Dear Folks,
I have heard from several people this summer that their idea of a vacation is to stop reading the paper or watching televised broadcasts. “I need a break,” they tell me, but from the news cycle, not from work or chores. One friend continued, “I feel like a pinball, bouncing from crisis to crisis.” Another wondered if the best way to deal with the chaos was to “put her head under the covers—like maybe for a week!” I asked her if experiencing the quiet dark, of the sheets on her face for a few minutes each morning, could become a daily practice, maybe for several months? She was surprised, and intrigued.
“What if you think about that time not as hiding, but as watching? What do you see each day on the threshold of morning? Who is speaking? What if your tent of bedclothes is a place to encounter a still, small voice, like Elijah in his cave? What do you hear?”
Under the covers, on a canvas, in your journal, or at the kitchen table, the time has come for each of us to consider the voice within, to develop our internal hearing and seeing to a new level, and to learn again to hold the buzzy noise outside us at bay.
We are in a moment of historic change, close to home and around the world. The definition of “leader” has significantly shifted of late, with external gestures and trappings of power taking the place of building a broad, reasonable consensus. Instead of holding themselves accountable, folks are quick to cast blame. Once trusted institutions of church, state, school, and family are feeling threadbare. Many expose a lack of consistency and grounding. Perhaps most troubling, the law protects some, while others are denied due process.
Pilate famously asked Jesus of Nazareth, “What is truth,” and at this moment we are compelled to pose his question, and others, over and over again: How am I to deal with this world? Who’s in charge? Who is my neighbor? Who am I?
How can we find our way in the world without a map or a reliable set of constructs? I would offer seeking communal support as an essential first step. Gathering with others on a regular basis for solace and strength makes a difference, especially if the center is held by generosity of spirit and goodwill. That we say at Redeemer that “the altar is God’s table where all are welcome,” and we live this out, even for just a few minutes each week, conjures a life-changing reality. There are no outsiders in God.
Second, listen deeply to the holy one, who speaks within you and each human being, beyond and through the noise around us. Within each of us is a deep resilience guided by a locus of knowing, independent of our outward masks. This center produces our dreams, which guide and correct us toward wholeness. This center inspires us with visions of what might be: of truth, of healing, of integration, or what the scripture calls “the kingdom of God.” This center sees us not as wrong or sick, but as divided.
Third, the acts of others, especially those who are disordered, do not define you. Rather, a person is defined by what lies most deeply within, by your values and by your actions. And finally, what you do and say and believe matters. Whatever the prevailing newsfeed might suggest, the center holds through the actions and words of each of us.
Creek poet Joy Harjo offers this: The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on. We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it. It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women. At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers. Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table. This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here. At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.
Love,
David