Mourn with those Who Mourn

There's an old expression about preaching to yourself. For those of us who most of the time only get to experience our own sermons, that's all we get. During the actual preaching, it's not like we can really receive the message, we're too busy giving it. But often during the week of preparation the Spirit, the Word and life work on the preacher.

This coming week my text will be Romans 12:14-15: Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse. Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.

I've anticipated this for weeks, as I'm working through Romans 12 and I've known it's coming. Verse 15 has long been a life instruction for me, to rejoice with those who rejoice, mourn with those who mourn.

It has seemed especially applicable in these last weeks, and we will take a season of prayer after the sermon to pray for the things we mourn and rejoice, both in our world and in our personal lives.

What hit me today is the verse before really sets up the whole end of this chapter, and when we are rejoicing and mourning with others, that needs to include those who persecute us.

In this hotly contested political season, especially during these two weeks of conventions, I am watching my friends arguing about candidates, their positions, current events regarding Black Lives Matter and police killings.

We all have our own opinions, and it's a rare moment when we change anyone's mind with a Facebook comment, especially an angry one. Here is where I am preaching to myself.

I would encourage all of us to consider the pain someone may be experiencing before making the comments we do. I have been especially offended by those criticizing the dead, blaming the victims. Remnants of Job's friends again.

Some compassion would go a long way. Let's try that. Rejoice with those who rejoice (even when we're not feeling it) mourn with those who mourn (even when we don't get it.). It may come back around to you just when you need it.

Patriotism

On July 1, I gathered with some friends and new ones to sing patriotic songs in a local square. Afterwards one young man remarked that July 4th is his favorite holiday. That surprised me; my family never made much of this day.

Singing those patriotic songs I noticed how many referenced God and dependence on God, as well as gratitude. That I can sing with enthusiasm.

I grew up in Kentucky, and I can sing My Old Kentucky Home with tears in my eyes. When I first moved out of my home state, just barely over the border into Cincinnati, I would sing that song as well as Dixie, which if unfamiliar, goes like this:

Oh, I wish I was in the land of cotton,
Old times there are not forgotten,
Look away, look away, look away Dixie Land.

In Dixie Land, where I was born in,
early on one frosty mornin',
Look away, look away, look away Dixie Land.

I wish I was in Dixie, Hooray! Hooray!
In Dixie Land I'll take my stand
to live and die in Dixie.
Away, away, away down south in Dixie.
Away, away, away down south in Dixie 

Both songs could leave me quite morose and homesick. As I began to work in my new city with African Americans, I became increasingly uncomfortable with the associations with such songs, the Confederate Flag in particular. I will always love my home state, and thankfully Kentucky joined the Union, but I cannot be proud of the racism of the South. I will always feel more like a Southerner and be proud of the true hospitality of that part of the country, but not the true cruelty of a land that abused others and still holds onto that attitude.

The US will always be my homeland, and I cannot imagine living anywhere else. But when I drive west, and see the desolate land we sent our native tribes to inhabit instead of the lush lands of places like Tennessee, I grieve. 

This is my home, and I will be faithful, but only as a child is faithful to her mother yet willing to gently correct when mom is out of line. My grown children are willing to chastise me when I'm wrong, to point out my lingering prejudices or unkindnesses. So too I find it appropriate of us as children of our nation.

I love the lyrics to This is My Song, sung to the haunting melody Finlandia. You can watch a beautiful version here. The lyrics well state my attitude toward the world.

This is my song, O God of all the nations,
A song of peace for lands afar and mine.
This is my home, the country where my heart is,
Here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine;
But other hearts in other lands are beating
With hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.

My country’s skies are bluer than the ocean,
And sunlight beams on clover leaf and pine.
But other lands have sunlight too, and clover,
And skies are everywhere as blue as mine.
O hear my song, Thou God of all nations,
A song of peace for their land and for mine.

This is my prayer, O Lord of all earth’s kingdoms:
Thy kingdom come on earth, Thy will be done.
Let Christ be lifted up till all shall serve Him,
And hearts united learn to live as one.
O hear my prayer, Thou God of all the nations.
Myself I give Thee; let Thy will be done.

This is my song, O God of all the nations,
A song of peace for all in every place;
And yet I pray for my beloved country
The reassurance of continued grace;
Lord, help us find our oneness in the Savior,
In spite of differences of age and race.  
Lloyd Stone, Georgia Harkness, Jean Sibelius © 1934, 1964 Lorenz Publishing Company 

And it ends with words similar to those I wrote for an extra verse to Amazing Grace:

We celebrate our differences of culture, class and race

We love The Other in Christ's Name and seek all to embrace. © Katherine Callahan-Howell 2015

Years ago after my mother died we used some of her estate to take our family and my brother's to visit Ireland.

When I arrived there, the homeland of my ancestors, I had an experience that lived out a quote I had long had on my desk by Judith Thurman, "Every dreamer knows that is it entirely possible to be homesick for a place you've never been to, perhaps more homesick than for familiar ground." Ireland felt like home.

Meanwhile I still love my country, imperfect as she is, critical as I may sometimes be. That same yearning that I experience for Kentucky, for home, for places yet unseen, will never be fully satisfied this side of heaven.  I long for that future country, which cannot be shaken, and all my longings will be satisfied.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

This week I was moved to tears by the audition of Linkin Bridge singing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow." I loved their version, their passion, their honesty. And I've always loved this song. You can watch their full audition or just the song.

As a little girl I first heard it by Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz. Like this. Israel Kamakawiwo'ole
has created his own beautiful version.

Listening to this song this week, I wondered why it attracts me so. Here are the words from the original version:

Somewhere over the rainbow way up high
There's a land that I heard of once in a lullaby
Somewhere over the rainbow skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true

Someday I'll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far
Behind me
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops
That's where you'll find me

Somewhere over the rainbow bluebirds fly
Birds fly over the rainbow. Why then, oh, why can't I?

If happy little bluebirds fly
Beyond the rainbow why, oh, why can't I?

It's a song of longing. Dorothy longs for a real home, where she is not harassed and orphaned. She finds Oz, but in the end, discovers the land of her dreams is Kansas, with her aunt and uncle, not the fantasy land over the rainbow.

I resonate with this sentiment of searching for a real home. Partly that emanates from my earthly journey. Yet more deeply I think the seed of heaven yearns to break forth in us. We long for that real home that lasts eternally, where as CS Lewis described it in The Great Divorce, we are not yet solid enough to exist.

I suspect I will continue this longing all my life. But for now the time it feels the most quenched is when I am surrounded by my family. Like Dorothy, that creates home for me. That warm reality melts my troubles like lemon drops.

We are Orlando

On Sunday June 12, 2016 a prayer card came up front amongst the typical requests for a loved one's healing or travel plans, a card that asked me to pray for the 50 victims of an event called the worst mass shooting in US history.

As this event had happened early Sunday morning, the news had not reached me before this brief explanation sent up front for pastoral prayer.

This kind of surprise used to happen to me with regularity. You see, I really detest following the news, as I find it voyeuristic and overwrought. For years my family and friends would try to keep me abreast of topics they thought I should know before being surprised in just this type of manner on Sunday morning.

But in recent years, I have typically kept up with current trends via social media, whether interested or not, as I do enjoy seeing what's going on in my friends' lives, and the news flows with it.

As I returned to social media in the next hours and days after this most recent tragedy, I found the typical diverse reactions to the latest. Protests at calling it the worst mass shooting for example, by friends of color remembering Wounded Knee and other massacres. Complaints about how the President handled his response, reactions from every politician in and out of office, calls for gun control, calls against gun control, calls for silence in solidarity, complaints against only silence. Concerns for gays and Muslims. Complaints against gays and Muslims.

You name it, I've seen it on my news feed posted by my diverse list of friends and the masses.

I used to simply not watch the news, as I objected to its point of view.

As I see the flowing comments, many of them I abhor, I wonder what is my proper response? Not only to this tragedy, but to my friends?

I could unfriend everyone whose posts I disagree with, which would leave a short list indeed, not because I think actually disagree with everyone, as much as I'm not sure these responses are productive.

About now if you've managed to read this far, you wonder what I think is the alternative. So do I.

I do believe we have forgotten the Psalmist's art of lament, or as Paul put it, how to mourn with those who mourn. We rush to judge and blame, not just the perpetrator, but the victim, the system, whatever we can blame.

We want to control the world, so we assign blame to be certain it doesn't happen to us. If we can pin it on someone, we can keep ourselves safe.

Because the very last thing we would ever want to do is admit that all of us are capable of great tragedy. There but by the grace of God, go I.

I offer no solutions. But I lament the fallen, and the bereaved, and the instigator of this evil. For just as "We are Orlando" means we all share in this loss, so it also means we all share in this violence.

Lord show us a way to peace. Hold our hands in this darkness. Bring us home where light shines, for all of us.

Better than Making Your Bed

When I was in grade school my dad came into my room to kiss me goodnight and found me lying on top of my covers, instead of under them. He asked why, and I told him I didn't want to make my bed the next morning. He told me he would do it for me if I would get under the covers.

I still remember that 50 years later. Partly because the moment continues to be a sweet reminder of my father. But partly because it shows my disdain for making my bed goes way back.

As soon as I became an adult, that habit stopped. Now let me say that I make my bed when visiting others, and having company to my house. I'm not an anal housekeeper, but I keep my kitchen clean, clothes washed, a general sense of order in my home. However I can see no real health benefit to making a bed, unlike keeping dishes and bathrooms clean.

I realize some people just love having a straight neat bed to return to at night. I'm kind of a still sleeper, so mine doesn't get very messy, I just don't go to the formality of smoothing it all out perfectly.

This week I read a blog by a Navy Seal saying it was really important to make your bed first thing in the morning. He said if you did that, you knew whatever happened that day, you did something right.

I agree with his logic, and all you who love making your beds, keep it up. However I can't say that for me, making my bed would redeem a bad day. I have other habits I do daily that can, chiefly starting my day reading my Bible and praying. That is a habit I can fall back on when everything else crashes.

So if you're a lover of neat beds, keep it up. Please don't judge me for not being. But either way, I hope you find some personal habits that can make even a bad day worth something. For me, it's starting with some God time.

Tribute in Hind Sight

Honest confession: I was my daddy's girl. Growing up, you could best endear yourself to me by mentioning I resembled my father, not my mother. I loved my mother, see this adorable photo. She exuding comfort. But I did not admire her. I saw her as weak, watching her fall apart after my dad left her, and continue to struggle until her untimely death fifteen years ago today.

After Mom died, I learned new things about her. First I learned she was stronger than I imagined. Around me she let down her guard, but others saw her as strong, and considering all she dealt with being divorced and struggling with life long illness, they were right.

Secondly my mom never wanted to be anything but a mother. She struggled to support herself trying many jobs until finally becoming a content children's librarian, books and children fit her perfectly. This also shone in her love for reading to her grandchildren, an activity she was devoted to. Growing up I was determined to have a career, not struggle to find one like she did. I succeeded in that venture. But when mom died, I realized my favorite role in life was the one she had aspired to all along, motherhood. She got that right.

But thirdly I found myself mystified by how many people truly preferred my mother, in particular, many of her cousins (of which she had a slew) said she was their favorite cousin, aunts said she was their favorite niece. The woman she struggled with the most at work for many years, drove the 90 minutes to attend her funeral and seemed genuinely moved at her loss. I have mulled over that. What about my mother made so many people respond the same way?

I guess the real answer could only come from those who said it, but I have come to see she was truly a kind person, and that's hard to beat. Kind is not the same as nice. Someone can be nice, greet you on the street, but not really show any sort of connection or compassion. Kind can be misused, people can take advantage of kindness, others can enable unhealthy habits trying to be kind. But those exclusions aside, it's hard to go wrong with kind. Who doesn't appreciate someone being kind to them, asking them how they are, listening with full attention, remarking with compassion?

Kindness is a fruit of the Spirit, and worth cultivating. In these years without my mom, I learn more all the time to appreciate what she brought to life, and to our family. Having a mom that people like is a great gift. She learned it from her mother, and I sure hope I can pass it along.

Different Outcomes

 

On each end of the front row of this church basketball team are two Howells. They are the same age, born just one day apart, grew up within a mile of one another, both attended public urban schools, and the same church. Both are the youngest of their families, the little brother, the one typically wiggling and laughing and cutting up.

The white Howell lived in a house his parents owned and when he got older, could afford to attend a first rate college. At 23 he is now graduated and gainfully employed as a mechanical engineer, supporting himself on a comfortable salary. As I write this, he is enjoying California on a work trip.

The black Howell lived in public housing, eventually hanging on the street, getting involved in crime and spending time in prison. Last week he was found shot on a back street and died of his injuries.

There are more Howells in this photo. The adult with glasses is dad to that first child and the boy in front of him. The black child in front of that adult is brother to the now deceased Howell, and thankfully he has made solid choices with his life and is also working.

Young people growing up in poverty can make it, like that older brother. But the odds are sure stacked against them, which is why I am grateful that my Howell sons are doing so well, but heartbroken that this other Howell we once knew is now gone.