me to love the trees,” I said. I would sit under that tree many times, enjoying its shade. I looked down the hillside, toward the trees our goats used to love to graze under. I learned hard work there, I learned there. I looked back as I left. “Thank you,” I whispered. “I will be back.” I knew the forest trees of my childhood would always be with me.

As I stepped out toward the house, getting ready to leave, I picked up a hawk feather.

Cat Theology

I sat with my friend on her porch, having what she called “coffee with God.” We sat in comfortable silence, watching the cat for a moment. For a few minutes, my mind was racing for something to say, maybe even something profound. It is easy, as a seminary student, to think that I need something useful to say, something that will be insightful and provocative. Nothing came. So I went back to watching the cat. My friend laughed and wondered if there was anything such thing as “cat theology.” But I still had nothing profound or even moderately interesting to say. So I just watched the cat. The cat rubbed against our legs and stalked out past the garden of peas and kale to pause in the grass and the sun. His green eyes watched everything.

I never did come up with anything to say. My fuzzy morning mind just thought about the cat. As we came to a close, I suddenly realized that the cat was a great theology teacher. He was living in the moment, basking in the joy of simply being. He had no particular agenda, no need for a speech or great idea. He just lived for the sun and the grass and human touch. On the porch that day, I had a moment to simply be. I wondered if that wasn’t the greatest gift of all. I needed more time to simply be, to revel in the natural world, to notice the sun on my face and the shoots in the garden and the bird flitting in the trees.

Thoughts at a Deathbed

I have spent a lot of time at deathbeds this summer. It has reminded me of all the people I have known and loved who have died. It has also made me think about my own theology and spirituality around death. Last week, I sat with a man who was begging his brother to hang in there, to keep breathing. The prognosis was not good and the man was so thin and so frail that he looked like he would leave at any moment. This family had done everything—tubes, heart surgery, more tubes, and yet now here he was, battered and fighting to breathe and still the brother begs him to stay alive. My heart went out to both men as I sat at the bedside. I understand wanting to do everything you can to save the life of the one you love. I would want the same.

But sometimes I wonder, at what cost? Can we, who have learned to go to great lengths to save a life, also learn to let go?

I wonder if we thought of death in a more positive and holistic way; what would change? Death for family members is a great loss. But what if we could also think about death as a great passage, as part of the whole cycle of life, as something to celebrate as well as to mourn? Could we, instead of avoiding it at all costs, embrace it as a part of life?

We resist death so much in this culture. We don’t want to accept it and we don’t know how to celebrate it. Yet, it can be celebrated. It is a vital part of life. Where are our ceremonies allowing the departed to leave? Where are our vigils, preparing the loved one for death? Where is the chanting, the mourning, the letting go? We are so busy fighting that there is no time to usher out the dying in peace. It is part of the great cycle of life—just as fall gives way to winter and the tree dies to give life the soil. Just like the sun sets after it rises and the river melts into the wide ocean. It is part of the journey, the life cycle that is greater than us and goes on after us.

It has become a practice on nights when I come back from these events, to spend time under the night sky and under the stars. I find being outside in the world, in nature, tremendously healing. It reminds me of the vastness of the web of life and the cycle of life and death that we witness and participate in.

Healing and Tragedy

This week, my CPE group was deeply impacted by a now public event earlier this week. Early Tuesday morning, a woman came into the emergency room, gave birth in the ER bathroom, and left the baby tied up in the trash can. Thankfully, a nurse discovered the child shortly afterwards and resuscitated him. The baby has survived and was airlifted to a larger hospital. The mother is now in the Thurston County Jail.

The news has been all over the story, reporting that the woman had come into the ER claiming to be a cancer patient and that her boyfriend had no idea she was pregnant. The event has been shocking and difficult for everyone. I have struggled with two conflicting emotions. First, concern for the baby, who was pre-term and nearly died. Second, I have struggled with trying to understand the mother.

What depth of pain, despair, and desperation would lead a mother to throw a baby in the trash? Of course, people and media judge her harshly. I do not underestimate the horror of the situation, nor this woman’s responsibility for harming her child. But I also wonder how healing can be found in a situation like this.

I think of this woman, now sitting in a jail cell, with little or no access to mental health workers, spiritual care, or support of any kind. She is a criminal and so has lost all right to be treated as fully human. Our society has designed a criminal justice system that is punitive, not healing. This woman, who clearly struggles with mental health issues, will likely have little access to anything that will help her. The most likely scenario is that she will become less and less able to live as a responsible member of the community. When society seeks to punish, we only continue the cycle of violence.

What is it in communities that we need to punish instead of heal? How can a community facilitate a process of healing and forgiveness? Can we, as a community, forgive such a terrible act and work toward restoration?

People near the situation who had part in the care of the baby cannot find it in their hearts to forgive. And I don’t think they have to. If the child survives, he will probably never forgive the woman who just threw him away. And he should not have to. But, in the wider community, can a place be found for healing the woman who, in an act of perverse desperation, abandoned a tiny life?

How is CPE going?

Everyone keeps asking me, "How is CPE going?" For those of you who don't know what it is, it is "Clinical Pastoral Education," a program designed to give an intensive unit of hospital chaplaincy and group processing and required by many mainline denominations before ordination. It is a great idea-- make sure that the people you are going to ordain have experience with the hidden and painful sides of human existence (and with their own hidden demons around that) before sending them off.


I am doing an intensive summer unit in Olympia, WA. On one hand, I had difficulty adjusting to working in a hospital environment. Not only is it a vast institution with little natural light and lots of activity, it is terribly impersonal. There is a vast system, in which everyone present is simply a cog in the wheel. Patients are numbered and checked, everyone has a specialized place to be. Chaplains are assigned to make sure that people stay calm during this loss of control, that they can find the inner strength to fight their personal demons. However, I have also met amazing people who do amazing work.

And I enjoy talking with patients. I’ve had wonderful conversations—some spiritual and some not so much. I have chatted with a cancer patient about his dogs, prayed with a woman who is dying, listened to a family’s midnight heartbreak when husband and father unexpectedly died, and played cards with patients in the psychiatric unit. I have fallen in love with people all over again. I have also been learning that my ministry style is primarily listening to people tell their stories. I do not come to rooms with a toolkit of advice, just with a listening ear. And I find Christ among those I talk with. This is a deeply spiritual experience for me. When I pray in the morning in the chapel, I often stand before the crucifix and pray to see the crucified Christ in the people I meet with. And, without fail, I do.

Class and Activists

The more I think about it, the more I realize how we will never build a real, effective movement for change if we do not recognize class differences. I have noticed my own struggles as a working class woman in middle class organizing situations. There are strong cultural differences that get in the way. Here are some that I have noticed…

•Middle class, especially young, activists are proud of their subculture of healthy food, scruffy clothes, and communal living. I understand this, and even participate in some of it, but it is still jarring for me to walk into a young college activist group. I grew up in a working class family, where cleanliness, good hygiene, and home cooked meat and potatoes or great enchiladas were the norm.

•Middle class activists are strongly anti-military. I am both a pacifist (and strongly anti-war) and have family members in the military. For working class and rural people, the military is a source of economic survival and many young people who feel they have no other options join. Middle class activists often don’t seem to understand this reality and can make blanket assumptions and cruel comments about military personal.

•Middle class radicals love the earth. They may even grow an organic garden on a city lot. As a rural farm girl, however, I am amused by the lack of practical understanding that urban, middle class activists have of rural living. For example, urban environmental activists won a great victory in the 90s when they were able to shut down national forests to logging. However, for the people of my hometown, that also meant that the local economy collapsed. Poverty has skyrocketed and fueled a mass exodus from the area. I grew up in the forests and love them deeply, but I also feel deeply for the people who lost their jobs. Isn’t there a way that rural people and environmentalists could have worked together to find a solution that would benefit all?

•There are a lot of stereotypes of rural, working class people. They are rednecks, homophobes, backwards… and the list goes on. Sometimes radical middle class activists use these stereotypes themselves. The reality is that working class culture in general can be rich in hospitality, acceptance, and community.

•The response of people on the left that irritates me the most is the insinuation that working class people are less intelligent, especially if they are more conservative. There is a crass elitism in these assumptions. The accusation that working people are simply stupid, brainwashed, and uneducated is insulting. Some of the most intelligent people I know never went to college.

Oscar Romero and the Cross

Thirty-one years ago today, Oscar Romero was assassinated in El Salvador.

Those of us who are progressive theologians in the United States are generally skeptical of the language of sacrifice, and for good reason. We have seen it abused in so many ways. Women have been told for centuries to “bear their cross like Jesus” and endure domestic violence. Children have been abused in the name of a Father God who put his own Son to death. And, if we are honest with ourselves, we just don’t like to think too much about blood and pain. We would rather envision a happy Jesus, a resurrected Christ.

I wonder, though, for a person like Oscar Romero, who watched friends and parish members die all around him, if the image of a dying Christ was not some comfort, an image of solidarity.

Oscar Romero was appointed archbishop of El Salvador in 1977 during some of the most violent and repressive years just preceding the Salvadoran civil war, a time when the military was torturing and killing any who resisted their rule. The 70s and 80s were years of civil war and political infighting. Interestingly, Romero was chosen because he was viewed as a moderate who would not bother with political issues, who would keep the Catholic Church closely aligned with the rich and powerful. He had been educated in Italy and was known as a bookish sort of man, certainly not a revolutionary, not a prophet.

Just a few weeks after he took office, Father Rutilio Grande, a close friend of Romero’s, was assassinated for his political leanings, along with two of his parishioners. From this time on, Romero’s views changed drastically as he became more and more aware of the suffering of the poor around him. As archbishop, he was strongly influenced by liberation theology, so strongly in fact, that the Reagan administration labeled liberation theology a threat to national security. After only three years as archbishop, 31 years ago today, Romero was assassinated by a paramilitary member. He was one of at least 75,000 people who died during this time in El Salvador, including 16 priests and 4 Maryknoll nuns.

It seems to me, in this context of suffering and death, that the cross took a whole different meaning. In 1998, toward the close of the El Salvador wars, the Oscar Romero Pastoral Center reflected on what the cross meant to them. They noted that, more and more, the official Roman Catholic hierarchy was stressing the life of Jesus and his resurrection and minimizing the cross. But they also noted that the people of El Salvador still clung to the image of the cross, “because the poor and oppressed have identified since the beginning with the suffering of Jesus on the cross that has been associated with their own suffering, cruel and unjust, imposed and inescapable, which accompanies them from birth to death.” They ask this; “The wise should not be scandalized and the powerful should not make fun of the poor when they are seen walking behind a dead Christ.” In this dead Christ, they see their own suffering. Jesus in solidarity with them, giving them the dignity the rest of the world denies them. One of the martyred priests of El Salvador, tortured and murdered in the college complex he taught in, Ignacio Ellacuría said to his people; “You are the crucified people, the presence of Christ crucified in history.”

And what does it mean to stand with these crucified people in history?

For Jesus, who said that he had come to preach good news to the poor and proclaim a kingdom of justice, it meant his life. In our gospel passage, Jesus foresees his death, as he puts it, that “his hour has come.” Knowing this, he still set his face toward Jerusalem, to preach truth to power. As Lent progresses, we remember this journey toward death.

He knew. And yet Jesus went. Why? Why do some people go forward in the face of almost certain death to do what they know they are called to do? Romero too knew that he might encounter death for what he stood for. He had watched friends and fellow priests die for taking a stand on the side of the poor of El Salvador. Jesus has watched the death of his cousin, John the Baptist, for his message. Why this level of commitment? What is important enough to die for?

Romero might give us a few clues. He preached constantly about God’s preferential option for the poor. He says this; “We are a product of a spiritualized, individualistic education. We were taught: try to save your souls and don’t worry about the rest. We told the suffering: be patient, heaven will follow, hang on! No, that is not right! That is not the salvation Christ brought. The salvation Christ brings is a salvation from every bondage that oppresses human beings.”

I was deeply inspired by the EDS dean Katherine Ragsdale’s vision statement earlier this year. She observed; "few, if any, institutions have grappled adequately with the complex and threatening problems of classism in our churches and our society." This, I believe is our new challenge.

For Romero, his commitment to the most marginalized was very concrete and very real. He didn’t just talk about it. He lived it and ultimately died for it. So did Jesus.
Most of us in seminary are in a place of privilege. Like Romero, we are well educated and well read. We could choose a pretty comfortable life, though I would guess most of us are not planning to do that. But, whatever our backgrounds, we are graduate students, one of 9% of Americans who have that privilege. Romero has something to say to us. “When we say ‘for the poor’ we do not take sides with one social class. What we do… is invite all social classes, rich and poor without distinction, saying to everyone: Let us take seriously the cause of the poor as though it were our own—indeed, as what is really is, the cause of Jesus Christ.” We are invited to take up the cause of Jesus for the poorest among us.

We do not live in the El Salvador of the 80s and most of us will probably never face death for what we believe or teach. But we do live in one of the richest nations on earth that has a dark underside of poverty, of homelessness, of exploited labor, and of an abusive prison system. During morning and evening prayer here at chapel during Lent, we have been exploring this reality. Who are the crucified people of our own cities and towns and countryside? Every one of us walks past members of the homeless community every day. On the border earlier this year, I met more crucified people, people who were forced to flee their homes to survive, who are abused and hated and even die trying to enter our country. These were, these are Christ among us, crying out in pain among us. Our prisons are full of young and desperate people, and a large percentage of communities of color, revealing the dark underside of both racism and classism in our society.

In all this suffering and death, is there any hope? Romero said; “If I die, I will be resurrected in the Salvadoran people.” When I was on the border, I saw so much suffering that it was hard to see hope. Yet, I found it in a mural painted on the side of a priest’s office in Altar, a place of so much hardship for migrants as they begin their journey across the desert. In this mural, bones and the death are strewn across the desert and people are staggering along toward the horizon. Yet, above the horizon is an image of the Virgen de Guadalupe, the patroness of Mexico and the revelation God’s love to them. She holds her hands in prayer for her people and beckons them toward hope and resurrection. As we face a monumental task of solidarity with the poor among us, as we as an institution face the task of calling the church to become the church of the poor, we hold to the hope of resurrection, of the realization of the kin-dom of God among us.

I leave you with these words from Oscar Romero;
“God’s reign is already present on our earth in mystery. When the Lord comes it will be brought to perfection.” That is the hope that inspires Christians. We know that every effort to better society, especially when injustice and sin are so ingrained, is an effort that God blesses, that God wants, that God demands of us.

Only moments after he spoke those words, reportedly as he raised the cup during Eucharist, Oscar Romero was shot through the heart at the altar.

Class and Immigration

The one thing we don't usually want to talk about in the U.S. is class. Class seems fluid and tricky. For some, the term is too Marxist. For others, it just makes them uncomfortable. But we still use terms like "middle class" and "working class" or "working people" all the time. We all know, especially those of us from the working class, that there is indeed a class system in the United States.

Even though I am now in seminary, and in an academic world, I still identify strongly with my working class roots. My dad works in a warehouse and my mom runs a dog kennel on their farm. I grew up there, learning the value of hard work and working-class values. We never went hungry, but we never had a lot of money either. We lived in a mobile home and my dad built a barn to house our goats and chickens and we all dug a garden to grow our vegetables. My sisters and I are the first in our family to receive a university education, thanks to scholarships.

As I have been more and more involved in immigrant communities, as an ESL teacher, as an activist, and as an advocate, I have seen people who are working hard to make ends meet for their families. Immigrant workers are often exploited in the workplace, receive low wages, and struggle to survive and feed their kids. I've seen the same in the majority white, rural, working communities I grew up in.

That's why, when I attended a meeting hosted by the MA state governor's office last week in Framingham about Secure Communities, my heart dropped to see so many working class white people show up with their support. Secure Communities is opposed by the immigrant community because it creates a partnership between ICE (the branch of Homeland Security responsible for arresting and deporting undocumented immigrants) and local police. Many white people from the local area showed up with signs that were particularly offensive to the immigrant community ("I love gringos" "Go home, Illegals!").

Working class people have been told over and over that their own woes should be blamed on immigrants who are stealing their jobs. In this way, people who should be natural allies are pitted against each other.

I wanted to say; "Look, we are all in this together!" The reality is that the government policies that drive so many people to immigrate to the U.S. are the same policies that are hurting working class people in the U.S. For example, NAFTA allowed large corporations to import their products without tariffs into countries like Mexico. This drove corn prices down so low that millions of subsistence farmers in southern Mexico have been forced to migrate or starve. It is no coincidence that 1994 marked both a massive increase in border crossing and the implementation of NAFTA. At the same time, large corporations also have consolidated their landholdings, forcing U.S. farmers out of business and into poverty. Factories and industries in the U.S. that have employed most working people have been closed, because trade policies allow corporations to move offshore to make a better profit. Workers, both white and immigrant, are facing a massive economic squeeze for the same reason. Yet we are fighting each other!

If only we could recognize this and work together!

My Two Favorite Spiritual Practices

As a seminarian, I tend to talk a lot about my spiritual practices. And I have many. However, this weekend, I was reminded of two practices that always rejuvenate my spiritual life; taking time outdoors and protesting.

The hardest thing for me moving to the city has been the distance I feel between myself and the earth. I have lived most of my life in rural areas, surrounded by nature and sky and trees. This weekend a friend and I borrowed a car and drove out to the Ipswich Wildlife Sanctuary. It was so quiet! That was the first thing I noticed-- I could hear the silence, without the sound of traffic or people or machines. And I could truly see the sky, with the winter sun turning it gold and silver. I saw eastern red squirrels for the first time, chattering and fighting all over the place and clouds of chickadees landed periodically. We walked around the frozen lake and through the trees. There was an ancient Red Cedar, its branches worn through the decades, firmly rooted by the lake's edge. The smell of the tree as I sat besides it was warm and sharp and I felt like I finally had the time to clear my mind. My times of deepest prayer are nearly always in the quiet of the woods. It is there that I find God most present. I find it deeply saddening that the wild places are continually getting taken over by highways and development parks all over the country. I think we losing something precious, something many of us do not realize we have.

My other favorite spiritual practice is as loud and noisy as the woods are quiet and still. I do not go to protests just simply to go. Protests are a way for me to voice my solidarity with people who are marginalized in our society. Just as the woods call me to renew my sense of the presence of God, so protests call me to renew my sense of solidarity with my fellow human beings. This particular protest yesterday was in support of the Immokalee farm workers from FL, who were demanded a raise. A group of farm workers travelled from FL to Boston, in the snow no less, to highlight the fact that those who pick our tomatoes have not received a raise in decades and are often abused and exploited. This is the side of immigrant rights that activists sometimes forget-- migrants who obtain a job in the U.S. generally obtain a low wage job in the agricultural or service industries and often have very few rights. This group from Immokalee was courageously demanding fair treatment. It is tragic that the people who feed us, who clean our hotels, and who package our food are in possession of so few rights. It is in their faces that I find the face of the crucified Jesus today.

My Thoughts from the U.S.-Mexico Border

"1,950 mile long open wound…The U.S.-Mexico border es una herida abierta, where the third world grates against the first and bleeds." Gloria Anzaldúa

I spent the first three weeks of January on the U.S.-Mexico border on a grant for cross-cultural studies. After spending years involved in immigrant rights, I wanted to witness firsthand what was happening on the border. I was less prepared than I thought for what I saw and heard. It was jarring to see miles of hideous fence cutting through the beautiful desert landscape. It was even more jarring to see the hundreds of shacks lining the hillsides on the Mexican side and the mansions on the streets of the U.S. side and the heavily armed guards on both sides. I talked to migrants from shelters all along the border—in Nogales, in Agua Prieta, in Altar. They all told me the same story. "There is no work. We need to feed our families." Several repeated over and over, "We are not coming for a better life. We are coming just to survive." The border has separated so many families and many of the people I talked to were desperately trying to return to children in the U.S. Some had tried multiple times to cross, been caught and processed by Border Patrol and were returning to try again.

"People who experience trauma live in the suspended middle territory, between life and death… Neither a figure of life or death exclusively, the cry from the wound is the hinge that links the two. It is a cry of witness from the middle." Shelly Rambo

This middle territory is no metaphor on the U.S.-Mexico border. It is literally a fight between life and death in the borderlands. Everything is against the migrant—the desert, the patrols, the roaming gangs, local ranchers, and time. Even with the economic downturn, many estimate that up to 1400 people are crossing through the Sonoran desert every day, driven there by U.S. border policy. Operating under a policy of deterrence, the federal government consciously decided to funnel people into the desert, hoping that the harsh conditions and high death toll would keep others from following. But people are desperate enough to keep coming—and many do die. 253 people were found dead in the desert just last year, many who were never identified.

Those who are shuffled back and forth by unjust economic policies and harsh anti-immigration laws give witness to the wound on the border. The twelve year old girl trying to take care of her sick mother and baby brother who had just spent two days in custody after being found in the desert. She told us about the girl she met, crying in Border Patrol custody, who had miscarried in a Border Patrol van after being kicked by a patrol's horse. The Guatemalan woman who had fallen off the train on her way up to Nogales and was now crossing the desert alone with her husband because they could not afford to pay a coyote. She told me; "I am afraid, but God will protect us." The couple who had left their children behind in Michoacán and were heading to San Francisco to try to make enough money to take care of them. They set off across the plaza in Altar with their backpacks, ready to try again after being deported on their first attempt. They had been on the road a month so far.

"War dehumanizes, war diminishes, war debases all those who wage it." Elie Weisel

One person warned us about the border; "It is a low intensity war zone." She was not joking. The desert is full of high tech tracking equipment, low flying helicopters, and armed Border Patrol. Driving the back roads with humanitarian groups looking to provide food and water to migrants, I quickly lost count of the dozens of Border Patrol vehicles and checkpoints and Wackenhut buses used to transport people to detention. At border checkpoints, guys with machine guns are everywhere. Parts of the fence are electrified and crowned with rolled barbed wire. All of this largely to keep out an invasion of the poor.

I met a young Border Patrol agent at a checkpoint who seemed eager to go home to San Diego. He laughed; "As long as they keep making Mexicans, I'll have a job." The dehumanization didn't end there. ICE agents I met with were unable to refer to people crossing borders as anything other than aliens, illegals, or worse, "bodies." There is no accountability for agents who abuse people in their custody and reports of violent abuse, such as kicking, punching, threatening, and even raping migrants are common. The week I got there, a 17 year old kid was shot on top of the border fence by a Border Patrol agent, a kid who ended up being on his way to or from a party he went to with his U.S. girlfriend on the other side.

The war zone spills into U.S. federal courtrooms, where Operation Streamline processes seventy people a day in Tucson solely for the crime of crossing the wrong border. The day I visited, I saw sick women and men who could barely walk, fully shackled, led up in groups of seven to the front of an English speaking court with minimal translation and forced to give up their rights and plead guilty. Seventy people, one at a time, said; "Cupable." Guilty. Guilty for wanting to feed hungry families. Guilty for fleeing economic policies largely induced by U.S. policy. Guilty for entering away from a port of entry without documentation it is impossible for poor people to obtain.

Throughout my trip, these words from Elie Weisel kept haunting me; "We must take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented… When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men and women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must — at that moment — become the center of the universe." And, in the last three weeks, I was visiting the center of the universe.