“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.” Maya Angelou
The road to a fool’s paradise is paved with the egos of all whose view is always down their nose.
I keep thinking that we know better, but we aren’t doing better, so I guess not.
Ignorance is often thought to be a lack of knowledge and/or understanding; but sometimes it’s simply choosing to ignore what we don’t want to acknowledge: ignore-ance.
When faith, via the rigidity of religion, weds (or is it weeds?) itself to empire, power, and/or politics,
the foundations of Mercy, Justice, Love, and especially Grace are cloistered and compromised to feed the beasts of influence, power, and control.
Once this absorption occurs, only those thoroughly soaked in a marinade of divine humility are capable of stepping up and speaking out, inviting all whose hearts hunger and thirst for Community and Hope to rise up to their raison dêtre.
The twitching and the sparks in the hallway between your mind and heart are the font of your invitation.
’Tis a day we’ve set aside to honor and appreciate all whose labor has carried us, as communities and as a nation, through the years; especially those who’ve born the burden on their backs, and even around their necks, with less than adequate or appropriate compensation.
Remind us, O God, of the respect we owe, and give us gratitude and gumption, so that we may step up and speak out, especially when corporate greed attempts to sink its sharpened claws into laborers’ skin, in efforts to reward CEOs and shareholders with that which laborers deserve.
Show us how to effectively reciprocate through our own labor of love.
When I started this preaching’ gig, as a novel homiletics student, in 1988, before it was ‘splained to me, I was sure my sermons were directed (if not aimed) toward the folks who dared — or didn’t know better than — to sit in the pews in front of me.
Early on, however, I heard it said, more than once, that I was actually preachin’ to the choir: those who knew, or at least suspected, they’d heard this message before, maybe multiple times, and were mostly onboard with it.
Then came the Sunday, when a person who had, during the previous week, overtly challenged my pastoral leadership, didn’t bother to show up for the sermon I had written to chastise and correct him.
That evening, as I was mentally rehearsing — yea, reliving — the morning’s empty no-show, I finally realized that first and foremost, if not only and always, I am preachin’ to the pulpit;
and those who overhear my weekly internal monologue must decided for themselves, each time, how much they’re able and willing to lay their own narratives parallel to mine.
We are story people who were created by a story God.
I dreamed that my life came to an end, and I found myself in a place I’d never been before, at the intersection of three roads.
There were no signs, no binary choice of either/or, so I tried to figure out which way I should go.
I walked down one road for a while, but wasn’t sure about what I saw, so I backtracked and took another road.
Remaining unsure, I tried all three of the roads, in each direction, with the same feeling each time. Finally, I returned to where I had started.
I sat down on the ground, leaned forward, closed my eyes, and held my head in my hands.
After a while, I heard, then felt someone sit beside me.
Before I could look up, I heard a voice say, “Life is not for earning a ‘Get out of hell, free’ card. It’s an opportunity to learn how to live the realm of love while you’re alive, so you’ll recognize it when you see it, and so you can invite everyone you know to live it with you, now and forevermore.”
When I looked up, I was back home, sitting in my bed, alone; or was I?
When tied only to the single thread of “me”, it’s oftentimes a winding path that leads to deconstruction, if not destruction.
We thought a world in which our afflictions are comforted, but our comforts are not afflicted, would bring harmony and peace to one and all.
We thought we could color a rainbow in the clouds, using a single crayon the color of our own skin.
We thought politics was inappropriate conversation for church, so long as our personal circumstances aren’t being threatened; and then Jesus comes in, flipping the tables of our moneychangers.
Perhaps it’s (past) time to listen more carefully to our neighbors, as we think.