These are My People

“These are my people; this is where I come from…” sings Rodney Atkins in his country twang. And it resonates deeply when I hear those words.

I have spent the better part of this last decade walking away from where I come from. I got myself educated. I lived in a few big cities. Like so many of my generation, I once thought I could leave behind my backwards town and become educated, sophisticated, and successful. All along the way, I was taught—subtly and not so subtly—to despise where I come from.

But I have never been able to escape the ghosts of my past. In my mind, I have never escaped from the girl who once rode at a full gallop across the field, my hair streaming in the wind. I still pride myself on being able to shoot straight and I still turn up the country music while driving down back roads. And, when I walked the streets of Boston one night and heard Gretchen Wilson’s “Redneck Woman” blaring from some upscale bar, I danced. Right there in the middle of the street.

And now I’m back home. A lot of my people wear jeans and boots and they drive old trucks. They have gun racks and I would venture to guess most of them have a weapon on them somewhere. They are plain speaking and often hard living and they will fight you if you disrespect them. They love the land and they hate it too, a restless and discontented people who are tired and frustrated by a world that doesn't seem willing to give them a break. They love their neighbors—most of them, anyway, and those they don’t like they usually put up with. They are traditionalists and are irritated by political correctness, irritated by city slicker language, irritated most of all with an elitism that says they are of little worth or value. My people will stand up for their town with an almost unbelievable arrogance, but on closer look, you will find that this masks a thinly veiled sense of inferiority, a deep knowledge that late capitalism has left them far behind, and an even more profound sense of failure and hopelessness.

And l look around me and say; “These are my people.” For better or for worse, in spite of all the “edumication”, they are still my people and I am still theirs. For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, with our deepest failures and our best gifts, I love my people. I want them to know that they have worth and value in this world. I want to sit with the despondent man I meet on the street and the woman I sit down with in some crumbling apartment and I want them to know that God came to us in a tiny two bit town in the middle of nowhere and loved us.

And just as I embark on this crusade, they turn to me and they embrace me and I realize that my people offer me the greatest gift of all—the gift of belonging.

These are indeed my people and our futures are bound together—not because I have so much to offer, but because they have welcomed me home.  

 

For Love of One's People

 

There is so much that can be said on this day and I feel that no words of mine could possibly add much to the conversations swirling around Martin Luther King, Jr. As I now live far enough from major cities that I will not be able to join in the many marches ostensibly celebrating his message, I have time to reflect.

And one thing that has become clearer to me over the years, in my work and in activist circles, is that one of the core strengths of King’s work was that it was in great measure rooted and grounded in community and relationship. What I mean by this is that King was the powerful spokesperson that he was and touched to cord that he did because he was fighting and preaching and eventually dying for his people. Civil rights for Black Americans was not a cause or a crusade rooted in abstract ideals, but a living, breathing need coming out of the Black community. When white liberals and white clergy joined in solidarity, they were not core to the movement, but simply standing up with a living, breathing community fighting for their very survival.

My experience in activist circles in my generation has often been deeply disappointing. White liberal activism and liberal lobbies, whether fighting for “immigration reform” or “poverty alleviation” or “the environment,” are largely abstract movements spearheaded by people inspired by an idea, not by a community. They rarely have any relationship to the people they claim to stand with and, often, their pragmatic goals are at odds with the community itself (as in the case of immigration reform, with well-funded lobbies attempting to pass legislation that immigrant communities say is more hurtful than helpful).

We have come to view “activism” or “social justice” as a cause for which we can sign hundreds of random internet petitions. The danger with this is that such work is ungrounded. We fight for abstracts and causes we know little to nothing about. We get angry, not on behalf of those we love, but on behalf of a cause. We rail against a system or take out our angst on our designated enemies, without any sense of responsibility or community.

Martin Luther King has been well known for his words about love. What we have talked about less is that love can only be love if grounded in relationship and proximity (community). One can only truly love people one knows. Therefore, a struggle for justice grounded in love must be a struggle grounded in community.

King ultimately died, not only for an abstract cause of justice or freedom, but more specifically, on behalf of his people and community. That is what gave his life, and his death, such overwhelming power.   

A New Year's Practice....

I do not place too much faith in New Year's Resolutions, partly because I do not place a lot of faith in my ability to follow through with them. But, I still dutifully spend time at the end of one year and the beginning of a new year to look back and reflect. This year, I am so grateful to leave the last behind that I am not dwelling much on the looking back. Instead, most of my resolutions have to do with a commitment to become more fully myself, to enjoy more fully the things and people that I love, and to revel in being back home and back close to the land I love. Unlike previous years, I did not write a list of changes to make or a list of goals for ministry. Those things will come. Instead, I decided that I would find time to get on a fishing boat, that I would read with the kids, that I would get out hunting and target practicing with my lovely new traditional recurve bow. I resolved that I would indulge my own deepest loves and deepest spirituality this year.

One of my resolutions is more strictly religious, though. And that is to read the Bible through this year. As you all know, I grew up Baptist and one of the blessings that came with that was a deep love and knowledge of the Bible. Some of my earliest memories are of me falling in love with the Bible. I had it read through, and most of it many times, but the time I was 12. In my teens, I studied Hebrew and Greek so I could (attempt to) read it in its original. As much as I have wrestled with it and raged at it in the years since, I have never fallen out of love with it. I can still recite my favorite chapters and its language still permeates my own. But it has been a long time since I have read it through, just for myself and not for a seminary class or a sermon, and simply sat with it, verse by verse.

So, this year, I am reading it through again. And, as I do so, I will post my thoughts here. My thoughts on Abraham and Sarah and the Exodus, on the ancient law and on the prophets, on the stories of Jesus and the exhortations of Paul, on the visions of apocalypse. I will wrestle anew with the Bible--with its questions and its paradox, with its stories of love and of sin, with its joy and its terror.

It is truly said that the Bible is central to the faith of working class Americans--even those who are not religious. Somehow, the Bible haunts me, not only as an ancient text or a spiritual guide, but as read through the experiences and hopes and failures of my people, of my family, of myself. The Bible haunts me with my own collective history. As I read through the Bible this year, I want to remember and reflect on this haunting.

Learning the Message of Christmas

Mother and Child

The most profound message of Christmas is that God came to be with us, that God entered the human experience as a baby born in a barn, that God meets us in our suffering and darkness. Part of my Christmas was learning the gospel anew, taught and led by two amazing people.

The first was my two year old nephew. We opened gifts this morning and I, if you know me at all, very predictably bought he and his sister story books—fairy tales, Santa stories, and a little Christmas storybook. We all sat down on the floor and Josiah was fascinated by the animals in the nativity story. Once we reached the end of the story, I pointed to the picture of a baby in a stable and asked him; “Who is this?” His eyes got big and he pointed to the baby. “It’s Abby!!!”

Abby is Josiah’s baby sister, born to my sister, a single mom and the bravest, most courageous woman I know. We nearly lost Abby several times, as my sister struggled through surgery while pregnant and then faced a deeply personal tragedy. This is Abby’s first Christmas and her darling little smile is a reminder of new life in hard circumstances, a reminder that light comes out of darkness, a reminder that God too became a baby born in the middle of tragedy. So, from the lips of my little nephew, I learned the gospel anew.

The second person was a man I spoke too while out on the street Christmas morning, myself and another priest friend, talking with folks. He and his friend sat behind some old buildings and we went up to wish them a Merry Christmas. He lit up and spoke like a prophet. “Let me tell you what Christmas is about,” he said. “It’s about grace.” We were sitting together on the ground, the sun peeking through the clouds, the buildings abandoned and old and full of graffiti. He smiled. “And joy.” I nodded and he looked at me closely. “You know we even find grace here in the alley of shame.” It was the first I had heard this term, referring to the area we now sat, a common hangout for folks on the street, a popular place to get drugs, and a place where some people slept. His smile was radiant. “It’s all about grace. Not condemnation. Not shame. Grace.”

If I had any idea that I was the one giving words of hope in the conversation, that went out the window. This man shared the gospel with me on Christmas morning. As we looked over a desolate city, struggling to survive, he saw hope in grace. On those who sit in darkness, the light will dawn.  

And so I learned the gospel anew this Christmas. From the lips of a little child. From the wisdom of a new friend.

On Being a "Worker Priest"

In the 1940s in France, a group of priests set out to find out what life was like for the industrial working class. Working class church attendance was very low and these priests wanted to know why. They quit parish ministry and took up jobs as factory workers, making their living alongside everyone else at the factory and writing to their bishops about the conditions of workers. Many of them became actively involved in union organizing. Others worked hard to raise up church leadership from the working class itself.

Much has changed since the 1940s. In Europe and the U.S., there are few factories left in which to work. In a post-industrial society, working class people now overwhelmingly work in a low wage service based economy—as Wal Mart greeters, hair stylists, part time truck drivers, housecleaners, and office workers. I think of this as I do ministry in a blue collar town and support myself (barely) while grooming dogs.  If the worker priests of yesteryear wished to understand the lives of working class people today, I would invite them to groom dogs or to take much less stable jobs in a fragmented and non-organized context (which, I am told, some European priests have done). The struggles and stresses of life on the edge are profound.

Probably 65% of Americans are working class, but most of them are not blue collar industrial workers and a good number of them are living on the edge. And, just as the French church recognized was the case in the 1940s, the U.S. working class, especially the white working class, is not very likely to attend church.

What sacrifices might the church and its ministers in the 21^st century be willing to make in order to ask why? In order to find the church anew among a post-industrial, deeply fragmented people?

Watching the Hunger Games in My Hometown

I’ve loved The Hunger Games since I was first introduced to the books years ago (a secret about me, if you didn’t already know it: I love young adult fiction and fantasy). Its apocalyptic tropes, its revolutionary message, its clear analysis of socioeconomic class, and its parallels to our own world led me to read it over and over as a welcome alternative to theological tomes in seminary.

This past weekend, I watched the double feature of the Hunger Games in our local theater, along with a gaggle of high school students and their parents. As the film panned the Seam in District 12, it struck me that parts of the town I was sitting in looked not at all dissimilar. All along the river just outside of the theater, dozens of people were sleeping in makeshift shelters. Just minutes before, I had driven past the giant old buildings, more like tenements, that houses the city’s poor, which might be a larger percentage of the population than those who are not poor. I’ve grown up around the old farmhouses up the valleys, which more often than not hide a great deal of economic struggle. The guy in front of me had been talking to a friend just before the movie about how difficult it was for him to find a steady income.

The story touches me particularly at certain points. Katniss and Gale’s overwhelming desire to do all in their power to protect their family and their siblings reminds me of my role as the oldest child in a rural and working class home. Katniss’ inability to dream of marriage in an unstable world, I think, resonates deeply with more and more poverty stricken young people, here and elsewhere. It is really hard to make a commitment to someone if you cannot see further than a few days or weeks into the future.

Since I watched the film (twice, of course!), I have noticed quite a few articles trying to connect young people with activism, using the Hunger Games as a tool. While I appreciate the sentiment, I have noticed that all the articles and videos I have seen promote a kind of altruism—we who have enough ought to help the poor, ought to support social programs that help the poor, etc. The social analysis—that more and more people are poor—is spot on. But something is missing.

The Hunger Games is not about how the Capitol and those who live in it should care about the districts. It is not about altruism. It is about a couple of poor kids from the districts who are desperately struggling to survive in a world stacked against them. It is about how the districts themselves take matters into their own hands and take hold of their own destiny and reclaim their own dignity. Please, yes, care about people who are poor. The Capitol should have cared.

But, never for a second imagine that things change unless people take power for themselves, unless the poor lead their own movements, unless the guy sitting in front of me at that theater gets together with a bunch of other people and says—this is enough!

Facing the End of the World: An Advent Sermon

It was the end of the world.

At least, it seemed that way. In 70 AD, the Jewish temple and the city of Jerusalem were sacked by the Roman Empire. The temple was burned to the ground, and the accounts that survive tell a story of terrible carnage. The survivors of this final battle were taken in chains to Rome as slaves. Countless people had died. Jerusalem, the great city, lay in ruins. The Jewish nation was no more--their homeland destroyed and multitudes exiled.

Our gospel this morning, from Matthew, was written in the shadow of this great community trauma. The people who first read our gospel today had likely faced this siege. And so Matthew, more than any other gospel, talks about what it means to face the end of the world.

So, just as we start listening the Christmas carols and buying gifts for our friends and family, our Advent readings start with the end of the world. It really gets you in the holiday spirit, doesn’t it?

But, honestly, it is an interesting place to start. Because, have you ever felt like the world as you know it was coming to an end? Like everything is going ok, going as planned, just before your whole world crumbles? Like those people in Jesus said were just minding their own business--eating, drinking, getting married, living life--and then (boom) the flood comes. I wonder if that is what it felt like for the folks in the Philippines not too long ago when that great typhoon hit.

In our time, in a time of great change and uncertainty, I think we feel even more strongly that we are facing the end of the world as we know it. So much is changing and it doesn't always seem to be changing for the better. Ever notice that so many of the new movies coming out are about the apocalypse? Whether by zombies or by nuclear holocaust, they are filled with images of the end of the world.

I am told that Aberdeen was once a thriving city, though I don't remember it. In my lifetime, I have only seen the slow decline of the local economy as the timber industry crashed. So many people lost a way of life. We have faced the end of the world as we knew it.

Sometimes the end of the world is more personal. We lose someone we love, someone who was the center of our world, and it feels like the world is ending. I know it felt that way for me when I lost my grandfather years ago. 

And sometimes change, even natural change, even good change can feel like an ending. We are losing Fr. Dale as our priest. Its not the end of the world, but it is an ending. As happy as we are for him and as strong as we will continue to be as a church, it is in a sense the end of his ministry here as we have known it. It will be an interesting Advent for us, a time of waiting, of expectation, and a time of loss too.

This is Advent, the beginning of the church calendar, the beginning of the church year. We celebrate it in a time when our days are getting darker and our weather is getting colder. Harvest is over and hunting season is over (unless you hunt with a bow). We see the sun less and less and our days grow shorter and shorter.

It is a time of waiting. Waiting in the darkness. Waiting for what the prophet promises-- the Sun of Righteousness to rise with healing in his wings. Waiting for the baby to be born in the manger, in the stable, in the barn; the testimony that God is indeed with us. Waiting, as Jesus tells us to in this gospel, waiting for the Son of Man to come in glory, which is our great hope.

Because, God meets us at the end of the world. When our homeland is destroyed and we are living in exile under Roman occupation, God meets us. When we look around and see the world changing and are afraid, God meets us. When we walk through the streets of our town and wish that shops didn't keep closing or that we could find some way to imagine a better future, God meets us. When we remember those we have loved and lost, God meets us. God meets us in the person of Jesus Christ, who entered our human experience. God meets us in Emmanuel—God with us.  

So, this Advent, we wait for hope. We wait for a baby born in a barn to save the world. We wait for the Sun of Righteousness who arises with healing in his wings. We wait for the sun to rise again, as it always does, and the days to grow longer, as they always do. We wait for the one that Matthew introduces to us, in the very beginning of the gospel; “The people who have sat in darkness have seen a great light. On those who dwell in the region of the shadow of death, on them the light has dawned.”

***
Every year, with more or less success, I try to have an advent practice. That is, a devotional or a prayer practice that helps bring me into this season and time of waiting and expectation. This year, I want to share this practice with you and invite you to join.

I have been so grateful for the opportunity to come back home to the harbor and to do ministry here. I have met some of the best, some of the kindest people here. I am privileged to say that I am from the harbor.

 I also know we have faced some hard times here. I am reminded of just how hard things are for some people when I hang out under that bridge down the street and see so many people camping along the Chehalis River. Sometimes it can look like the end of the world.

This Advent, for the next four weeks leading into Christmas, as we wait for hope, as we wait for the baby born in a barn--I will pray for the harbor. I will pray remembering the beauty and gifts of this place. I will pray remembering the losses we have experienced. I will pray for hope. I will pray for the in breaking of the kingdom of God in our midst. 

I invite you to pray with me! Lets pray for our town and for our county. In the depth of winter, lets pray for the Sun of Righteousness to rise with healing in his wings, to rise upon us, to give us hope and a future.

I invite you to pray with me. I invite you to meet God at the end of the world.