Bringing Faith to Life
Archive for January, 2017
Our Senses Know What is Sacred
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Ah, fresh baked bread. Remember the smell of that kitchen? The rounded loaves, crisp and golden. Two handfuls torn open to the white, fluffy softness that melted the butter instantly. Mouth watering goodness.
Ooh, crystal glasses of deep red bounty set before each place. Remember that first sip? Tangy tartness or oaken boldness, swirled from lip to tongue to teeth to tonsils, dancing and twirling. A heart’s deep thanks.
The blessed sacrament: a meal we know. So like the one shared in Grandma’s kitchen and at Papa’s table. Now, a feast partaken among friends. Eat. Drink. Fill your hunger, slake your thirst. Yes, but first, come to your senses. Look at the elements, offered for you. Touch it, smell it, taste it. Partake and be nourished. Kneel and give thanks. Listen, to what calls you from this table and from this meal.
We, in the flesh, are met here to be filled. Flowing over in abundance, we are sent.
Flinging open the sanctuary doors, the wind whips our faces and stings our bare skin. The stench of septic assaults our noses and we hold our breath against the onslaught. An arm thrown over our eyes for protection, we dodge flying debris as we lean into the gale.
“Friends! Friends!” I call. “Come. Come and have lunch.”
In the distance, a child rises to come quickly, but a woman presses her back, staring at this woman dressed in church clothes, with church purse, and designer shoes. Staring at me. Surely, I do not mean them.
“Neighbors! Neighbors!” I call. “Come. Come and have lunch.”
Stepping nearer to them, the stench no longer assaults me but is fragrant. The gale no longer pelts, it’s a mere breeze. My hands are free to extend to this family, who did not know my Grandmother’s fresh baked bread or my Papa’s full bodied wine and do not know me.
A child, the smallest of three I now see, wriggles from her place. A grin starting at her lips and a query forming in her eyes, she steps to me and mimics: “Come … have … lunch.” Pleased with the effort, her eyes sparkle and her grin grows. She opens both hands to receive mine.
Her tiny fingers, darkened by nature and worn rough by destiny, are a surprise of firmness and warmth. She took me, the bread and cup of me, and we had lunch.
Blessed Sacrament, you are Holy.
“Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbor is the holiest object presented to your senses.” ― C.S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory
Paradise missing
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On departing, so long paradise.
On returning, paradise, where are you?
You have to feed paradise.
You can’t expect it to bloom on its own!
Let it go doesn’t free him, it frees you
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Let it go doesn’t mean letting him get away with it.
It means you get to get away from it. Away from the anger and the angst. Away from the clenching and clutching. Away from the wrenching of your gut that says, This ain’t right; something needs to change here.
Let it go means you speak your piece and take your leave.
Don’t wait around to see how he reacts. Don’t insist on meeting every objection he musters. And certainly don’t square off to put the gloves on and punch his lights out.
What is to be gained from engaging? Every time before you’ve come away bloodied and bruised. Never have you changed his way of thinking into your way of thinking. Why do you tarry? Speak in staccato. Hit your note and get off of it.
Walk away a free woman. You have brought right to light. Let it do its work, and you go do yours. Go do what you came for. Which isn’t to change him. It’s to change the world. One voice, one word, one soul at a time.
Meet you on the road. Let’s talk about all those ideas that just came rushing into your mind because you are no longer consumed by him. by lies. by fear. That’s freedom. Not just freedom from, but freedom for…action. That’s the furthest thing from subservient I know. In fact, it’s downright subversive.
Letting go doesn’t let him get away with it. It lets you get on with it.
Let us be off. There’s much work to be done.
Just Remember
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The Lord is my shepherd,
I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
He leads me beside still waters,
He restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness
for his name’s sake.
Even though I walk through
the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil,
for you are with me;
your rod and your staff,
they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and mercy will follow me
all the days of my life,
and I will dwell in the house of the Lord
forever.
**original painting by Jane Jordan
Islam: A Question of Faith
0The Muslim observance of Ramadan chanced to fall during the 2014 FIFA Men’s World Cup (June 28-July 28 in 2014). As a sport scientist I knew that fasting or even skipping meals was not a recommended nutritional practice for sports participants, so fasting from sun up to sun down? That couldn’t go well. Wouldn’t this put observant Muslim athletes at a disadvantage?
What a terrific angle to pursue for my sports blog! Unfortunately, I knew very little about Islam or the Muslim observance of Ramadan, but I knew someone who did. An old high school friend, Zarina, whose family emigrated to the US from Pakistan and whom I knew to follow Islam, was kind enough to welcome my questions. She walked me through her practice of Ramadan, what it meant to her and what it meant for her practice of faith. (Just as an aside: World Cup soccer players actually found fasting from food and water (and other prohibited activities) to be strengthening rather than depleting in their competition! Here is my article in case you’re curious.
This conversation became a touchstone for our friendship as we renewed connection socially, and otherwise via text, email and Facebook. It’s amazing how telling Facebook posts can be, right? Zarina’s mother suffered from ALS, so Zarina took the ice bucket challenge, completed the 5K Walk to Defeat ALS and shared information about the cause. One day she posted a picture of her mother who had recently passed. It was captioned: “Today would have been my late mother’s 80th birthday. I miss her every day. She would have been horrified at what is happening in the world.”
That got my attention. I had been watching the news, reading the papers and shaking my head, but pretty much tip-toeing my way above the fray. What was it like to be an immigrant and a Muslim in the USA of today? I knew someone who could tell me.
In September, I emailed Zarina. “Dear friend, you have been on my mind. Your comment about your mom resonates deeply. I just can’t believe where our nation is. It frightens, abhors and befuddles me. Somewhere, the conversation needs to begin. Most misunderstandings come from ignorance; I admit my ignorance. Can you help me understand?”
She replied, “Thank you so much for reaching out. I have my own interpretation of this, but I’d like to get my dad’s take on it as well, and share both with you.”
And so began a series of triangulated email exchanges of the most honest and generous sort. I know that if I had posed these questions online, posted them on Facebook or spoken them from pulpit or podium, I would have gotten spit at, censored, shouted down or worse. Zarina and her Dad honored me in answering what I asked.
“I’m glad you’re starting this dialogue,” Zarina wrote.
We proceeded to tackle jihad, Bin Laden, violence, hatred, treatment of women, and even verses of the Quran addressing violence and killing. We discussed worship, holy texts and “the Book” Christians know as the Bible, along with prophets, Moses, Jesus, even the “European Crusades” and extremism like Nazism and the KKK. Yep, all of this in reasoned and God-honoring email conversation. Zarina’s father – whom I have not seen in decades – was so gentle in his responses. Each time his answer contrasted or took issue with my understanding, he began his response with “your friend says this, but …”
What a means of grace: where there are differences, first remember this is a friend asking.
This conversation actually got me thinking about how others might misunderstand the scriptures I consider holy if taken piecemeal or out of context. It allowed me to consider more deeply how others might perceive the behaviors of some Christians which may send a wrong message. It had me wondering… if anyone were to look down from above, how they would know who was Muslim, Christian or Jew?
Could I be distinguished by my worship, my profession, my practice? If we sing … they will know we are Christians by our love.… how does love act?
I think love asks. And then it waits for an answer. Evil is an opportunist and will take full advantage of ignorance. Unfortunately, our social media may blind us to this. But perhaps what we are seeing now overtly are the biases that have been brewing under the surface all along. Now that they’ve been made plain, we have the opportunity to acknowledge and address them. I confess I did not believe their extent. Now, I cannot deny it. That means I have a responsibility to take action. Fortunately, I have friends who can help.
Zarina and I met for lunch a few weeks after this email exchange. She invited me to join her for a rally in the nearby community square where representatives from law enforcement, the county schools, community organizations and every major faith tradition would gather to speak. Together we stood in the frigid late November air, but the warmth of the sun and the stirring of the spirit felt very welcome.
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Zarina forwarded this wonderful article, Meet My Friend Saj, A True American about her father, Dr. Sajjad H. Durrani, which appeared in a the Montgomery County paper shortly after our get-together. She told me she chose not to share it on Facebook for fear of the comments it might receive.