When

When
replaces if
in words written
and words said
with some facility.

When
replaces if
not as a certainty
nor as a guarantee,
no fait accompli.

When
replaces if
as a sign of hope
a challenge,
a possibility.

But when,
oh when,
will when
replace if
in reality.

16 August 2012
SW 782 CLE-BWI

Samuel Johnson

I remembered Samuel Johnson today and I was revived.

The Samuel Johnson I remembered was not the English author – I did not pick up a copy of Boswell. I met this Samuel Johnson almost fifteen years ago during a hot summer week in Orangeburg, SC. He and I have been accompanying each other in the Communion of Saints ever since.

On Palm Sunday of that year, in a quiet grove of trees about eight miles outside of Orangeburg, the Butler Chapel AME Church burned. Four young men admitted responsibility for the fire, although they maintained that it was accidental. The fire did not totally destroy the church. It did cause enough damage that the church could neither be used nor repaired. After a season of prayer and discussion, the members of Butler Chapel determined to build a new church. 

Volunteers came from across the country to work on the church; their labor coordinated by the Church of the Brethren. That August, a group of us went to Orangeburg from Cleveland; some of my friends from Louisville joined us. We spent a week working in extreme heat. We installed insulation and drywall and windows. We finished drywall. We laid brick. Each day was a little different. Each day had some elements in common – mostly the people of Butler Chapel – the wonderful people who welcomed us and fed us, prayed with us and worked beside us. Among them was Samuel Johnson.

Samuel Johnson was a big man. Once he had been a strong man. A long-time member of Butler Chapel AME Church, Samuel had attended school in the building as a child. Samuel worked throughout his life. Worked well and hard. . . as a farmer . . . for the gas company.

When I met him, a stroke had stolen much of his strength. He walked with a cane.  He walked better when he can use his cane and someone’s shoulder. I remember. A couple of times he used mine.

Although the stroke had taken much of his one arm and leg, it did not take his mind or voice or spirit. Unable to stay away while his church was being rebuilt, he came to the work site as often as he could. He watched. He visited. And from time to time, his eyes filled with tears of frustration as he wished that one more time he could swing a hammer.

Toward the middle of a hot afternoon (they were all hot – I can’t remember which one), I was working alone on insulation. A friend’s voice interrupted me.  “Mark, go to the fellowship hall.”

“I’m busy.” I said.  “I want to get this finished.”

Bob persisted.  “Mark, stop what you are doing.  Go to fellowship hall.  You have to see what is going on.  Take a camera.”

Reluctantly I got up. I found the camera went to the fellowship hall.

There, on a 2” x 10”  board that rested on two overturned five-gallon paint buckets, sat Samuel Johnson.  Around him, on the concrete slab, sat many of the young people of our group.  Softly and slowly, Samuel spoke . . . telling them of his life . . . his family . . . his work . . . telling them of Orangeburg and his beloved church.  As he spun stories and answered questions, tears filled my eyes.  I was helping build a physical church; Samuel was building Christ's body.

Why did I remember this story today? Who knows?

Perhaps it is because I have been thinking about the hurts of God’s people – the terrorism that ripped Norway, the famine that stalks the Horn of Africa, ongoing violence South Kordofan and Malawi, gunfire on our country’s streets, on and on the list goes. It does not seem to end.

In the face of such violations, suffering, and pain, my efforts seem so small and insignificant. But Samuel Johnson reminds me of the importance of perspective.

I can look at life in terms of what I do not have – what I lack – what I cannot do. This is the view of scarcity.

In the case of Samuel Johnson, such a view has little time for an older man whose physical abilities appear to have been limited by a stroke. It would say he no longer has much to offer.

Alternately, I can choose to look at life in terms of what I have – what I can do – what I can share – the gifts I bear. This view is the view of abundance. When viewed in this way, the incredible gifts that Samuel has and shares leap into view. Samuel’s presence is an inspiration; Samuel’s prayers a source of strength; Samuel’s stories create and nurture community.

For me, the assumption of abundance frees me from working about what I cannot do – to focus on doing what I can – whatever that might be.

Remembering Samuel renews my spirit and challenges me to look at the gifts I have and figure out how to use those gifts. That work has begun and will continue and I expect I will bump into Samuel and a whole bunch of other saints as I do.

See you along the Trail.

You were there

It is a day I remember not that well;
a day of death, a day of loss.
I stumbled along in grief and shock.
Barely knowing then what I said or did;
now less will come to mind.
While memories fail,
raw feelings return and tear my soul.
Yet of that fear-filled painful day,
one thing I gratefully recall:
you were there,
you were there through it all.

9 July 2011
Greeley, CO, Estes Park, CO 

Saints of the Public Life

During today's workshop on living our faith in the public life, participants were invited to name the saints who have gone before us - those who have witnessed in public life in a variety of names. After we had the page filled with names, facilitator Ryan reminded us that behind all those we named were many people whose lives they had touched - people who had also faithfully witnessed in the public life.

In the conversation that followed, Sam and Claire observed that the people we named were well known. They also observed that there are  many, many, many other Saints of the Public Life: people who each day work in the public life for peace and justice faithfully, carefully, passionately, and constantly. They do so known only to a few - those who work with them, those who love them.

Tonight, I was reminded of one such saint - I remember and give thanks for Steve Brown.

We knew it was coming.
We had been warned - a number of times.
Yet still, the news, the final news, coming tonight, carried surprising force.
We met over thirty years ago.
Tricia, Sue, and I were students.
Steve a trailing spouse.
We played tennis. We laughed.
Steve was a patient, gentle, creative man.
"What Makes a Heretic Tick?" - one of his original compositions - stole the show at a Feast of Fools celebration.
He also had a deep commitment to peace and justice, a commitment he lived in many, many ways on issues ranging from nuclear disarmament to ending war to just immigration to access to health care - on the list could go. .
Steve, and Sue, put themselves into the struggle for full inclusion of GLBTQ people in the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.)

For a number of years, Steve has faced illness.
Sometimes he seemed to gain - there were periods of remission.
But the struggle continued.
From time to time, the reports came - the illness was getting worse.
When his presbytery voted on the most recent initiative to include our GLBTQ sisters and brothers fully in the church, Steve made the effort to be there - his commitment to justice transcending his illness.
He voted, again, for inclusion. His presbytery did the same.

Tricia and I leave for Colorado tomorrow.
Our plans included a visit to see Steve and Sue.
A few days ago, we heard that the end was drawing near. We began to reconsider those plans - to perhaps go to Greeley sooner than we had intended.
Late last night (OK - early this morning - I don't sleep much) - we heard more news: the end might come before our arrival.
We called Sue a couple hours ago - so we would know how to finalize our plans - and we heard the news - Steve died this morning.
I give thanks for Steve's life and witness; I give thanks that his pain has ended; but the world seems a little bit less bright and my heart aches for Sue - we will figure out how to see her as she walks this shadowed valley.

See you along the Trail.

Step on

Step by step, we march toward peace,
step by step, the march goes on.
No one steps every step;
each one steps but some.
We may not reach the journey's end,
but without our steps,
however few, however small,
no one ever will.
Step on.
Step on.

Act by act, justice is done,
act by act, justice does grow.
No one takes every act;
each one takes but some.
We may not see full justice done,
but without our acts,
however few, however small,
no one ever will.
Act on.
Act on.

Note by note, we play our part,
note by note, the song goes on.
No one plays every note;
each one plays but some.
We may not hear the last coda,
but without our notes,
however many, however few,
no one ever will.
Play on.
Play on.

27 June 2011
Shire on the Hudson

And in the end

And in the end
God gives a song.
When death has come,
and pain aches deep,
it's all we have,
it is enough.
For in the end,
God gives a song.

And in the end,
God gives us hope.
When all seems lost,
despair runs high,
it's all we have,
it is enough,
For in the end,
God gives us hope.

And in the end,
God gives us love,
when hate reigns strong,
when fear looms large,
it's all we have,
it is enough.
For in the end,
God gives us love.

And in the end,
God gives justice.
When systems wound,
exclude, exploit,
it's all we have,
it is enough.
For in the end,
God gives justice.

And in the end,
God gives us peace,
when wars rage hot,
violence strikes,
it's all we have,
it is enough.
For in the end,
God gives us peace.

And in the end,
God gives us Christ,
when all is done,
and all is said,
Christ's all we have,
Christ is enough.
Give thanks to God,
God gives us Christ.

25 May 2011
Jet Blue 868
KIN - JFK