We Are the Somebodies Who Were Once the Nobodies

 

Recently, my thoughts have been with one of the congregations I served in San Francisco, Bethany UMC. There was a memorial for Dan Johnson, one of the members who left a profound mark on the life of the congregation. I have been thinking often of the people in that church and the ministries we shared.

One my favorite stoles was given to me by the women of the church. They had made a quilt for all the men in the congregation who had died of AIDS, and the pattern of the stole was the border of the quilt.  Whenever I wear this stole, I remember the men who died, and also the women who commemorated them, all of whom have passed themselves.

To be a pastor in San Francisco in the early 90’s, at the very epicenter of the AIDS epidemic, was to be in constant crisis and funeral mode. Yet one more positive diagnosis, one more death. It was a heart breaking experience, holding the hands of young men who looked decades older than their years as they lay dying. Often, parents had abandoned their dying sons. Others chose not to tell their parents they were ill, for fear of rejection. The song that often ran through my head during that time was the spiritual:

            Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, nobody knows my sorrow. 

The men diagnosed in those first couple of decades knew most intimately the anguish found in this song. In those days, contracting HIV made one a social outcast by mainstream culture. Folks did everything they could to hide the signs of the disease. People lost jobs, lost housing, lost their families, if their diagnosis was discovered.

            Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, nobody knows my sorrow.

As a country, as a community of faith, we were guilty back then of being the nobodies. We were the nobodies who averted our eyes from a disease that was ravaging an entire group of people. We were the nobodies who refused to look deep into the sorrow of those who tested positive. We were the nobodies who failed to offer a compassionate response to the sick. We were the nobodies who neglected to offer care. We were the nobodies who allowed the government to turn its back and ignore a disease that would soon spill into other segments of the population.

            Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen, nobody knows my sorrow

            But as people of faith, we know that through the grace of God nobodies become somebodies. We are called to be somebody who has empathy with another’s experience. We are called to be somebody who seeks relationship with those who are suffering. We are called to be somebody who is moved to action. We are called to be somebody who is not content with the status quo. We are called to be somebody who challenges not just institutional responses to injustice and oppression, but somebody who challenges the individuals around us to reach out, to serve, to make a difference.  We are called to be somebody who is willing to take risks and make sacrifices.  We are called to be somebody who is committed to removing the stigma of discrimination.  We are called to be somebody who is not content until together we have created a just world.

We are the somebodies who were once nobodies. As followers of Jesus, the Man of Sorrows, we will no longer avert our eyes from the troubles, we will no longer ignore the sorrow of any sibling who suffer.

Songs of the Season: The Bells of the Season

I was raised in a church (Babylon United Methodist Church, on Long Island in NY state) that sang Christmas Carols from the first Sunday of Advent up to Epiphany. And we didn't just sing them. We belted them out. We sang every carol as if it were blaring from the radio of a car (except "Silent Night", of course). I think the rumble of the organ and the timbre of the voices of friends have made their way into the very basic parts of my body and soul.

Which is why, once I was seminary-trained, I found it so frustrating to wait on these carols, like we were taught to do in Worship Class. Oh no, Advent was a time of preparation and waiting for the birth of Jesus. Don't rush through it! Keep those Christmas carols for Christmas!

The problem, I soon found, was that there really wasn't a whole lot of music for the weeks preceding Christmas, so I took matters into my own hands.

I wrote my own Advent song.

Sung to a familiar tune (TRURO, LM, often used for "Lift Up Your Heads, Ye Mighty Gates), "Bells of the Season" was written for a four week sermon series I did one Advent when I was pastor of Bethany United Methodist Church in San Francisco. From a young age, bells and Christmas seemed to go together (and I never even watched "It's a Wonderful Life" until just a few years ago).  Bells cause us to pause, to reflect, to listen up. In some communities, bells ring out warning as well as communal celebrations. Bells remind us of how fleeting time is. Bells call us to attention, to stay alert.

What are those bells that call to us

To open up our broken hearts?

Bells that connect, bells that unite

Bells of the season, ring so bright.

What are those bells that call to us

To open hands to those in need?

The bells of justice, God's new day!

Bells of the season, help us pray.

What are those bells that call to us

To dance, to laugh, to embrace life?

The bells of joy, for God's great gift.

Bells of the season will uplift.

What are those bells that call to us

 To praise the Christ whose birth we sing?

The bells of faith, our Savior's come!

Bells of the season, bring us home.

(This hymn can be found in Shaping Sanctuary: Proclaiming God's Grace in an Inclusive Church, ed. by Kelly Turney)

What are those bells that call to you? What are they calling you to?

The Hungry Heart

Last week I was invited to preach at Bethany United Methodist Church in Noe Valley, which I pastored for 12 years. By the time I left, one third of my life had been spent in that community. So last week was a wonderful reunion, we hadn’t seen each other in 5 years and we just had a great time telling stories about our time together.

I was reminded of one fall when a flustered parent handed me some items for a rummage sale. As the bag passed from her hand to mine, I saw signs of relief wash over her: "I am so glad to be rid of that Barney doll" she said, with a sigh.

I placed the bag in a closet near the office, and it wasn't very long after that I learned why the mother was at her wits end: every time a truck rumbled past the church, it would trigger a mechanism in the doll, and Barney would sing through the church: "I love you; you love me."

"I love you...you love me." on and on the Barney doll would call out. I tried moving the doll further away from the office, but even muffled, I could still make out the song. People who would come to the office for pastoral care would role their eyes when the song rang out. One looked disgusted and said, "Barney, ugh."

What is it with all the bad blood around Barney? Why does a low-tech, purple-plush dinosaur stir such negative feelings? The message sounds pure enough: "I love you, you love me..." Yet, something about it makes most adults cringe and turn away. Could it be that Barney makes it sound too easy, this loving thing? \"I love you, you love me, we're a great big family, with a great big hug and a kiss from me to you, won't you say you love me too?"

What does Barney know about 3am feedings and nightmares? What does Barney know about the tension between wanting to provide for your children, but then working so much you barely have time for them? What does Barney know about life on the streets and being worried sick wondering if your son will come home alive, or if he will become one more addition to the prison pipeline? What does Barney know about infidelities and other betrayals?

I love you? You love me? Does Barney have any idea how hard this loving thing really is? Does he know about the frustrations, the despair, the longings that come with love. "I love you, you love me"...if it were only that simple.

And maybe I am projecting something here, but whenever I hear that grating, “I love you, you love me” line, it sounds to me like an obsessive, compulsive lover. I love you. You love me? I love you. You love me? You love me?

Maybe that’s it. The ears through which I hear Barney’s words are more than just a bit jaded by my own baggage that I have brought to love. Barney reminds me of my own hungry heart, one in which love was absent, which sent me bingeing on all sorts of activities and things that never helped fill the pangs of desire that were within me. Do you know something about that? Have you had a hungry heart, where the expectation for love was unfulfilled, or, once you got it, was unfulfilling?

And, in a mad, crazy attempt to fill the emptiness, you grabbed whatever came your way: a revolving door of lovers, overwork, drugs, alcohol, food, risky behaviors, relationships that only compounded the hunger. I think this hungry heart is a phenomenon many of us are acquainted with, and I am reminded of a song by the Boss, Bruce Springsteen, who wrote a song about it:



Got a wife and kids in Baltimore, Jack
I went out for a ride and I never went back
Like a river that don't know where it's flowing
I took a wrong turn and I just kept going

CHORUS
Everybody’s got a hungry heart
Everybody’s got a hungry heart
Lay down your money and you play your part
Everybody’s got a hungry heart

I met her in a Kingstown bar
We fell in love I knew it had to end
We took what we had and we ripped it apart
Now here I am down in Kingstown again

(CHORUS)

Everybody needs a place to rest
Everybody wants to have a home
Don't make no difference what nobody says
Ain't nobody like to be alone

(CHORUS)
(Copyright © Bruce Springsteen (ASCAP))

Everybody’s got a hungry heart. Perhaps Springsteen points to what is one of the biggest reasons why so many hearts are hungry: “Everybody needs a place to rest, everybody wants to have a home.” We are a people who have lost the ability to be at home.

I am not talking about the physical place of a home, which some of us are in need of. I am talking about something even more basic than that: being at home with ourselves. Being alone with ourselves drives us up the wall. If we can’t stand ourselves, how can we expect anyone else to?

Too many of us have run away from home, run away from ourselves. Because of the way some people treated us in our past, the messages they gave us, the way they used or abused us, the way they made us feel about ourselves, we have distanced ourselves from our Self, wearing a mask that has become a permanent part of our persona. When that happens, we have run away from home. As a result, we are not even at home in our own skin.

With no home of our own, is it no wonder why our hearts are so hungry, why, when we or others say the words “I love you” it comes out feeling a little like a disembodied echo, reverberating in the hollowness of our empty heart?

In Psalm 32 we are invited to rediscover a home in our heart. The psalmist cried: “When I kept it all inside, my bones turned to powder, my words became daylong groans. The pressure never let up; all the juices of my life dried up.” Signs of a hungry heart.

But it doesn’t have to stay that way. We are invited to bring our whole self before God. We are reminded that “GOD holds nothing against you and you are to hold nothing back from God.” Give it all over to God, your pain, your shame, your wounds and scars, your secret fears, your anger, your brokenness. Give it over to the one who loves you with a love that will never let you go. With this assurance, drop the mask you have been wearing and find yourself coming home to your Self.

It is then that we will grow comfortable in our own skin, our own body, our own life. It is then that we will hear the divine voice say clearly: “I love you.” And our hearts will be hungry no more.

Advent 4,5,6,and 7: Too Many Fires to Put Out?

Be still and know that I am God.
Psalm 46:10

I have always found Advent one of the richest times for spiritual growth. So much of the season has signs and symbols which beg us to stop and ponder. Unfortunately, this week I had a hard time responding to the begging and didn’t do much stopping, and even less pondering.


I have learned from experience that NOT stopping and pondering can be disastrous. In 1992, I was invited to take an appointment in a local church. The appointment came at a surprise. As much as I love parish ministry, I had moved into campus ministry in 1985, and assumed that my local parish phase of ministry was over. Imagine my surprise when a district superintendent of the Cal-Nevada Annual Conference asked me to take Bethany UMC, in San Francisco!

I was worried that I had forgotten how to “do” parish ministry and pushed myself very hard those first few months of the appointment. So hard, in fact, that I wound up skimming on my spiritual disciplines in order to “do” more ministry.

Advent came and I thought I would take up the spiritual practice of lighting the Advent wreath every morning and have a short devotional before diving headlong into my day. Even before the first week was barely over, I began to grow distracted with the practice, finding more and more things that begged my attention as I prepared to head to church.

One day, I cut too many corners trying to pack everything in I needed to get done. I flew out the door to do an early bit of grocery shopping before heading to church. When I returned, I opened the garage door and thought I smelled smoke. I immediately thought of my 92 year old neighbor whose house was connected to mine, and worried that she had left something burning on her stove. As I went up the steps, I saw smoke—her place must be on fire! I grabbed a phone and dialed 911. I was put on hold (!) and as I waited I heard crackling. I turned into my dining room and saw that the table was in flames. The fire was in MY house! And there, at the very center of the table, was the culprit: my Advent wreath, now with all the candles melted down into the table…

God is so funny. Just the week before I had bought fire extinguishers for the parsonage, so knew exactly where it was and quickly put out the flames (five minutes later the phone rang. It was the fire department asking why I had called).
I learned a lesson that day. When God puts a sign or symbol before you, you had better stop and ponder, before it becomes a burning bush/dining room table!

Medical Marijuana and the Risks of Faith

I was glad to learn of the Obama administration's decision regarding medical marijuana, shifting resources away from the investigation and prosecution of medical marijuana users, growers, and suppliers.

In 1996, the California attorney general's office ordered that all medical marijuana dispensaries in the state be shut down.  Knowing that this would increase the suffering of those who relied on the drug to ease the pain of illness, several other progressive pastors and I were invited to turn our churches into medical marijuana distribution sites.  I was invited see what that would entail so went to an "undisclosed location" (or so we thought) to see how the drug was given out.

The following day, I woke up to grab the morning paper and read on the front page of the SF Chronicle: "Rev. Karen Oliveto is considering allowing her church, Bethany United Methodist Church in Noe Valley, to be used as a medical marijuana site." Oh no! I had made no decision, said nothing to my congregation, and now they were all learning this bit of "news" along with their Saturday bagel and coffee.

Needless to say, I was more than just a little nervous about what Sunday morning would be like. The first thing I did was apologize to the congregation and correct the zealous journalistic reporting. I then promised to send each congregational member a packet of information about medical marijuana and the legal risks involved. I also asked them to pray every day for discernment about what we as a community should do.

The following Sunday, we gathered after church to discuss whether or not we would become a distribution site.  One by one, members stood to voice their opinion: "Well, it is illegal...but what would Jesus do? Didn't he break laws if it meant relieving suffering or healing the sick?" "I wish, before my Harold died, I could have eased his pain with this drug. I hated to see him suffer so..."  "It is illegal, and we could lose our church assets if the government came after us, but doesn't God ask us to put people first?" 

It looked like we were coming to a consensus when suddenly Inez, one of the community's "grandmothers", raised her hand and stood. "Just hold on here a second."  Uh-oh, I thought. Here comes the controversy. "Do you hear what we are saying? 'Sure, they can come and use our building.' What's so Christian about that? We need to be here, when the sick come for their medication, and offer hospitality. We need to be here and love them as they receive the marijuana." So every Tuesday afternoon, an 84 year old woman would lead a band of church folks as they welcomed the sick into our building and helped them access medical marijuana.

It was a transformative experience for our community, one that we often turned to as an example of extreme faithfulness.  We are called to take great risks as a people of faith. In fact, if we aren't taking risks, we probably aren't being very faithful.  Because living our faith out loud is countercultural.  It is nothing short of revoluntionary activity.

I learned an important lesson from this experience.  People in the pews are hungry for a lived expression of faith that makes a mark in the world, that calls them to be their very best selves as individuals and as community, and that calls them to step out and risk it all as a disciple of Jesus.  The Gospel demands nothing less.