When we need everyone at the table

Imagine you are part of a movement to dismantle mass incarceration, in part through changing the prison-industrial system by which profits are made when more people are in jail. Imagine that representatives of this very prison-industrial system seek to join your cause. Will you let them stay?

Imagine you are part a community which wants to build supportive relationships across divisions of race and class. You want everybody to have a place in your community, a place to share their experiences and feelings. Imagine someone comes into your space spouting divisions of race and class. Will you let them stay?

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About 10 folks in my organization, as a creative protest measure, bought one share each in the largest for-profit prison company in the US. Being shareholders, they attend the shareholder meeting every year to advocate for better ways, different profit incentives, various reforms. There may not be any visible results yet, but they are witnessing to a different way.

Meanwhile, some of the board members of the prison company have taken an interest in the efforts of my organization, the way they seek to support folks coming home from prison. They have taken an interest in our support groups, and our house for guys who've been recently incarcerated, and the jobs and education programs to which we are connected. They have given donations. They have come to visit. One may speak at our fundraiser.

The director of our organization acknowledged the dissonance. "Yes, it's goofy," she said. "It's an uncomfortable reality. When they first started giving us money, we weren't sure what to do. But then we thought if we didn't want to accept dirty money, whose money could we accept?

"Besides," she added, "we believe we need everyone at the table."

Yes. We can only break down systems of injustice if everyone is on board. Everyone. And that means that we have to be willing to engage with folks who disagree with us, who threaten our cause, with whom our relationship is complicated or goofy.

Because it's relationships and transformed hearts that we're after--not just new laws that leave old walls and divisions in place.

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Photo by Jim Champion

In my internship, we have meetings called "Freedom Circles," which are dangerous things. Like an AA meeting or a summer camp sharing circle, the meetings start off with this week's leader reading or reflecting on a particular topic, and then there are 45 minutes before us in which anyone may speak. Which is the beauty, and the danger.

Because everyone is welcome at the table, and everyone has a voice.

Last week "everyone" included someone who was frustrated, someone who was angry, someone who was lonely, someone who felt wronged by the group. There we were, all of us broken together in the room, and the time was open before us, free for the seizing.

Several people shared, some speaking with candor and honesty, some with anger and walls, some with repetitive phrases that made me wonder whether this meeting had a point. There are days where the sharing is deep and succinct and profound, where someone gives us a window into her past, where someone acknowledges the pain he has caused others, where someone makes a new connection about her feelings of abandonment that have led to addiction, where someone admits he doesn't know how to fix his relationship.

This was not that day. A few folks shared. They mostly talked too long. They mostly exuded frustration and anger. After each person, we chorused "Thanks for sharing," even though saying it felt a bit disingenuous. After one angry outburst, I noticed sidelong glances and folks uncomfortably shifting in their seats.

The leader took it all in stride. Later, he would tell me, "that meeting went exactly how it was supposed to go." He proceeded with the meeting, explaining that we were all about to share the ritual of communion. He broke half of a hamburger bun and held up a punch cup half full of grape juice, then began passing them around the room, even as some of the other members of the circle continued looking around, unsettled, uncertain. I noticed a certain tension in my chest.

After a hesitating start, a woman offered the cup to her neighbor, saying, "This cup was given so that you may know that even though you are broken, you are not beyond God's love." Just as the reality of those words began to flood into all of us, the leader had begun singing. "Bind us together, Lord, bind us together with cords that cannot be broken...bind us together in love." A few of us joined in, and as we sang and shared and ate, something happened.

My breathing slowed and I turned just in time to see a man who had earlier been shaking his head at his neighbor in disgust and frustration, offering to him the bread and the cup. This was, for both of them, their first time sharing communion in our group. "The body of Christ and the blood of Christ, given for you," the man said as his neighbor took a piece. The neighbor then turned to me. I knew he was angry at me for an earlier miscommunication. But he pushed the cup to me and said simply, "The body and blood of Christ."

"Amen."

I thought how neither of us deserved this moment. None of us deserved to be at this table.

The leader closed in prayer, and people began filing out. I stood to talk to my neighbor, apologizing for hurting him. He accepted my apology. By this time the rest of the folks had left, and I wondered if some of them had been put off by the halting meeting.

I hope not.

Because to dismantle mass incarceration, we need everyone at the table. To build true community, we need to welcome everyone to the table, broken people included. And as Jesus reminded me that night, communion is holy because it reminds us that we are all sitting at a table only by mercy--you, and me, and the one with the angry outburst, and the one with only frustration in her heart, and whoever else walks in the door tomorrow.

Mix CDs and mustard seeds

Photo by Linda Tanner

It was six a.m., and I was driving to Duke Divinity School for orientation.

I was thinking of a recent faith conversation with my brother. I did not articulate my point of view clearly, and I was wondering—if I can’t speak definitive answers about theology, do I have any gifts at all for ministry? Has my vision has become too vague?

Naturally, these thoughts led me to the recurring whisper in the back of my head, that little voice which says, do you really believe any of this at all? If you are so scattered, so vulnerable sometimes, so unwilling to prove anything concrete—can you truly be a shepherd for other believers?

I am not ready to become a pastor, I was thinking. I have squandered this wilderness time in Cherokee. I have not prayed enough. I have become more cynical, sometimes snarky. Seven years after the “doubt crisis,” I am still an intermittent doubter—sometimes of God and sometimes of myself.

Besides, I thought, I know that I am good at teaching. Why change careers now? Teaching GED classes matters. It is meaningful. For the most part, it is safe.

My mix CD changed to an old Nickel Creek tune.

Can I be used to help others find truth if I’m scared I’ll find proof that it’s a lie?

Can I be led down a trail dropping breadcrumbs that prove I’m not ready to die?

Please give me time to decipher the signs

Please forgive me for time that I’ve wasted

I’m a doubting Thomas

I’ll take your promise

Though I know nothing’s safe

Oh me of little faith

When the song was finished, and my tears, I pressed repeat. I pressed repeat about eighty times, singing along as a plea, as a prayer, until I arrived at Duke.

*

Imagine, for a moment: this is how it has been for you and doubts.

You have a question and you climb down a rabbit hole to follow it to its depths, because if you don’t you will always wonder, you will always worry. And when you follow it down, you find the hole does not go on forever; there is something solid below, something to stand on. You stand on it.

But you don’t live into these questions every day; you can’t spend all your days chasing shadows and digging holes. So most of the time when the shadows cross, you watch them go. They are mostly shadows you’ve already followed all the way down.

You are going on your memory, and like all memories it is hard to retain the certainty of that feeling. You did find solid ground that day when you reached the bottom, you are certain…right?

The thought of starting seminary this fall terrifies you, because you know you will be diving down into some of the holes again, and it is possible they are deeper than you have yet known.

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I arrived at campus, still a little weepy, humble.

But as soon as it had begun I could sense that they were going to remind me why I was here.

They said remember that you are loved deeply and gifted uniquely by God.

They said remember that the church does not exist for its own sake; it needs to serve and love the world; it is the body of Christ on earth and it must sometimes learn to die so that it may come to life again.

They said remember that the kingdom of God is about all of us—poor and rich, privileged and unprivileged, powers and marginalized, believers and doubters, black and white—seeing each other as children of God, seeing each other as both gifted and broken. It is about all of us, giving and receiving and sharing together.

I remembered. I remembered that this is good news, particularly for the poor and broken. I remembered that the kingdom of God has grabbed me and continues to grab me, that this is why I believe in spite of my doubts, that I can be healed from my loneliness and my numbness and my fears, that I am not in this for a stable job but for a vision and a sacrifice and a resurrection. I remembered that joy is a fruit of the spirit.

I drove back thirty-six hours after arriving, my heart hurting from the good news and the good people and the good God. I felt crushed, wrecked for my status quo, and certain that this place will continue to draw me forth and form me. It was not the first time I have departed that place in tears of longing and belonging.

When I played the Nickel Creek one last time as I drove over the last mountain back home, I heard it differently.

Oh me of little faith. Perhaps a little is enough. Jesus said that faith the size of a mustard seed can move mountains. He said, a mustard seed is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it is planted in the ground, it grows and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and all the birds of the air nest in it.

I am embarking on a good and beautiful journey. I am ready to plant my small, sometimes-wavering, vulnerable seed of faith in the soil. I am ready for the Spirit, and the risen Christ, and my new community, to make it grow into a tree where birds will sing. 

Early spring and seeds of hope

Photo by Jack Pearce

This is my favorite time of year. The daffodils have struggled up through the frosty ground and survived the March snowstorm. They are yellow, warm, like the sun.

Today, uncharacteristically, I wake up early enough to go for a run. I am ambitious this morning and make my way up the Blue Ridge Parkway until I can see a panorama view of the Smokies. The lushness of the foliage has not yet appeared, and the mountains appear brown, empty. To the careless eye, we are still in the stark winter. The trees are covered with barely discernible buds. If I squint, I can see the palest of green and pink and orange on the branches.

In the early light, the sky is tinged with rose.

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The tiny buds reach into my heart, every year, without fail. I love these first weeks of spring, I think, because this moment of budding hope is the spiritual reality of most of my days. There is an inkling of aliveness, something new stirring beneath the surface, a tiny growth that can only be seen by the watchful eye.

Like the broken life I live, waiting for the in-breaking of the kingdom of God.

As a perfectionist, and a bleeding heart, I am always noticing the broken, wintry scars on our world. Some days (read: yesterday) I fail to go running and fail to write and fail to call the friend I promised to call, and instead I take a nap for two hours. I use words to tear down those I love. And the wintry scars are my own unrealized dreams, my failure to live up to the me I want to be.

On my better days, I listen to someone's brave story, or pray deep in my soul for healing, or sing for peace . I give everything I can give to a student, tell her she's smart, talk about dreams and careers, and then leave knowing she still won't go to college. The scars then are the cold hearts and the unjust systems and the emptiness of our efforts.

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But here's the thing: underneath the coat of snow, there are seeds germinating, life flowing into the branches, love returning to paint the sky red, and it is my whole life's hope, and I am fearfully joyful: terrified and amazed all at once. This daffodil opening, this pastel green tide spreading, this tiny orange bud appearing--it is early spring in the world. It is a kind word from a friend on a teary day, it is a home opened to a stranger, it is a woman healing from abuse, it is a chance to start again, it is God, it is new creation, it is transformation, it is resurrection.

Can it really be here, squirming to emerge?

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I leave you with my very favorite story in the whole world, which is a story of a tiny bud of fearful hope in early spring:

Very early on the first day of the week, when the sun had risen, the women went to the tomb...They saw a young man, dressed in a white robe, sitting on the right side; and they were alarmed. But he said to them, "Do not be alarmed; you are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has been raised, he is not here..."

So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid. (from Mark 16)

And a prayer for spring: May we not be afraid to hope for all things alive, all things new.

Another dimension

In one of Madeleine L'Engle's books (A Ring of Endless Light?) there's a delightful scene where 8-year-old Rob explains his idea of what heaven would be like. Imagine an alien came to earth--an alien who came from a planet where there is no sense of sight--and was given eyes to see. Until the alien arrived on earth there would be no way to explain to him what colors are. But once he arrived, he would be overcome by the beauty of this whole other dimension he never knew existed. I guess heaven may be like that for us-- a whole new dimension, a whole new layer of experiencing and sensing, that will be utterly new and beautiful.

I also see glimpses of it here and now. God is already breaking into our current reality with a new layer of beauty. So often we just go on our doldrum way, because we don't really know how to "see" the colors.  Every now and then the gift is given, we can see the enormous majesty and love that is below and beyond and behind each and every living thing, permeating the gritty streets, the insecure people, the piles of tasks, the groans of our bodies.

To paraphrase St. Paul, it doesn't matter who you are, how rich or poor, what race, what gender, what religion, how busy, how lazy, how anxious, how sad, how joyful, how excited, how well you're getting along with your family, how much you've accomplished, how you feel. God's love is everywhere, in you, in all things. There is no longer Jew nor Greek, slave nor free...Christ is all and in all. (Col 3:11)

I say all of this because it came to me last week while working at Subway. Washing dishes in the back on a slow day, I thought of a dishwasing monk long ago who learned to see that glory saturating everything: Brother Lawrence, who wrote The Practice of the Presence of God, a little book of his journey discovering God's presence in every moment.

So I began to think of God's presence, and to pray--for my friends, my co-workers, those who have recently experienced loss, those who have big things ahead, those who are weary. (Confession: I am normally really bad at praying for people). And then it happened: I felt God's glory, love, majesty, a whole dimension of extreme beauty, beneath the surface but breaking through. Always there. Bringing meaning and joy to life if we train our eyes to see. Surrounding and infusing every move we make with great Love.

Silently

Photo by Taber Andrew Bain

How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is giv'n
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of his heav'n.

The mind-numbing, unending playlist of bad "holiday" music that I listen to while working at Subway is just one reminder that in our culture, we like a noisy Christmas. Then there are the Target commercials boasting colorful, sensory-overload parties; the endless lines of chattering people in stores; the traffic crawling along brightly lit-up downtown areas; the new movies and all the special holiday episodes of your favorite TV show.

It's not that (good) music, laughter, and cheery gatherings aren't wonderful things.

It's just we can't forget to listen also for that silent, wondrous gift; the night wind whispering to the little lamb, the gentle lullaby, the often hard-to-notice truth that God is here on earth, with us.

And God is here so silently. Isn't that clear especially this month? Hasn't God been awfully silent in responding to the tragedy of Sandy Hook? Silent about the 301 American soldiers who died in Afghanistan this year or the over 1000 Afghan civilians. Silent in responding to all the slow but nagging sorrows that drag us down, the secret shames and fears we carry like rocks. Slow to provide answers: how can we prevent this gun violence? How can we end this war? How can we fix our relationships? And why, why, why?

There was a point in my life where the Christmas story was almost too fantastical to believe. Because God comes so silently to us it's almost impossible to detect. God came silently that first Christmas, as a baby in a tiny town in the midst of a raging empire, in the midst of the killing of many innocent children. And God didn't stop it. God comes now, in the midst of our wars and failures, to quietly be with us. God doesn't stop them. Sometimes I don't know why.

Unlike bad Christmas music, retail stores and bright lights, God won't force Godself on us. We are free to reject, or to decide the sorrow is too heavy, or simply to ignore. We are free to carry on our clanging hatred. But God's love is still there, still constant, still present to those who practice listening. Remember the bell in The Polar Express? We learn over time not to hear the quiet ringing of God's presence. But sometimes, by grace, we are able to hear it again.

O ye beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow;
Look now, for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;
Oh rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing.