My Dream for the Harbor

I dream that children will no longer go to bed hungry. I dream that our young men and women will refuse to fight in the wars of empire, that our old men and aging mothers will teach us their wisdom and we will stop to listen.

I dream of emptied jails and prisons, of workers who no longer have to work in the shadows, of communities in solidarity across racial divides. 

I dream that we will learn to live well on the land we love, that we will listen to the whispers of many ancestors, that our forests will grow tall, and our valleys will be fertile, and that we as the people will benefit from the fruit of the land. 

I dream of a people awakened, knowing their value and their worth, refusing to bow to the powerful and the greedy, refusing to live the way they are told to live—a people taking control of their own communities. I dream of neighbor helping neighbor, of autonomous communities, of communities who take control of their own land and their own resources, of a people who say enough to those in power. 

I dream of the time when we will break the pattern of our history—the pattern that treats land and people as resources and commodities, the pattern that divides us and keeps us fighting among ourselves, the pattern that says greed is good and bigger is better, the pattern that allows the few to benefit off the labor and misery of the many.

 I dream of a resurrected harbor, a resurrected land, a resurrected people. I dream that spring will follow a long winter, that new life will follow death, and that the sun will again rise on a broken and struggling land. We have seen much sorrow, but we have a holy heritage, a beautiful land, and the hope of community.  

On Speaking with a Breaking Heart

So the word of the Lord has brought me
    insult and reproach all day long.

 But if I say, “I will not mention his word
    or speak anymore in his name,”
his word is in my heart like a fire,
    a fire shut up in my bones.
I am weary of holding it in;
    indeed, I cannot.

Jeremiah 20:8-9

I love the prophet Jeremiah. He delivers scathing words of judgment and piercing cries for justice, but he also utters heartbreaking laments over his people. He is not called the weeping prophet for nothing.

His prayer quoted above is very dear to my heart. I have often used it in describing my call. I often feel like I am compelled to ministry and compelled to struggle for justice. But I often feel like Jeremiah during the rest of his complaint in this chapter. Jeremiah expresses how difficult it is for him to speak judgment to a city he loves so much; how difficult it is for him to be misunderstood or ridiculed by his fellow countrymen; how difficult it is for him to speak out at all.

Jeremiah is an empathetic personality for all of his harsh statements. He feels deeply about the world and cares deeply what others think and feel. Part of him just wants to settle down, mind his own business, and live a peaceful life. But he cannot. This fire burns in his bones when he sees injustice, when he watches the downfall of Jerusalem, when he sees the hollowness of so much religious practice. So he speaks.

But it comes at a great cost. He is constantly at war with himself. He never seems to develop a thick enough skin not to weep over those who did not listen, to weep over injustice, and to weep over his own failure to get his message across. The rejection of religious leaders (after all, Jeremiah is praying this prayer right after he gets out of the stocks) hurts him deeply. He wants to be understood.

It is hard to live a prophetic vocation in the world. To love deeply and still speak. As an introvert, as a person who hates conflict, I feel for Jeremiah. It has to be the hardest thing in the world to do—to speak with a breaking heart.

Follow Me

Wild Strawberries grow amazingly well here, if you are lucky enough to find them. My favorite spot to find them is on dead fallen trees in the summer.

Follow me, Jesus says. Give up everything to follow me. Everything. All of your hopes and dreams, all your possessions and security and wealth, all your certainties and plans, all of your life. Everything. And come, follow me. Follow me to stand in solidarity with the suffering, with the sinner and the outcast and the disrespected, follow me to stand against the power of the world. It sounds like a harsh call. A call of hardship and loss. Come and die, Jesus says. Come, follow me to the cross, follow me into suffering and death. Who would ever wish to take up such a call? 

“And you will have treasure in heaven.” Too often, we think of this as a future reward in some distant place. But perhaps that is not at all what Jesus meant. Follow me and die, yes, but follow me too into resurrection. Follow me into new life. Just as the seed dies in winter to bring forth new life in spring, just as wild strawberries grow on fallen trees, so you too will find abundant life. For the kingdom, which is not yet, is also among you. That is the mystery of the gospel. In dying, you will find life. You will dream new dreams. You will find community and belonging in fellowship with me. You will find joy and friendship on the edges and in the forgotten places. You will live, fully and freely, as you never have before. Follow me, give up everything, and you will find abundant life. 

That is the paradox of the gospel.

Manifesto of a College Educated Redneck Minister

You don’t have to please the institution
You will always come out the doors
to which all are flocking
And enter the hovels those in power
never notice.
You will always ride on the winds of a wild spirit
While others are perfecting yet
another plan at another board meeting
Another strategy for success
with a new bottom line.

You don’t have to care.

You don’t need a mask of perfection
You don’t need a carefully constructed plan
You can abandon the need for
success—accolades—well-crafted
blueprints.

Be yourself so others can be themselves.
Love yourself—love those you meet
Dream of the soil and give that dream
to a child.
Live sacramentally so that the Eucharist
you practice
Can be made a reality.

Love the land. Love your neighbor.
Hike in the woods to find the truth
And entrust what you learn to those
who can give you nothing in return.

Build no monuments—establish no
institutions—accumulate no power.

Live simply. Take all that you have and
be poor.

Live to love. Live so that when you die
no plaque or history book will
preserve your name
But you will live on in the dancing
forest and in the hearts
Of those you loved.

A Day in the Life of a Street Minister

Downtown Aberdeen

As I have settled back in this place, I have taken to walking the streets, meeting people where they are, and being present in community. It is a practice that fills me with joy. When I am on the street, I always know I am exactly where I am meant to be.

Some days, I have to force myself out; as an introvert, I can always find another letter that needs to be written or another book to be read. But I am always glad when I consistently go out. I am just getting started, just getting to know the area again, so I am taking small steps.

Today, I split my time between two small towns on either side of where I live. Elma, a small town of around three thousand has a soaring poverty rate and increasing number of people who are living on the edge. A local church offers lunch twice a week, so I arrive a little early. A sweet man whom I have met before eagerly engages in conversation. He must know half the people living in this county and he loves to quiz me on all my local relatives. As I begin to talk with a group of women, I am struck by how differently trust works in small communities. People who live in cities seem to rely on a certain anonymity. In a small town, where gossip travels faster than you can put your shoes on (as we say), people watch you and get to know you before they open up. It seems like it has been a long time since I have lived full time in a rural area. I will have to get used to this again.

After lunch, I take a break to run a few errands before I head west to Aberdeen, a much larger town at the mouth of the relatively empty harbor. Once a boom or bust logging town, Aberdeen has seen bust for longer than I can remember. Poverty and homelessness are highly visible. I park in the Wal Mart parking lot and start walking, covering much of downtown.

I meet all sorts of people, my natural introversion breaking down as it always seems to when I am in my element. People here, in a larger town, are more open to conversation with a stranger and I even get a date request, followed by a hasty, “I know you can’t, you’re a minster.” A man on crutches explains how he is heading up the street to panhandle, since he and his family don’t have enough to get by that day. I walk for a bit with another man, past boarded up store fronts and seedy taverns. He just returned to the area where he was born and raised, but like so many is unable to find work. In a small town, the stigma of unemployment runs deep. I notice his shoes were nearly torn to shreds for all of his quiet dignity.

I turned up another street to head back on another road, exchanging pleasantries with numerous people about the beautiful weather—the sun had finally decided to show itself after a damp morning. Just as I was turning away, I saw a familiar face and waved. He came up to me with a big smile and we stood for a while, looking over the river. “Do you know what the river is saying?” he asked. He explained, in English for my benefit, but in his native language as well, what he heard the river say. We watched the kingfishers for a bit as he told me parts of his story.

Heading for my car, I noticed a woman with a large suitcase, clearly struggling. I made a detour and asked her how she was doing. We walked her suitcase to her destination across the parking lot and to a bus stop, as she told me stories of her life growing up back east and her visits to Europe. I have made it a habit to accept people’s stories as they tell them—real or imagined, they are always true on some level. And I have often found my assumptions to be completely wrong about a person’s life. I gave her a hug, heading back across the parking lot, where I stopped for a chat with two young men, passing through the area, with their adorable puppy and their signs that were meant to be funny.

As I head back home, I am struck again by the joy I find in this work. It is, more than anything, a sense that I have seen the face of God. That I have learned about community. That I have learned about dignity and courage in the face of impossible and harsh realities. That I have learned to listen to the voice of the river and find the voice of God. I go to the streets to find God and I never fail to find the face and voice of the divine.