Call and response, part 2

For the last 18 years or so, during Advent, whenever I see a Salvation Army red kettle, I put in a dollar, take off my gloves, and shake the hand of the volunteer, thanking them for their work.  I don't keep track of how many dollar bills I donate or if I make a repeat visit - that way one hand doesn't know what the other is doing, in Jesus-speak. 

Recently I saw a post on Facebook warning folks not to contribute to the Salvation Army because of its efforts against LGBT rights.  Which means I will have to change my annual Advent devotion.  Which makes me sad indeed.  I wish there was a way to not punish the homeless that they serve yet still make clear that discrimination is not only wrong but evil.  As Blogger John Aravosis points out, would you give money to Pat Robertson?

I wonder...does the Salvation Army ask the homeless about their sexual orientation or gender identity before welcoming the stranger, feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, caring for the sick?  For when we do these things, Jesus said that we were serving him.  Did it ever occur to these soldiers for God that the Christ could inhabit a gay person as much as a straight one?  The only things Don't Ask, Don't Tell serves are bad theology and a wacked exegesis. 

Perhaps Jesus is calling me to engage the red kettle and bell in a different way this Advent:  print some vouchers (see links above) and begin a conversation.

Call and response

The other night my husband and I were walking down Mass. Ave. toward Harvard Square.  We had checked into a sweet little B&B, part of our Friday-after-Thanksgiving tradition, and we were looking for a place to have dinner.  As we were approaching the square, we could hear some gospel singing ahead.  We saw people walking our way with amused expressions, some hurrying a little faster than usual.  You know, the evangelical-get-away-trot.  Deliver us from your disciples, O Lord.

Instead we were pleasantly surprised.  A tall African-American man in his older twenties, with a Salvation Army red kettle and bell, was singing a gospel riff with the words "Merry Christmas" and "Happy Holidays".  When he started with "me-r-ry", I sang it back to him.  "No, no," he said, "Me-er-er-ry!"  "Me-er-er-ry!" I sang back.  Then "Chri-is-is-ist-mas!"  We riffed that one up and down.  "Ha-ha-ha-ha-ppy hol-ol-ol-lid-da-ays!"  He was standing near an archway that made for some great acoustics--he must have scoped out this location or had worked here before.

He grabbed my husband by the arm.  "Man, you gotta keep her!  She's gonna get a recording contract or something!"  I then began my annual Advent devotion a little early: I put a dollar in his kettle, shook his hand and thanked him for his hard work this season.

And no, I didn't make a video of it or even take his picture.  You won't find this on YouTube or on Facebook.  Sometimes it seems as though we're all after our 15 seconds of fame, rather than making a spontaneous connection with another human being just for the fun of it.  I don't even own a smartphone; the phone I have can take pictures but I can't download them because it's a pay-as-you-go phone.  I answered this man's call with a response because that's what he was looking for.  Not just the response of money but the response of humanity:  "Hey, anybody in there?"

Since we were infants we have engaged in call and response.  We cry because we're hungry, wet, poopy, tired, and we need, need, need.  Most of us were blessed with someone who responded and a connection, a relationship was born.  We love it when someone calls out our name with energy and joy, like Norm walking into the bar in "Cheers".  And we are rich indeed if we still have friends in our lives who knew us before marriage, children and career, who remind us of where we came from, with whom we can pick up right where we left off.

I don't know about you, but the more connections I make (and I don't mean 'networking' or 'speed dating' of any kind), the more alive I feel.  The more I reconnect with those who know themselves to be alive on this planet, the more grounded, purposeful, joyful I feel.  And I hope that others around me feel the same way when I connect with them.

It all boils down to this one call and response:  Love me.  Let me love you.  Yes and yes.

I wish I had put more in his kettle.  And learned his name.

Who among you is not an idiot?

How many of us have done something truly idiotic?  I got my hand up.  If your hand is not raised, my eyebrows are.  How many of us suffered public humiliation as a result?  Often it goes hand in hand.  How many of us have broken the law?  If we've ever gone beyond the speed limit, we have.  Most of the time we don't get caught.  We tell ourselves we're hurting no one.  If we're driving over 45 mph in a road construction zone, we just might be putting other lives at risk or putting what we have to do above a law that is concerned with the safety of others. 

In truth we aren't any different from this woman:





The sign reads "Only an idiot would drive on the sidewalk to avoid a school bus."

 

 

Shena Hardin, 32, of Cleveland, as part of her punishment, was ordered to hold this sign for one hour today and tomorrow at a downtown intersection. Her license was suspended for 30 days and she had to pay $250 in court costs.
 

I'm not saying she shouldn't be punished or have to suffer consequences. I'm surprised jail time and volunteer service to the students she endangered wasn't included, as well as a hefty fine. But public shame and humiliation? I thought we left that behind with the Puritans and being put in the stocks or the pillory.

You know what Jesus would have done...he would be standing with her, same color skin, holding her hand and the sign with her so no one could tell which of them was the public idiot. You don't think so?

²              

 

"Early in the morning [Jesus] came again to the temple. All the people came to him and he sat down and began to teach them.³ The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery; and making her stand before all of them,⁴they said to him, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery.⁵ Now in the law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?”⁶ They said this to test him, so that they might have some charge to bring against him. Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground.⁷ When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”⁸ And once again he bent down and wrote on the ground.⁹ When they heard it, they went away, one by one, beginning with the elders; and Jesus was left alone with the woman standing before him.¹⁰ Jesus straightened up and said to her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?”¹¹ She said, “No one, sir.” And Jesus said, “Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on do not sin again." (John 8: 1-11)

The Bible lists three modes of execution: stoning, burning and hanging. All three were carried out publicly, stoning carried out by the entire populace. The point of a public punishment is shame and humiliation, not only for the one being executed but also for one's family and tribe. Like capital punishment of our time it was seen as a deterrent to future crime, something we now know is not true.

How many of us were shamed by our parents and teachers, humiliated by friends when we behaved like an idiot? Did it encourage us not to repeat such behavior? How did it make us feel?   Shame does nothing but cripple a person.  Guilt is one thing; shame is another.  It's important that we know the difference.  Feeling less-than does nothing to enhance our self-worth. Ten to one this woman does not know her own worth.

Any of us who say "I am not like her, I would never do anything like that" just threw a stone her way. And if we think that the color of her skin had nothing to do with her sentence, remember the election we just went through.  One day it won't matter if we're 'Jew or Greek, male or female, slave or free'.  For now, it's time we all owned up to our own brand of idiocy, whatever it may be.





A female minister's manifesto

(This post is dedicated to my female cohorts in crime...make that ministry...with whom I have shared this particular rant, who also have lamented many of the same.)

This past Sunday morning, as I was dressing for a preaching gig, I went through the usual mental calisthenics about what to wear.  Nothing cut too low - i.e., no cleavage.  Something comfortable, usually slacks or Chico's Traveller's pants, but professional-looking.  A jacket that covers the butt if the pants are too clingy.  Comfortable but somewhat dressy shoes - glossy brown Dansko clogs. 

Then there's the jewelry, especially earrings.  Nothing too showy or shiny.  Nothing that may swing or sway.  Many parishioners have commented to me how my earrings are distracting.  (Jesus who?) Which means I usually end up choosing something boring.  SO not me.  But these are the hoops (no pun intended) I've learned to jump through when dressing for work.  I suspect that many women do this, no matter what their profession. 

Unlike men, who can put on a suit and tie, or a nice pair of chinos and an oxford shirt, pair of loafers and they are good to go, we women are judged by our hairstyle, hair color, makeup or lack of it, our jewelry, accessories, length of skirt, plunge of neckline, size of waist, hips and bust, and how we clothe all of it - just to make a living and to be accepted in our profession.  And of course, many feel free to comment on our appearance rather than on how well we do our jobs.  (I even had it mentioned in an exit interview with a church.  When I said that it was completely inappropriate for remarks about my mode of dress to be included in my final evaluation, the moderator, with whom I shared a sense of mutual respect and consider a friend, would not take them out.)

So in case you were wondering (because it seems this still is not clear), I am not a man in drag.  I am a woman.  I have breasts, hips and legs.  Get. Over. It.  I do not dress for anyone but myself.  Among other things, I am also an artist.  I dress fashionably, sometimes with a little funk, sometimes with a bit of irreverance, always with flair.  I have been blessed with a great head of hair, so I embrace it with gusto.  Yes, I have big hair! 

I like blue jeans because when I wear them I'm relaxed, just like anyone else.  Not one pair I own has rips or tears, and they're always clean.  Heck, most of the time on Sunday morning I'm wearing a robe, so what is the difference, really?  Many church goers will say that they love being able to attend church wearing whatever is comfortable for them, so why isn't the pastor or minister included in that?

And then there's watching my P's and Q's, censoring my language, making sure I shock no one.  Are you kidding me?  I work for Jesus, public enemy No. 1, the most dangerous guy in the world, yet you'd think he was hosting the Oscars or running for President by how schmoozy we've made him.

I often wonder that if we allowed Jesus to be human, really human like the rest of us, would we then have a different attitude about clergy and would we clergy then feel like we didn't have to perform, prop up our egos, or think that the church and the gospel are dependent solely on us?  Perhaps then we could also affirm our divinity, in that we were made in God's image, not anyone else's, and know our true worth.

1966

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Whatever I'm wearing, I am an image of God.  And so are you.  Get used to it.