Idols of the Day, Attachments of Now

Gerald May has shaped my thinking about idols.  His books which include Addiction and Grace and Will & Spirit have been game-changers for me. He asserts that God as God is not willing to become an object of our attachment or one of our idols.  We cannot become addicted to God as an idol the way we do other idols such as drugs, alcohol, sex, or power, or whatever.  We can, however, become attached to an image of God.  An image of God is not God. An image of God is an image of God. God is beyond our images.

Since we are humans, we seek out objects of our attachment. Our humanity is displayed. We are addicted. When we are attached to the object of our addiction, the entirety of ourselves changes, physically, emotionally, spiritually, relationally, cognitively, because we have found the fix for which we yearn, or at least that for which we think we yearn.

I sit in the midst of all manner of prophets. I read from the prophets of old, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Amos, and Micah, the major ones and the minor ones.  Those prophets who warned of impending doom when the people decided to follow their own way. Yes, the ones who said that Israel and Judah were about to fall. I also read about the prophets who prophesied that Trump would be the second coming of Cyrus, King of Persia, and that God would use this flawed human being to straighten out America, and maybe the world. Following in sync are the names we recognize: Graham, Dobson, Jeffress, Robertson, Perkins, White, Land, Copeland, Bachmann, and you can probably name others.

Biblical texts demand that we sort them out:  Isaiah and his diatribe about creating idols and then worshipping them; Moses’ demand that the children of Israel in their journey drink the idol that they created, and then Jesus of Nazareth’s admonition to love God with the heart, soul, mind, and strength, and your neighbor as yourself.

We have created numerous idols or objects of our attachment from whom and from what we would be well served to abandon: American Nationalism, Trump as the Great Rescuer, white supremacy, money as the primary driving principle, Hilary and Barak to be hated, and immigrants as the enemy.  There are more. Any one of these idols is sufficient enough. The amalgamation of these idols is one of deep entrapment. We know we are in an idolatrous relationship with a person, idea, or thing, when in its presence we are safe and secure, and when we defend it against all reason. When information that is reasonable and when people of reason say to us, “Yes, but have you considered…….” and our instinctive dismissive is reminiscent of “I can stop drinking any time I wish, or I am not an alcoholic, or I am not addicted to whatever.”

We are inebriated at the power of our position, theology, politics, and the person and/or persons who symbolize that power. In doing so, we construct our own human-made idols and we marginalize other meaningful possibilities and those for whom Christ also died.

My prayer?  Very simple, “Lord, please release us from the bondage of our attachment to notions of power and to people and institutions that re-enforce those attachments. Free us to love one another as you have loved us.” 

A Late Christmas, or Is It an Early One?

We have been looking forward to today for quite some time.  Ever since we read of the Denton Black Film Festival, it has been at the very top of our to-go list.  So, today, we'll drive over to Denton late morning, find a good place for lunch, and then attend a series of events at the Campus Theater, downtown at 214 West Hickory.  

We'll view College Student Short films, "Talking in Black America," see "The Uncomfortable Truth," see the short film "Black Reparations," and perhaps stay for Steps.

Why you may be asking would the two of us venture into these particular waters?  Thank you for asking and thank you for taking the time to read my response and even to check out some of the links.

As mentioned in the previous blogpost, to some readers here, it may be a new thing to find your friend, Waymon Hinson, and his wife as well, involved in social justice sorts of things.  Our involvement goes back to 1994 when I heard an aristocratic voice at the other end of the line say, "Dr. Hinson, I think I have failed to communicate to you the seriousness of our concerns."  And he was correct. I was clueless.  I think America is clueless.  While some of that winding journey is chronicled in other places, this blog, chapel at Abilene Christian University, in one publication, and in several presentations at BFAA Land Loss Summits, now another part of the story is developing.

This post is getting too long, so let me brief it up a bit.

For several months now, I have been working on a project, "African American Land Acquisition and Dispossession: Reconstruction to Today." That provides an important background piece. A second layer of it is Shoun Hill, New York City photographer and I will soon develop plans for the making of a documentary on pivotal cases that served to stir the Black Farmer Movement toward the Pigford Class Action Suit. More information on that later.

So, I am a story-teller and a gatherer of stories. Several years ago, when I was interviewing a number of farmers across the land, I told them of my commitment to tell their stories in places and space that they could not or would not go because their stories are worthy of being told. Many of those stories are found in audio and print media in a volume called, "Remembering Tillery's Historical Archives" under the watchful eye of the Concerned Citizens of Tillery 

So, this begins another layer of story-telling, that of film.  I intend to learn from such people as Loki Mulholland who has chronicled the story of his civil rights activist mother, Joan Trumpauer Mulholland. Here is information about their foundation.  See this site for more information about the movie. And, today, he will be premiering another documentary on his family, "The Uncomfortable Truth." 

He is the revealer and the teacher. I am his watchful student.

Shoun and I will be the tellers of truth in ways that will likely make us all squirm.

Perhaps if you live in the DFW area, we can meet up in downtown Denton and learn together about various aspects of the righteous cause of story-telling and justice for all of our people.

Fatherhood, Peoplehood, Farmerhood

Most of my friends out there know that Charla and I have been involved in the Black Farmer Movement since 1994. Yes, that is strange, is it not, to read those words. I have been told, and with much respect to the teller, "I did not know there was such a thing as a black farmer." And I have been told that "those things do not happen in America." "Yes, there are, and yes, they do, still." So, in the early morning hours of today I felt compelled to connect a few dots and in the connections came these words. There is more to the story and an announcement will soon be released about future efforts on this page.

Father.

Holy Father.

Father.

Righteous Father.

May I call you by those names?

I read them in your Book today

And listened as He prayed

Before He walked to the gallows of shame.

He finished his work

Nothing did He shirk

Came to get it done

From early morn till setting of the sun.

Honored you along the way

Completed is what I hear Him say

Left it all to them and us

And now look at what we’ve made, one big fuss.

A big, grand ideal

To gather us all together

To place upon a seal

That in weary times the storms we would weather.

In days way back yonder

A woman arose up for her kin

Into his throne room she would go

Wondering how it would end.

“How can I bear to see

The disaster fall upon my people”

They are soon to be destroyed

Unless you answer my cry, how feeble.

I hear her cry and I read her words

I wonder what is the application

For today is also horrific

So I make this morning’s supplication.

For those ruined by grievous policy

That was made for us the whites 

Bear them up and give them strength

To hold on to their land their rights.

Give them courage and strength

To fight the righteous cause

To know of your love and grace

To change inequities of the laws.

I know my skin is white

That is the way I’ll always be

But my people are those whose skin is shades of brown

Until your face I see.

To hear their stories

“My blood is on this land”

How could I do anything but along with them

To take a righteous stand.

Father.

Holy Father.

Father.

Righteous Father.

Hear my cry for my people.

I Chose the Short Straw

This past week my wife and I have both been wrestling with this upper respiratory thing that is no doubt sweeping the places where you abide.  Blessings upon you and those you love if it is. We are at that point, at least I am, in questioning which is worse, the disease or the medication that is supposed to fix it.  May never know.

Anyway, my misery felt somehow less miserable than my wife's misery, so I chose the short straw and went to the grocery store which is about three miles from our house. There is no joy in choosing the short straw, but there is contentment that I did a good thing for a woman whose good deeds I could never outdo.  No need to try.

As I walked into the store, feeling my own lungs, lack of energy, and weak legs, I attempted to look around and see and hear folks who were there, customers like me and employees. I tried to see beyond my  short-sided categorization skills. Several years ago, someone I was just getting to know, a man who was very different from me, called me a categorizer when I asked his wife a question. My retort was, "Why do you think that is the only question I would ask her? Besides, your categorizing me as a categorizer makes you a categorizer." To which he just replied, "Hummmppp. Got me on that one."  He would get me on more, but I think we have a lively respect for each other these days. I am committed to some of the causes to which he is committed.

But that is not the point That is only playing in the weeds of this story.

A number of people were in the store at that early an hour. They all were different. There were all the same. They were of some age, young, older, because anybody who is in a store is of some living age.

I wanted to see and hear. What was their hurry? What was behind their hesitations? What was on his play list? What was he thinking when he almost ran into me? What was he thinking when I paused and let his family pass? What was she thinking when I mumbled a "sorry" for slowly getting out of her way? The employee who helped me find and item, actually two employees were on that assignment, what were their live stories? The person who checked me out, what was truly behind her surprise that I'd contribute to the food pantry drive?

How do grocery store narratives intersect with the rest of the themes of their lives? How does a Sunday narrative fit alongside a weekday narrative?

What are their lived experiences? What are their joys? Their sorrows? What brings them peace, and what keeps them up at night? Those who have children, what do the night hours feel like, long and hard, or quick and easy? Those who are rearing children in our crazy world, are their dreams on hold, or are their dreams being fulfilled?

Of course, these are only some of my questions. And I certainly won't burden them with an intrusive, boundary-violating conversation. Not by any means.

I will, however, thank those who served me today via doing their jobs.  And, I will be grateful.  And, I will be perhaps a bit more mindful as to their unspoken stories.

I have my unspoken stories.

I was there on a mission because I'd chosen the short straw.  Glad I did. She is worth more than every short straw I will ever choose, or will ever be chosen for me.

We all have our unspoken stories.

We live in a world of stories that are worthy of being heard, should we choose to share, and then, who will listen?

Thank you for listening to these mental meanderings today.

I count that a blessing.

Today is the Day to Trust, or to See it Come, for Them, But Most Probably For Me

The sun gently eases into the weary sleep and into the ears which may still be listening to dreams.
The sun is coming up outside your room, the glow is fading fast easing you into this day.
The moon and the stars lingered to say goodbye,but they had to hurry on at least for now.
The gentle breeze has words only it knows and reveals only to you.

Today may be very much the same, familiar may be its name.
Today may be novel, asking you to step out of the normal way things are done.
This day seems orchestrated by some that we've only come to know of late.
On this holy day, high and holy trust is felt, heard, seen, and suspected. Maybe touched.

Off as a group we go filled with wonder and delight, with anxiety and joy intertwined.
We enter the basilica with prayer and delight in the company of the Holy One of Israel, arms outstretched, a thorn-made crown caressing his head, and we come to a rare face to face with mystery.

The thorn-made crown is not my taste of wearing apparel. I wince in pain, so no cross I'll own. Too big for my mantel at home. Too showy of faith. Let's look for smaller, more subdued one, if you please. Maybe one made of trees when we live. I feel a little down about the crown, but I think I'll come back around to superficiality.

We saunter the streets make eye contact with all we meet.
Trying holy moments to create even after we just ate and hardly spake.
Space for superficial conversation pushes so as to replace the normal ruminations.
And more serious strains to meet as our paths criss-cross and we greet, and will it be sweet or intrusive.

We have things that do speak of generosity and caring, and we are curious.
Some saints and sinners when let through a front door or back door have little over which to pour, but
When they can sense the holy trust we carry in our back packs and in our hearts, and
With the Spirit of the Holy One we discern their battles, at least from the edges.

We create a holy space in which hearing is done, speaking is done, understanding and  understood are out on the tables of the cafe. Risk is rewarded. Fears are pushed away. We may even feel an extra ray of sunshine on his any otherwise chilly, windy day.

Each day is never the same and each encounter always different.
We are simply called upon to wonder about the wounds carried by the wounded seen or unseen.
For when we lean into doubt, respecting boundaries, and offering hope,

A new thing is born which slowly decodes mystery shared and trust develops and people talk about things that are real relevant life here and now and then even when the then crowded into the now.

When is a trip to the restaurant just that? When is a quick in and out of the grocery store just that? When is a trip to the small BBQ stand on the corner on a Thursday afternoon just that? When is wondering through the shops of all the sales of baby clothes at the going out of business  just that?

When is it more.

Our Relationship is at Risk

Dear God:  

Our relationship is at risk

If the truth is in what some preachers preach

That you chose the man in office

Is this just a bully pulpit reach?

Our relationship is at risk

If you chose such a flawed man

To lead this country down the road

Maybe even bring justice to the land.

Our relationship is at risk

If what they say amounts to much

Your hand reached down and touched him

And made us vote for him and such.

Our relationship is at risk

If I were to believe those folks on the right

All the things they say to excuse him

All come with your holy might.

Our relationship is at risk

If I thought you decided to choose

A man who mocks the poor and the needy

We all have a lot to lose.

Our relationship is at risk

If I have to buy into their theology

That you orchestrated this madness

That I think is just misguided mythology.

Our relationship is at risk

If I thought you cared more for the rich

And for the man who lies and taunts us

And that would be a heavenly glitch.

Our relationship is at risk

If you chose the man with the insult

For Haiti and Africa and their people

While his supports loudly exult.

Our relationship is at risk

If indeed I thought you chose

An adulterer, a liar, a racist

Who tweets insults under our nose.

Our relationship is at risk

If I believe the loud noise

From a man who lies and lies and lies

And we excuse his malicious ploys.

Our relationship is at risk

If the one they say you’ve anointed

Constantly hollers at us

“Fake news” and other words more pointed.

But

Our relationship is not at risk

No, I know you love your people

You would not impose upon us

A human being so despicable.

No, our relationship is not at risk

You did not hold our hands at the box

We across this land voted our conscience

Though it came out pretty unorthodox.

No, our relationship is not at risk

Because I trust you above all others

You do not punish the innocent

Or destroy a sister or her brothers.

No, our relationship is not at risk.

We have a lot of things to learn

There are processes in place

That will protect us when we turn.

No, our relationship is not at risk

I lean on you most days

To help me keep my head about myself

Above the burning haze.

Amen.

Come, Lord Jesus

Are There Tears in Heaven: Meditations of January 11, 2018

Were there tears that day

When Jesus said goodbye

To his faithful disciples

Did you see those grown folks cry?

They’d been together

For a few short years

When He wrapped it all up

Did they do so with human tears?

In some of His very last words

He prayed for Himself and the disciples

He prayed for all believers, too

Me and you, or so I read there in my Bible.

One line really catches me

As things sometimes do

He prayed for complete unity

To let the Father’s love shine through.

That was a long time ago

And today is still today

That prayer is still not answered

And I wonder, what do you say?

The Right has seized the story

At least that seems to be true

The only ones who are true believers

Where does that leave me and you?

Does the Right own the story

Or is it religion that they claim

Whatever you want to call

It causes a lot of pain.

Are there tears in heaven

I this morning do wonder

We have messed up the message

Just one blunder after blunder.

What He prayed for seems like fiction

If the conversations that I hear

We’re no less one in unity

Is what I’ve come to fear.

So, are there tears in Heaven

Does Jesus look on us and weep

Upon this mess we created

We despise His other sheep.

We have our left and our right

Everyone assigned a place

That sure seems misguided to me

Just looking for some sacred space.

Surely Jesus weeps

When political speak

We all do seek

Our own inside ideology we keep.

Does Jesus weep

When we speak our very own labels

We spew them left and right

Right there at our church’s tables.

Are there tears in heaven

When our rhetoric is so loud

If He really sheds a tear

Could we really stand that proud?

Are there tears in Heaven

To me it’s an important question

How we violate that prayer

Today is my one obsession.

Are there tears in heaven

Am I the one to cause

If so, I’ll think it over

With that question will come a long pause. 

Amen. God Waits for Our Reply

Dear Lord:

What brings me joy

The phrase pops in my head

Images flow to and fro

They remove my weariness and dread.

Those older boys

They range from here to there

They are so much bigger

And the similarities we share.

Those little ones

So young and filled with play

My heart leaps when I see them

They brighten up my day.

My wife so thoughtful

So loving and so kind

How did we ever hook up

My words she makes to rhyme.

Conversations here and there

About things that ultimately matter

Amidst the dross and fog

They cut through the noisy chatter.

A good cup of coffee

To start each and every day

Brewed already when I arise

Come world what may.

The Book someones wrote

Its origins from above

It tells the endless story

Of God’s relentless love.

This season of the year

It comes every time

This one somehow seems different

The meaning is somehow sublime.

That new kid in town

One of my favorite songs

How will He change the world

Into something for which we long.

Justice when we see it

Fairness and equity is the story

The Christ child will prompt it all

That is part of His glory.

The prophets told about Him

The stories to us are told

Not just any child He is

He is one we hear foretold.

When noise comes from DC

The hatred and all its noise

We know politics is the author

The evil one prompts too many ploys.

Where for hope do we go

Or are we left alone

Across this space and place

With anxiety must we roam.

Level out the paths

Remove injustice from the world

Base all upon character

When noise about us swirls.

Yes, some things make my heart sing

My pulse picks up its beat

When good is seen around us

And wickedness sounds its retreat.

Things that bring me joy

My friends and my kin

The baby born in that stable

Will heal my soul within.

Amen. Simplicity in all its glory.

Amen. Sing those songs from on high

Amen. Worship that new born child.

Amen. God waits for our reply.