Jon Stewart, a non-practicing Jew, is possibly a most unlikely source for a sermon, yet a clip posted by my daughter Laura from his first show after 9/11 was one of the most powerful, if unwitting depictions of the gospel I have ever heard. I wish I knew how to attach stuff to this post, because Stewart himself is far more powerful than any depiction of mine can ever be. But here goes:
First, Stewart, clearly still raw with emotion from an event that took place in his home town, within view of his apartment, asks his audience, "Are you all right? We pray that you are." Just as 9/11 catapulted people into churches and synagogues and mosques throughout the country, Stewart is catapulted into prayer by the depth of his grief, into an open acknowledgment of our powerlessness and vulnerability and hope and desire that Something, Someone, is watching and cares and maybe, maybe even can help. "We pray that you are" is the "Our Father who art in heaven", the acknowledgment of . . .something, unsure what, but something we need.
Stewart breaks down as he goes on. "It's a privilege to be on this show, to have this freedom, this openness." Gratitude, another prayer.
But here's where it starts getting really good, really Christian. "I grieve, but I do not despair, because the way America came together, the bravery, the love, the rebuilding with buckets. . . they've already lost! They've lost . . . they can't win, because this is . . . Light." Light. The light of the world.
"Behold" said Jesus in the book of John, "behold, the world will give you trouble." Planes crashing into buildings. Rumors of wars, Jesus says elsewhere, and actual wars too. But that's not the end of the story. "But--be of good cheer! For I have overcome the world."
They have already lost. I have overcome the world. It's light. You are the light of the world. I grieve, but I do not despair. Blessed are those that mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Tragedy cracks our hearts right open, and talk show hosts and satirists are no exception apparently. And in that open, wise heart, Stewart found the truth of Christ. They are chaos. Any fool can destroy something. Chaos can't last. They have already lost. It's light.
Be of good cheer, for I have overcome the world.
Jesus, great Jewish teacher, meet Jon Stewart--great Jewish teacher. Amen.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Friday, September 3, 2010
My cast of characters
Here are the people who shape my life:
My husband, Rob: Married 35 years, he is handsome--I mean really, really handsome--funny, loyal, brave, and hardworking. A phenomenally gifted designer, also carpenter, electrician, and plumber, and great jazz-and-blues pianist. Our marriage has been through all the usual ups, downs, ins, outs, joy, despair, anger, connection and lack thereof, the full catastrophe. An adventure worth having. My deepest personal growth has occurred because of being married. I love this man.
My kids Noah, Laura, Annie, Tom, and in-laws Deb and Daniel: Talented and beautiful, all of them. Here's the brief bios:
Noah--Did not cry upon being born, but looked about him quietly with curiosity and seriousness of purpose, despite the nurse's best attempts ("Cry, Noah, cry!') Both qualities have remained with him into adulthood. Walks and thinks like my father Bob Kelly, who died 11 years before he was born. A man of integrity, extremely smart and strong, with a deep love of nature.
Deb--Noah's wife. A gem. When I first met her, I thought, If you don't marry this girl, Noah, you are a fool. Kind, gentle, bright, and a tremendously gifted artist.
Laura--Also refused to cry at birth, again despite great efforts. A deep strength and commitment to Good, a tender heart, astonishing insightfulness, a face Leonardo would have loved to paint, honest and wise. An over-the-top work ethic and a great wit.
Daniel--Laura's fiance. Smart, caring, and tenderhearted. Don't know him too well yet, will add more as data becomes available.
Annie--She cried at birth all right, it was nursing that bored her. So much to see, to hear, to be a part of! She became jaundiced as a result, but bounced right back. Her first sentence was "Annie doot" and she can do about anything really really well--skipper a boat, paint a room perfectly, manage a fitness center or office. Also a gorgeous dancer and dresses really really well. This is one you want on your team.
Tom--"The Amazing Tom Rosenberg" someone wrote on a letter to Tom, and it's the truth. Strong, handsome, wise beyond his years, he takes the phrase "good with his hands" to a new level. A wilderness teacher, a lover of the natural world, quiet, patient and deep. Not easy to carve out an identity when you're number 4 and estrogen-laced dramas defined your childhood, but by God he's done it and I couldn't be prouder.
My mother Augustine Kelly--At 92, she lives with and is cared for by us. I am the envy of my friends who have more recalcitrant and difficult parents. She is grateful, never demanding, unafraid of old age and death. She is and always has been a mystic who remembers past lives in detail, who loves music and poetry and the Bible with passion, also the Democratic Party.
My brother Richard--A member of the group who call themselves "Aspies", Richard had Asperger's syndrome before it had a name or diagnosis, when it was just being weird and difficult and was definitely the mother's fault. Richard is one of the pure in heart who, according to Jesus, is blessed. His sincerity shames me regularly. Recently widowed.
RIP Daisy Kelly, died January 2010--I didn't appreciate you when you were alive, my dear, but I thank God I was able to take care of you at the end, and the memory of your instantaneous forgiveness is with me forever.
And now . . . friends . . . names changed to protect the innocent!
Sylvia--Partner in the Craft, we are Witches together, the good kind of course, casting spells together, making magical art, and in general having a hell of a time.
Mickey--I see her only once every 2 years or so, but she is one with whom the conversation picks up instantly. One with whom I can be completely honest about relationship struggles. Nothing shocks her, and she shares likewise with complete frankness.
My Church Family--A diverse collection of flawed pilgrims who just don't give up. All wonderful, all important. But two stand out:
Rev. Karen--my colleague, advisor, pastor, who changes hats with great fluidity and grace, and who reminds me over and over that love is what it always has to be about.
Lynn--My partner in crime, she understands me too perfectly. Our relationship is full of winkings and noddings as we set about our Top Secret Mission of bringing all people, whoever they are, into the circle of knowing Jesus's love and compassion, by whatever means. Lynn is a take-no-prisoners soldier for Christ, absolutely relentless, a great inspiration and support.
These are the people who have shaped me, who shape me now, who in a very real sense are a part of me, who put up with me, who forgive me (70 times 7 and then some), who love and advise me and whom I love with all my heart.
I thank God for them all.
My husband, Rob: Married 35 years, he is handsome--I mean really, really handsome--funny, loyal, brave, and hardworking. A phenomenally gifted designer, also carpenter, electrician, and plumber, and great jazz-and-blues pianist. Our marriage has been through all the usual ups, downs, ins, outs, joy, despair, anger, connection and lack thereof, the full catastrophe. An adventure worth having. My deepest personal growth has occurred because of being married. I love this man.
My kids Noah, Laura, Annie, Tom, and in-laws Deb and Daniel: Talented and beautiful, all of them. Here's the brief bios:
Noah--Did not cry upon being born, but looked about him quietly with curiosity and seriousness of purpose, despite the nurse's best attempts ("Cry, Noah, cry!') Both qualities have remained with him into adulthood. Walks and thinks like my father Bob Kelly, who died 11 years before he was born. A man of integrity, extremely smart and strong, with a deep love of nature.
Deb--Noah's wife. A gem. When I first met her, I thought, If you don't marry this girl, Noah, you are a fool. Kind, gentle, bright, and a tremendously gifted artist.
Laura--Also refused to cry at birth, again despite great efforts. A deep strength and commitment to Good, a tender heart, astonishing insightfulness, a face Leonardo would have loved to paint, honest and wise. An over-the-top work ethic and a great wit.
Daniel--Laura's fiance. Smart, caring, and tenderhearted. Don't know him too well yet, will add more as data becomes available.
Annie--She cried at birth all right, it was nursing that bored her. So much to see, to hear, to be a part of! She became jaundiced as a result, but bounced right back. Her first sentence was "Annie doot" and she can do about anything really really well--skipper a boat, paint a room perfectly, manage a fitness center or office. Also a gorgeous dancer and dresses really really well. This is one you want on your team.
Tom--"The Amazing Tom Rosenberg" someone wrote on a letter to Tom, and it's the truth. Strong, handsome, wise beyond his years, he takes the phrase "good with his hands" to a new level. A wilderness teacher, a lover of the natural world, quiet, patient and deep. Not easy to carve out an identity when you're number 4 and estrogen-laced dramas defined your childhood, but by God he's done it and I couldn't be prouder.
My mother Augustine Kelly--At 92, she lives with and is cared for by us. I am the envy of my friends who have more recalcitrant and difficult parents. She is grateful, never demanding, unafraid of old age and death. She is and always has been a mystic who remembers past lives in detail, who loves music and poetry and the Bible with passion, also the Democratic Party.
My brother Richard--A member of the group who call themselves "Aspies", Richard had Asperger's syndrome before it had a name or diagnosis, when it was just being weird and difficult and was definitely the mother's fault. Richard is one of the pure in heart who, according to Jesus, is blessed. His sincerity shames me regularly. Recently widowed.
RIP Daisy Kelly, died January 2010--I didn't appreciate you when you were alive, my dear, but I thank God I was able to take care of you at the end, and the memory of your instantaneous forgiveness is with me forever.
And now . . . friends . . . names changed to protect the innocent!
Sylvia--Partner in the Craft, we are Witches together, the good kind of course, casting spells together, making magical art, and in general having a hell of a time.
Mickey--I see her only once every 2 years or so, but she is one with whom the conversation picks up instantly. One with whom I can be completely honest about relationship struggles. Nothing shocks her, and she shares likewise with complete frankness.
My Church Family--A diverse collection of flawed pilgrims who just don't give up. All wonderful, all important. But two stand out:
Rev. Karen--my colleague, advisor, pastor, who changes hats with great fluidity and grace, and who reminds me over and over that love is what it always has to be about.
Lynn--My partner in crime, she understands me too perfectly. Our relationship is full of winkings and noddings as we set about our Top Secret Mission of bringing all people, whoever they are, into the circle of knowing Jesus's love and compassion, by whatever means. Lynn is a take-no-prisoners soldier for Christ, absolutely relentless, a great inspiration and support.
These are the people who have shaped me, who shape me now, who in a very real sense are a part of me, who put up with me, who forgive me (70 times 7 and then some), who love and advise me and whom I love with all my heart.
I thank God for them all.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Belief
So, I'm a Believer. As I have noted in previous posts, I have had too many experiences to be a Doubter. But . . . of course all the scalp-tingling, the voices, everything could just be an internal neurological phenomenon. Surely it could be scientifically explained away.
But here's the thing--even if it's not True, even if I made it all up, this is the way I prefer to live. I've tried Belief, and I've tried Skepticism and Doubt and Agnoticism and Atheism, and Belief is way more joyful. It makes me way happier. It is such a rich and beautiful way to live. To feel that every thought, every word and act have meaning, have a higher purpose, fit in somehow with a grand scheme that is beyond your understanding, thrills me, inspires me, and reassures me all at once.
If I'm wrong--so what? I am a better, kinder person when I remember that I believe. I am more stable, more calm, more generous when I pray.
But here's the thing--even if it's not True, even if I made it all up, this is the way I prefer to live. I've tried Belief, and I've tried Skepticism and Doubt and Agnoticism and Atheism, and Belief is way more joyful. It makes me way happier. It is such a rich and beautiful way to live. To feel that every thought, every word and act have meaning, have a higher purpose, fit in somehow with a grand scheme that is beyond your understanding, thrills me, inspires me, and reassures me all at once.
If I'm wrong--so what? I am a better, kinder person when I remember that I believe. I am more stable, more calm, more generous when I pray.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Yoga and the Devil
Yoga is a miracle. When I do a yoga routine, I suddenly feel completely different than I did before I do yoga. But like Pablo Casals, who had to "find the damn E over again every morning" on his cello, I have to do yoga and meditate and pray every day to keep the damn crazies away. This is why I have come to believe in the Devil, in a force of darkness. Why else would all those awful energies--self-pity, guilt, jealousy, anger, paranoia--keep returning when I just yesterday banished them entirely?? Something's going on here. Something's behind this. A pastor I know who is quite knowledgeable about science quoted a mathematician--"Someone's been fiddling with the numbers." In a good way, he meant it. There is order to the Universe, he meant. But, on the same note, I would have to say, Someone is trying to mess up the work of the One whose got the great good numbers thing going, and damn-- it's one hell of a powerful Force.
But the good news: Yoga works. Plopping myself down in front of my altar and praying works. I feel tingling in my scalp and I feel like singing, no matter what state I plopped down in, and there's been some pretty bad states. It also works, if I'm being assaulted by Crazies in situations where I can't suddenly jump into a Triangle, to chant to myself "I love Jesus" over and over. I don't care if this sounds weird. It works, and I become a somewhat better person. All due respects to my grandmother, but if it works, I don't care if it's voodoo.
But--I know it's not voodoo. I have too many experiences at this point to doubt any more.
But the good news: Yoga works. Plopping myself down in front of my altar and praying works. I feel tingling in my scalp and I feel like singing, no matter what state I plopped down in, and there's been some pretty bad states. It also works, if I'm being assaulted by Crazies in situations where I can't suddenly jump into a Triangle, to chant to myself "I love Jesus" over and over. I don't care if this sounds weird. It works, and I become a somewhat better person. All due respects to my grandmother, but if it works, I don't care if it's voodoo.
But--I know it's not voodoo. I have too many experiences at this point to doubt any more.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Our heritage is our destiny. My maternal grandparents were virulent atheists. Both born in the late 1880s, they were ahead of their time in their disdain for religion. But my mother is a mystic and devoted to the readings of the Jesuit mystic, philosopher Teilhard du Chardin; my paternal grandparents were churchgoing Methodists; my great-grandfather a lay minister. (I have a copy of one of his--very long--sermons, in which he repeatedly admonishes his listeners to not be ashamed to proclaim the gospel. Three generations later, this shame is something I have indeed felt.)
My husband was raised in a fundamentalist Christian home. This meant that I became a part of a fundamentalist Christian family. This caused me big problems in my faith. On the one hand, I was having these very real spiritual experiences. On the other, the words "God" and "Christian" became associated in my mind not with love, but with guilt, tension, fear, narrowmindedness, and judgment. My father-in-law was filled with all these things, whereas my mother-in-law was just fearful (although they both had wonderful qualities as well--generosity and loyalty in my fil, sweetness and humor in my mil).
Like I said, "Christian" had a bad vibe. This vibe was mirrored in the leftist culture in which I traveled. So, there I was, feeling that my faith was some kind of ugly secret, while simultaneously feeling it was the healthiest thing about me. Dear Great-grandfather, I was ashamed, and you are right--I shouldn't have been.
How I am losing that shame is for the next blog.
My husband was raised in a fundamentalist Christian home. This meant that I became a part of a fundamentalist Christian family. This caused me big problems in my faith. On the one hand, I was having these very real spiritual experiences. On the other, the words "God" and "Christian" became associated in my mind not with love, but with guilt, tension, fear, narrowmindedness, and judgment. My father-in-law was filled with all these things, whereas my mother-in-law was just fearful (although they both had wonderful qualities as well--generosity and loyalty in my fil, sweetness and humor in my mil).
Like I said, "Christian" had a bad vibe. This vibe was mirrored in the leftist culture in which I traveled. So, there I was, feeling that my faith was some kind of ugly secret, while simultaneously feeling it was the healthiest thing about me. Dear Great-grandfather, I was ashamed, and you are right--I shouldn't have been.
How I am losing that shame is for the next blog.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Why blog? and religion.
I want to blog to relieve my teeming brain of some of its contents. I look at a blog as a sort of Pensieve, Dumbledore's wonderful pot of thoughts. And tonight, those contents have to do with community and religion and me.
My religious journey--which has ended with a devotion to both active church membership and daily personal spiritual practice--came in three phases:
Phase 1. Why I started believing. For a young (in the early 70s) well-left-of-center woman, the cool thing was not to be religious at all. Jokes ridiculing religion were abundant, and I chortled along with the rest of us well-educated folk. What a bunch of ridiculous superstition!
And then I had a religious experience. Well, actually I had a bunch of them. They weren't dramatic or magical, but they were undeniable. There was advice that popped into my head that was very clearly not anything I could have dreamed up. And it was good advice, that worked. I began noticing a certain energy around the word "Jesus." And then those experiences reminded me of other, earlier and similar experiences I had had as a child--a wave of something delicious, for example, when singing "Kumbaya"--, experiences I discounted because now I was grownup, but what if you're grownup and have the same experiences?
The great Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh writes that true faith is based on experience. It is not blind faith, nor is it faith that you are told about by someone else. You must have the experience, and it must be replicated, and then you start having true faith, faith based on experience. So that's how I started being a believer.
Phase 2. Why I became a Christian. I became a believer because of experience, but I shied away from calling myself "Christian." It had a bad vibe.
Then I hit a very bad time in my life. I was in despair most of the time. My (secular) support group had shunned me and my family; one of my children had serious problems; my marriage was floundering; I had no friends; I was tremendously lonely. Desperate for help, I began reading Thich Nhat Hanh, and I was struck by this: "If your roots are Christian, don't try to be Buddhist. Return to your roots. If you don't, you will suffer."
My roots were Christian. My great-grandfather was a minister; I went to church as a child. Virulently atheistic grandparents aside, the Christian church was my ancestry. I began to see not claiming my Christian heritage as a form of arrogance. Did I really think I was smarter and better than a church that had survived for 2000 years? (Answer: yes I did.) I changed my mind. I was not a "spriitual seeker." I was a Christian. I needed a sangha, a community, and that community needed to be connected to my roots--I needed a church.
Phase 3. Thich Nhat Hanh goes on to say: "Find a sangha [a community of support and practice]. It won't be a perfect sangha, but you can try to make it the best sangha you possibly can. . . . If you try to practice [being a good and loving person] by your own, you may fail without the support of a sangha." I was, indeed, failing at being a good and loving person. My marriage was still in something of a shambles--I was irregular in my care of my children--I was desperately unhappy most of the time.
I needed a sangha, a community of support--a church. I needed a place where I could practice being loving, with others who were also practicing and would both support my practice and forgive my failings, and who would expect me to do likewise.
And that is how I became a believing church-goer.
My religious journey--which has ended with a devotion to both active church membership and daily personal spiritual practice--came in three phases:
Phase 1. Why I started believing. For a young (in the early 70s) well-left-of-center woman, the cool thing was not to be religious at all. Jokes ridiculing religion were abundant, and I chortled along with the rest of us well-educated folk. What a bunch of ridiculous superstition!
And then I had a religious experience. Well, actually I had a bunch of them. They weren't dramatic or magical, but they were undeniable. There was advice that popped into my head that was very clearly not anything I could have dreamed up. And it was good advice, that worked. I began noticing a certain energy around the word "Jesus." And then those experiences reminded me of other, earlier and similar experiences I had had as a child--a wave of something delicious, for example, when singing "Kumbaya"--, experiences I discounted because now I was grownup, but what if you're grownup and have the same experiences?
The great Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh writes that true faith is based on experience. It is not blind faith, nor is it faith that you are told about by someone else. You must have the experience, and it must be replicated, and then you start having true faith, faith based on experience. So that's how I started being a believer.
Phase 2. Why I became a Christian. I became a believer because of experience, but I shied away from calling myself "Christian." It had a bad vibe.
Then I hit a very bad time in my life. I was in despair most of the time. My (secular) support group had shunned me and my family; one of my children had serious problems; my marriage was floundering; I had no friends; I was tremendously lonely. Desperate for help, I began reading Thich Nhat Hanh, and I was struck by this: "If your roots are Christian, don't try to be Buddhist. Return to your roots. If you don't, you will suffer."
My roots were Christian. My great-grandfather was a minister; I went to church as a child. Virulently atheistic grandparents aside, the Christian church was my ancestry. I began to see not claiming my Christian heritage as a form of arrogance. Did I really think I was smarter and better than a church that had survived for 2000 years? (Answer: yes I did.) I changed my mind. I was not a "spriitual seeker." I was a Christian. I needed a sangha, a community, and that community needed to be connected to my roots--I needed a church.
Phase 3. Thich Nhat Hanh goes on to say: "Find a sangha [a community of support and practice]. It won't be a perfect sangha, but you can try to make it the best sangha you possibly can. . . . If you try to practice [being a good and loving person] by your own, you may fail without the support of a sangha." I was, indeed, failing at being a good and loving person. My marriage was still in something of a shambles--I was irregular in my care of my children--I was desperately unhappy most of the time.
I needed a sangha, a community of support--a church. I needed a place where I could practice being loving, with others who were also practicing and would both support my practice and forgive my failings, and who would expect me to do likewise.
And that is how I became a believing church-goer.
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