Values that Endure

Canterbury Cathedral

I spent a lot of hours in cathedrals this summer: Canterbury, Chartres, Nortre Dame de Paris, St. Peter's, and Albi. Built between the 12th and 18th centuries these massive structures took hundreds of years to complete. Thousands of artisans over several generations cut block, colored glass, carved marble, crafted gems and finally combined all of the elements to create these lavish and ornate churches.  They were constructed at the center of villages, adjacent to rivers, filled with natural light filtered through stained glass windows, and with spires towering above the tallest buildings of the community.  They remain witnesses to the deep faith of their builders: God is central and all things hold together in him; God quenches the thirst of the parched soul; God gives light to those in darkness; God forgives sins; God welcomes the penitent and hears the prayers of the people. 

Most of Europe's Cathedrals are old, weathered and deteriorating. And yet, they host millions of tourists each year. For some visitors these monoliths are mere museums or remnants of a time long past.  For others they are simply one more photo op, the place to get a "selfie" for posting on Facebook or Instagram. For a still smaller group these ancient churches remain touchstones to God's word and sacraments where friends and members of their community gather weekly to worship and pray.    

For me the ancient cathedrals embody something more: values that endure.  For me the ancient core values which gave rise to the cathedral remain strong and spirited in our modern churches. Whether large or small, hosting altars or simple stage platforms, using pipe organs or electronic guitars, the church continues to exhibit deep faith, walk in the footsteps of Jesus, live more fully into the way of justice, kindness and humility and serve rather than be served. 

These are the values that endure.

At the same time, I often find these ancient values at odds with the prevailing values of the culture and the practices which increasingly replace the "God-centered" life with "something-else" centered life. 

These "something-else" practices are everywhere evident.

• Government offices, financial institutions, and costly high-rise apartments dominate the skyline rising from the ashes of once grand churches.

• Sports figures and financial executives receive the highest salaries and bonuses while the gap between the wealthy and those at the margins grows wider.

• Large denominational congregations report thousands of people worshiping with them on a given weekend while ten times that  many people crowd the local arenas, bars and restaurants for entertainment during that same seventy-two hours.

• The amount that households spend on entertainment continues to rise; charitable giving increases too but at a slower rate.

• Our lists of heroes seldom include elementary school teachers, nursing assistants, clerical and social workers, custodians, those who clean our hotel rooms, level 4 lab techs, missionaries, specialists who write code for our electronic devices, music coaches, sanitation engineers, parents or grandparents.

• Dialogues on issues dear to all members of the community have been replaced by monologues delivered only to those who share the same point of view.  Sound bites and talking points dominate our conversations and turn them into arguments. 

• "MY" and "ME" have replaced "our" and "we."  "MY way ... MY point of view, neighborhood, religion, school, friend, country, candidate, party ... MY way or the highway!"   

What to do?

Pilgrimage marker Canterbury to Rome

Building new high rise cathedrals at the center of our cities is not the way forward.  

However ...  

• laying a foundation of cathedral values and building our own lives upon them 
• living a God-centered life 
• seeking daily to do justice, love kindness and walk humbly

... these "better practices" will move us in the right direction.

Rome's Colosseum

Colosseum's seating with lower chambers exposed

Throughout the first three centuries of the common era Rome's citizens swarmed into the Colosseum to enjoy elaborate games and entertainment the likes of which they had never before experienced. The party atmosphere must have been something like a present day blending of World Cup, Superbowl, Olympics, Barnum and Bailey Circus, Rock Concert and Cirque de Soleil. 

The producers of "The Gladiator" starring Russell Crowe captured the drama and the excitement of these games.  The undefeated champion, bloodied and dirtied by battle, stands at the center of the Colosseum.  He raises his arms and his sword.  The crowd jumps to its feet and erupts in chant:  "Maximus"  "Maximus" "Maximus."

Trajan's Arch depicts Jewish prisoners and Menorah  en route to Rome 

    
Emperor Vespasian began construction of the massive amphitheater in 70 AD.  He funded the project using the treasures of Jerusalem confiscated during Rome's conquest of the city and the destruction of its temple in 70 AD  (Rome's victory over Jerusalem is also commemorated on Trajan's arch, located near the Colosseum in the Roman Forum).  Vespasian used the "spoils of war" rather than additional taxes to fund the project and selected a building site he knew would thrill the people who, in turn, would grant him honor. 

Emperor Vespasian erected the Colosseum at the very place which, a decade earlier, had belonged to the people.  This area, future site of the Colosseum had once been largely residential.  This had been a vast neighborhood where people lived and raised their children.  But during the time of Emperor Nero a great fire consumed everything in its path.  The fire destroyed all of the housing.  After the fire? Emperor Nero elected not to rebuild homes.  Everyone had to find homes elsewhere.  Instead, he decided to use this area to honor himself.  The area became a large park dedicated to Nero.  And at it's center, Nero commissioned and placed a colossal statue bearing his own likeness. The area previously populated by Rome's citizens became Nero's personal domain.  Hail Caesar! Immanent Domain!
    
Emperor Vespasian did not follow in the footsteps of Nero.  Rather, he returned this place to the people, not as housing, but as the new entertainment center for Rome's citizens:  the Colosseum. This colossal amphitheater, completed in just ten years (80 AD), seated more than 50,000 people.  Here the people gathered to cheer gladiators, relive Rome's naval victories, gawk at never before seen animals returned from Africa with Rome's conquering armies. Here politicians and Senators sponsored special events  just prior to elections hoping to gain votes and influence.  Here enemies of the state fought lions and professional fighters ... and died. Here at the Colosseum Rome's citizens appeared one people even as they sat sectioned by class, rank, gender and wealth. Here Rome celebrated the empire's accomplishments.

Rome's world dominance did not last.  It's glory faded as did that of the Colosseum. After Rome fell to its enemies the arena became host to Rome's homeless, powerless and nameless.    

Today tourists crowd the Colosseum's stairwells and walkways snapping pictures with their cameras, Smartphones and pads.  And this summer I was among them.

As I stood for several minutes trying to take it all in I had four thoughts:  

1. what a magnificent and incredible place, tribute to Rome's greatness 
2. all glory is fleeting; like the laurel wreath given the victor it quickly withers 
3. enjoy every grand moment and savor it 
4. give thanks for the "invisible people" who (behind the scenes) make you look great; without them the crowd will never be shouting your name

   

Light a Candle

I love candles.  They bring to mind cherished people and places.

The Christmas tree of my childhood held on its branches ... yes ... lighted candles (This is still hard for me to believe but I have black and white photos as evidence of our tradition).  Our parents always did the lighting.  Adults were ALWAYS present and in charge when the candles burned.  And it was glorious, especially on Christmas Eve.  We gathered near the tree to sing Christmas carols.  The room glowed in amber. Our silhouettes danced on the walls. Our harmonies blended with the prayers we offered, "Peace on Earth."

In late October our kitchen table became the pumpkin carving center. Mom covered the table in newspaper. Dad sharpened the knives.  Together the family carved scary and ghoulish faces into the orange orbs, oooooooooooooo.  Then, at sunset on Halloween, our parents set the pumpkins on the porch, inserted a candle into each one, and lighted the candles. Flickering shadows greeted "tricker-treaters" as they made their way to the door in their quest for candy.  At evening's end we blew out the candles and pushed our finger tips into the warm wax residue. With identities erased, hands raised and fingers flexed we growled and howled pretending to be witches and werewolves. 
 
The summer recreation program was "not to be missed,"  My fourth grade friends and I played chess, carrom, and dodge ball.  We made key chain lanyards and "God's eye" weavings. And late in the week we worked with candles. One by one we lighted a variety of colored candles.  We tipped them 45 degrees. The wax drip ... drip ... drip ... dripped down and over a wide base wine bottle. Our creations were amazingly beautiful.  I kept and used my candle holder for almost a decade finally discarding it during my transition from high school to college.  I can't believe that the layers of dust never caught fire.

I wasn't expecting to purchase anything at the college's annual art show.  So I was a bit surprised to leave the exhibit with an eight ounce clear tumbler covered in colored glass, blue with splashes of purple, orange, and yellow, a white votive candle nestled within. For more than twenty years I used this glass candle in private meditation and with friends at dinner parties.
 
Recently I lighted candles at Canterbury Cathedral, Chartres Cathedral, Montserrat Monastery, Sagrada Familia and Christ in the Desert Monastery.  As flames took hold of wicks and wisps of smoke ascended I offered prayers. I prayed for loved ones, friends recovering from surgery, refugee children, world leaders, grieving women whose men did not return from war, parishioners undergoing chemo therapy, and challenged teenagers.  As I prayed I often repeated the words of Psalm 141, "Let my prayer come before you as incense, and the lifting up of my hands as an evening sacrifice."

I love candles.  They bring to mind cherished people and places. 
        

Please cover your mouth ...

Travel often brings with it an inconvenience or two.  Our recent trip to Europe was no exception.  We had our share of surprises:  landing at Charles De Gaulle airport two hours late due to thunderstorms; exiting the plane via a ramp onto the tarmac only to discover we had to walk fifty yards in a torrential downpour to the bus that would transport us to the terminal; crawling at a snail's pace in a taxi from London's West end to the British Museum when "underground" workers decided to strike; carrying luggage up a three flight spiral staircase when the lift wasn't working; delayed departures (many of them) to the next destinations when people on our bus tour failed to return on time from their personal excursions; receiving the main course five minutes before other members of the dinner party; a nearly sleepless night in the Paris hotel room located just above the jazz club ... a strong beat and loud music ... 'til 2am.

And then there was ... well ...

She was in many ways a good traveling companion during our 15 day bus tour:  friendly, engaging, interested in conversation with others, inquisitive, and on time for departures (very important). 

But she was sick. 

Within minutes of boarding the bus she coughed, a deep cough, a cough that said, "You probably don't want to get too close," or asked the question, "Do you really think I should be on this bus with all of you?" But she was not listening to that voice.  Instead she leaned towards others to whisper comments.  She touched arm rests and seat backs.  She brushed people's forearms and hands when trying to get their attention.  She passed dishes, food trays, and water glasses to others at lunch and dinner.  She coughed without covering her mouth.

Within days others started to sniffle, wheeze and make vain attempts to suppress their own coughs.

And then, day ten, it was my turn.  Cough, cough, cough. My immune system could no longer resist the onslaught of germs.  I found myself often saying to others, "You probably don't want to get too close" as I chose an alternative path.  I avoided contact with fellow travelers as much as possible.  I took medications to reduce drainage and lozenges to reduce my throat's tickle.  I rested whenever possible.  I kept my hands to myself and, hoping not to contaminate fellow travelers, I stopped passing eating utensils.  I covered my mouth.

I knew that my actions and my behaviors would have a significant impact on the health and well-being of every other person on that bus.  And I wanted my impact to be as positive as possible.  If only she had employed some of my "best practices" and, most importantly, covered her mouth!

It seems to me that covering one's mouth is wise counsel in other situations as well.  A hand over the mouth can stifle demeaning comments, hateful speech and slurs.  A hand over the mouth will hide the sarcastic smile.  A hand over the mouth might keep some thoughts where they belong ... on the inside.
 
If you want a more healthy and joyful journey ... please cover your mouth. 

No "buts" about it

The monks at Christ in the Desert Monastery, near Chama, New Mexico, invite all of their overnight guests to join them in worship, table fellowship and work that will benefit the community. As their guest for a week in early June I said "yes" to all of it and became a part of this faith-filled community.  I chanted Psalms with the brothers, sat and ate quietly during lunch and dinner while listening to the daily readings, and for four consecutive days, showed up at 9am for work.

On day one and day two brother Christian invited me to work in the garden.  I watered trees, flower beds and shrubs.  I soaked the soil for hours.  And under a cloudless canopy the plants began to lift their weary arms.  Daisies opened their petals and turned their faces towards the sun.  And John's description of Jesus came to mind ... Living Water ... refreshing thirsty souls,  reviving weary travelers.

Brother Benedict took charge of me on day three. He guided me into a walled garden hosting eight trees, each tree surrounded by a stone lined tree well.  Each tree well was full of weeds.  "Lee, how 'bout spending the morning weeding the wells?  A few of the wells have plants as well. Leave the plants.  Remove the weeds." 

I immediately went to work pulling weeds, doing my best to leave in place what appeared to be flowering plants.  The first few weeds broke off just under the soil.  "No root."  I dug deeper with the gardening tools brother Benedict provided.  Then from somewhere deep I heard the voice of Mrs. Davis.  When I was a teenager I worked for her each summer mowing her lawn, trimming her hedge and weeding her garden. "I'll give you 1 penny for every three weeds you pull.  But you've gotta get the root too.  No roots, no pay."  As her voice faded I remembered how good I could be at pulling weeds!

At 12:15 I stepped back to examine my work.  One well had nothing in it.  Everything extracted.  Everything in that well had been weeds, now gone.  Good job!  The other tree wells each retained a few leafy green plants.  As brother Benedict requested:  "Leave the plants.  Remove the weeds."

At 1pm just prior to lunch brother Benedict greeted me with a big smile, "I stopped by the garden. Nice work today.  Thanks."  I savored brother Benedict's appreciation as much as the flavorful lunch.

Brother Benedict met me again at 9am on Thursday.  "Lee, how would you like to do some more weeding today?"  "Sounds good to me.  Whatever I can do to be of help."  He turned, waved his hand indicating I should follow, and within moments I found myself in yesterday's garden standing in front of yesterday's tree well that "had nothing in it but the tree."  Brother Benedict pointed to the nude well and said, "That's the model.  All of the tree wells should look like that.  When you are finished removing the weeds from the wells I have a tree that I'd like you to plant.  I'll see you later."

I was stunned.  "That's the model."  Yesterday I had carefully differentiated between the plants and the weeds determining that every tree well but the one in front of me had plants in it.  According to Benedict the greens I thought were plants were actually weeds.  How foolish of me.

And so I began again ... "Always We Begin Again" ...  pulling weeds (including the roots) and smiling.

First, Brother Benedict unconditionally affirmed my work on the prior day.  He had simply said, "Nice work today. Thanks."  He didn't say, "Nice work today. Thanks, BUT ..."  He didn't hint even one little bit that I had not completed the task as requested.  He simply affirmed what I had done.  I don't always do that when affirming others.  I often find myself affirming conditionally ... "That was good, yes, BUT...."  "I appreciate the effort, yes, BUT ...."  And when I've experienced conditional affirmation I tend to hear the last part of the sentence, not the first part.  I hear the "but" and miss the affirmation.  Brother Benedict the wise taught me an invaluable lesson that first day in the garden.  Affirm without conditions ... no buts about it.

Second, I found myself thinking about Jesus' parable about gardening.  He told his disciples to let the weeds and the wheat grow together.  Someone else will do the sorting. 

I will be spending more time with this parable and its application to my life.  Determining who belongs in God's family and who should be excluded is not my job.  That's the responsibility of another.  And that's a good thing, because I'm just not that good at distinguishing between weeds and plants.  

Seventh Inning Stretch

In just a few days I will begin my sabbatical leave, a period in which I will set aside pastoral duties and daily routines to travel, work in a monastery, play golf, fish rivers hoping to catch and then release the big one, hike, read, write, and visit with friends I have not seen in many years. 

I will light candles in cathedrals, walk dirt paths through parks and gardens, absorb the fragrances of a thousand flowers, taste wines perfectly paired with colorful foods, sit in the shade of hundred year old trees, listen to fast moving water, and watch the sun set as great cities begin to glow.

   

I will carry luggage, guide books, sport equipment, camera, pen and journal, curiosity, openness to new experiences, and the book I have found to be increasingly helpful to my spirituality, “Always we Begin Again.”

Some of my friends refer to this time away as a vacation.  But for me sabbatical time feels more like the seventh inning stretch.  

My work as a public servant is not nearly over. But this brief pause in a life time of ministry will bring me back to the playing field invigorated and ready for a few more innings, maybe, as sometimes happens, even extra innings.  

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Time to Journal

I began my sabbatical journal a little over a week ago, on Palm Sunday.  I write for a few minutes each day describing meals, activities, encounters, thoughts, feelings and observations.  I've already noticed that in anticipation of the writing that I will do each evening I am a little more attentive to things and people I experience during the day.  

I last kept a daily journal in 2002.  In January and February of that year I was privileged to serve as a chaplain at the Winter Olympic Games in Salt Lake City.  A few days before my departure for SLC I decided to keep a journal. During my five week stay I wrote in the journal every day for at least a half hour.  I described the food I ate and the people who joined me, worship activities at the chapel, conversations with other volunteers, the pins I purchased and exchanged with those attending the games, reflections on news articles and media coverage, the quick wave from President Bush as his motorcade made its way towards the Olympic Village to greet USA athletes, the arrival of the flag that once flew above the World Trade Center prior to the tragic events of September 11th, snow shoeing with friends in a valley prone to avalanche, walking the streets of Park City with my brother who worked security during the games.

When the games ended I decided to wait one year before again reading the journal entries.  And that's what I did.  I didn't read the journal again until April of 2003.  

I was amazed.  As I turned the pages and read the entries of a year earlier it seemed impossible that I had already forgotten some of the activities and conversations about which I had written.  And many of my journal entries didn't match my memory of them. I was amazed and a bit disturbed.

I was also enlightened.  Contrary to the claim, "I have a great memory for details," I do not, at least not over the long haul.   

So, amazed and enlightened and a bit disturbed, I began my sabbatical journal a little over a week ago.  I hope my commitment to write each day for the next three months will make me more attentive to things and people during the day. I also hope that fifteen months from now the journal will help me appreciate the things and people of my sabbatical as they once were rather than the way my distorted memory might want them to be. 

Your memory might be better than mine when it comes to important experiences in the months and years prior.  But, if not, why not join me in keeping a journal for the next three months.  Then we can talk about both our experiences as written and our remembrances of them. Somewhere in between the text and the talk we will discover what is real and what is true.