She was my best friend. During that tumultuous middle school time, when every year seemed like seven, Jeri Lynne and I were thick as thieves. Puberty wracked our brains and overwhelmed our bodies, so we stood side by side and attacked the absurdity of the world with our only weapon – laughter.
“Stay woke” means to stay awake; stay watchful; notice what’s going on around you; become aware of the policies and politics and people who maintain inequity and injustice in our community. Then do something about it. Today, our scripture is screaming at us to “stay woke.”
What would it be to really rest? What does that even look like? In my heart of hearts, I don’t know. I have a vague memory of rest as a child. But then again, the rose-colored, sparkling recollections of our youth tend toward the unreliable. They are shadows without edges. They fade back and forth between truth and what we wish were truth. For some of us, childhood was a wondrous time filled with ease, freedom, unstructured afternoons, imagination without limits, softly oversized beds with cool sheets, and unmolested dreams. Some of us have those memories. Not all of us.
“We turn to God for help when our foundations are shaking, only to learn that it is God who is shaking them.” – Charles West, Princeton Theological Seminary
To the man who yelled, “The president still loves you!” at me today upon seeing my “Love Trumps Hate” bumper sticker: Because you hollered at me from your car as you were driving away, I gather that you did not want to engage in a dialogue about the president, his feelings for me, or my feelings for him. I guess it was safer that way. One-line zingers have become the currency by which we pay for participation in our society. Still — I would like to reply, and what I have to say takes more than one line.
The Buddhist nun, Pema Chödrön tells the story of a woman being chased by tigers. She gets to the edge of a cliff as the tigers close in on her. She looks over the cliff and luckily discovers a vine with which to climb down. As she’s descending away from the tigers, she looks down and notices that on the ground below, more tigers pace back and forth.
Gates open and the procession begins. Thousands line the street, throwing flowers and laurels, waving madly, reaching to touch power as it passes them. Security guards watch the crowd for dissidents, agitators, and zealots, intent on doing harm. The man coming through the gate sits tall in the saddle, looking every bit the champion he is meant to be. A mantle of authority rests easily on his shoulders as he climbs higher to the center of the city, taking his rightful place as lord protector of this people. While this sounds like a political rally from our prolonged and protracted presidential season, the parade I describe took place two thousand years ago in Jerusalem on Palm Sunday.No – not that parade – not Jesus’ triumphal entry. The other one – the triumphal entry of Pontius Pilate into Jerusalem.
Let me say right now that I do not subscribe to the current “War on Christmas.” It is a fabrication created by a partisan media desperate for an audience. I believe there was a war on Christmas, once, long ago – a calculated attack by the retail industry, supported by the marketing sector and sponsored by manufacturing moguls, in order to appropriate a holiday celebrated by most Americans and turn it into a festival of voracious spending. These factions created a sacrament of gift-giving, concocted our modern Santa Claus from the very saintly Nicholas of Myra, and replaced the Light of the World with blow-up nativity scenes that pay lip-service to Jesus being the “reason for the season.”
Two days ago, in Paris, eight terrorists armed themselves with rifles, and went to nightclubs, restaurants, a concert, and a soccer game, where they shot dozens of innocent people at random. They then triggered explosives strapped to their bodies, blowing themselves and anyone around them to bits. One hundred and twenty-nine are dead. Ninety-nine remain in critical condition.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what gives me life. In the book, Sleeping with Bread, the authors explain the title with a familiar story from World War II. The massive bombings in England during the war left many orphans starving in the streets. Those fortunate enough to be found were placed in refugee camps, where they received food, health care, and a safe place to live. But many of the children couldn’t sleep at night. Some tossed and turned, others lay there with anxious eyes always open, even though they were assured and re-assured that they were in good hands. A psychiatrist listened to the children, and discovered that they were afraid if they fell asleep, they might wake up once again homeless and without food. So he came up with an idea. He suggested giving each child a piece of bread to take to bed with them. The children, clutching their bread through the night, slept soundly, knowing that they ate that day and what they held in their hands ensured that they would eat again tomorrow. They were at peace, holding onto what gave them life.