Solitary Confinement

Psalm 22: 1-15


There are many hackles that rise when the subject of our penal system comes up. The issue of keeping our population safe from the criminal element gives rise to enough polemic to destroy any good time. But there is one strange statistic I recently ran into that made me even more disappointed with the way we approach people who have committed crimes than I had been previously.

I found out that wardens are united in their desire to abolish one of the “normalities” of prison. Affectionately known as the hole or the cooler solitary confinement is seen by these very pragmatic and experiential experts in the discipline of keeping some sort of order within a pressure cooker as counter productive. Some of them put forward more idealistic bases for their desire to dump this punitive institution. The word torture comes up regularly, supported by studies of psychologists that demonstrate the sanity bending cost of isolating individuals for prolonged periods of time. But,others of the wardens, arguing more from a practical perspective say that it does nothing except make the inmates more nuts than they were when they were first dumped into the hole. And the wardens don’t want to be doing anything to make inmates more nuts. It is counter productive. It is directly opposed to their mission of keeping order in the prison.

So why not abolish it? If these experts are unanimous, what’s the problem? The answer is simple. Voters and therefore politicians want to make sure these criminals suffer. Getting rid of the hole would be a sign of going light on crime. Reality doesn’t seem to matter. Expert opinion is irrelevant.

The worst torture a human being can suffer is a sense of isolation. It has been shown to kill infants. Taken care of in every other way, without the intimacy of touch they die. We adults may be better at functioning alone, but flourishing is another story.

This psalm starts with the wail of an abandoned child and goes down hill from there. With few glimmers during the free-fall of despair, we are confronted with a hopeless human being. But it starts with isolation.

There are few things I fear, truly fear. I’m not courageous. It’s just that I’ve lived through fire and blood and humiliation and failure and pain and my own stupidity enough times to realize that they hurt, but here I am, still cheering for the N Y Giants and agog about butterflies. Life goes on. I guess you call that perspective. But down deep inside there is this demon named abandonment, Abby for short, that can yank my chain even on a good day. Without love, without community, without the sense that even in darkness that still small voice will whisper to me, I am lost.

I am grateful for this psalm. I am more grateful that Jesus was willing to use it to express his loneliness on the cross. It reminds me that the Lord has been here before me, even in the darkness of my own isolation. But I can’t rest thinking that we deliberately do that to people. I’d like to hear Jesus’ comment on that one. I wonder what He’d say to us.

the Rev.

We just came down to Florida to visit my Mother and Father in law. This is a vacation of the first order. Down here we are taken care of. She knows I like espresso, so she bought a machine, so I wouldn’t have to “…put up with regular coffee.” By the time we go home, we’re relaxed. Who wouldn’t be?
One of the questions my father-in-law asked me before the two of us when out to visit a friend of his was, “How do you like to be addressed?”
I told him, “Your-imperial-highness, ruler-of-the-known-universe-and-monarch-of-all-that-is would be nice.” He laughed, thank God. The whole thing had to do with Reverend. I told him that we don’t usually introduce lawyers with “esquire” after their name, I’m a professional, just use my name unless we’re in a professional setting and then call me “David.” I told him I’ve been using that name for over 60 years, it will do fine.
The whole priestly role thing is an interesting nut to crack. I’m very privileged to be part of the profession that represents something far beyond myself or my own agenda. I like being the shaman of the community. I like comforting, proclaiming, leading, reminding, teaching… etc. I like the role. I even like taking care of the worship space and doing stuff that draws boundaries in time and space to consecrate moments and places for the consideration of power and depth beyond us. If calling me, “The Reverend” is an acknowledgement of respect for the office, the role and thus the power and depth that it represents, fine. But every time somebody says it, I feel like having a class, affirming their willingness to acknowledge me, but also cautioning them not to consider me as a locus of holiness.
That’s a great way to be a wet blanket at social gatherings. So, most of the time I roll with it. I don’t know. Maybe we need to label the shaman. On the other hand, there are different gifts but it is the same spirit who gives them. I think I’ll stick with David. But I’d settle for ruler-of-the- known-universe. Has a nice ring to it.

I’d like to thank…

I’m receiving an award tonight. That may seem like small change to most of you, but other than my degrees, a bronze medal in the Mid Atlantic Conference, and some thank you’s, I’ve never received an award. I didn’t really notice that bit of trivia until I realized I had to write an acceptance speech. I’ve written books, sermons, lectures, essays, poems, eulogies, research papers, treatises, and songs, but I’ve never written an acceptance speech. That’s when it occurred to me, I’d never been given an award.

“I’d like to thank the judges and my wife and my mom…” Some how the models that I’d gleaned from the few times I’d stumbled or been pulled into the Oscar show didn’t seem to fill the bill. I was puzzled and nonpulsed.

This award is from the American Conference on Diversity. The Rabbi and I are both getting it for our work in “…championing the cause of encouraging, facilitating, enhancing, and helping to create inclusive communities.” There’s no mention of eating, drinking, laughing, supporting, sharing family ties, or being human together. But we’re getting the award anyway.

I want to say something about our shared faith. I want to say something about the power and relevance of communities of faith. We get such bad press, admittedly some of it deserved. But in spite of all the negetivity and dismissivism (how's that for a new word?) I really believe we've got something to offer. So, here's what I came up with.

“Three years ago, I got married. I learned that being different from each other is good. I’m a slow learner. My wife’s an excellent teacher.

If communities of faith are to have any authenticity or integrity in this post modern age, we must reach toward something more than a recitation of our version of history or sad litanies of dogma. We must remember that faith is an affirmation of something far beyond our understanding or our limitations. We represent the presence of something that can never be limited or boxed. These two communities of faith have had a close relationship for decades. They will never be the same. But because of their relationship and because of their difference, they learn. And because of our learning, and in the midst of it, we rejoice. And I know that our God does too. Thank you.”

It's not Lincoln, but it'll float.

Resurrection

I tend to be emotionally involved in most things I do. I operate by my gut. That's a rather visceral comment. All punning aside, my connections and motivations are usually emotionally motivated and grounded. So, if I want to change my approach to something, I find one of the best places to start is with my emotional approach.

For years Palm Sunday and Holy Week have been based in place of frustration about my inability to defend Jesus from the mess that He lived through. Perhaps because I'm growing up, or because I'm more secure and at peace in my home, I realized that this was defining an awful lot of my interactions during this time. Though it was authentic and very real. I decided that perhaps I needed to get out of my knee jerk authenticity and do a better job of modeling the Lord's behavior as He went through His passion.

It was weird how grace and peace slipped over this time that had been a battlefield. It didn't take away the impact of the passion at all. In some ways I sensed more of His pain and struggle because I wasn't in the middle of the whole thing any more.

Now don't get this wrong, it was more complicated than just making a simple decision. I worked on it. I guess that's what Lent's for, working on things. But one day I was talking to somebody about a burden they were carrying, and I brought up Grace and Peace. I reminded them that this was a greeting that Greeks used in their correspondence. 'Grace and Peace be unto you.' I'd never focused on the profound power of that binary vision of life. So I began looking at things with those two as a source and method.

Anyway, to make a long story longer, something changed. There weren't any lightning bolts. Just the opposite. Less lightning and more light.

Easter was different this year. There was just as much stuff to do. There was still the glory and beauty that always blows me away. But there was a real sense of peace that pervaded the whole thing. And it was incredibly more graceful, less turbulent, clearer. And tired though I was, I wasn't so exhausted. Now that's saying something for an old codger.

I hate to say it, but I seem to have learned something. Weird huh?

Do You Hate?

The number of hate groups in the US has risen 40% in the last year. These groups range from people who believe that only white people should have any rights here, to people who believe that Jews need to be separated from 'good people,' to people who believe that there is a conspiracy by the Democratic Party to open concentration camps and declare martial law, to people who consider teaching evolution to be a sin to be punished with death. The Oklahoma City bomber was a member of one of these groups.
As a proud American who believes that the Bill of Rights is critical to the freedom of each and every person in this country, I will defend anyone’s right to free speech, assembly, and all the other things I treasure for myself and would rather not offer to people who are willing to limit the freedom of those different than they are. But I insist on their right to hold their beliefs no matter how uncomfortable they make me. I also realize that they don’t feel that way about me. And I still believe that their rights must be defended. It’s not their beliefs that keep this country free. It’s the rights we all share. And as soon as those rights begin to be limited, we’re all in trouble.
To tell the truth, the thing that disturbs me the most is not their twisted version of reality or even their tendency to be violent and unreasonable. It is the immense rise in the rage of individuals and the nation’s sense that this a perfectly reasonable response to any or all moments when we are frustrated or when we lose an election. It presumes that our ideas and prejudices are holy and not to be challenged by anyone not willing to pay a price.
When we consider the actions of our Lord in the face of the oppression and injustice He had to face, it creates a stark contrast to the anger and prejudice that has moved like a cloud over our nation. Unless we are willing to discount the teaching and behavior of Jesus, I think we should reconsider how we react to those we disagree with. They are God’s children too.

molecular resonance

I was listening to Jackson Brown today. Painting a room goes better when there's music. It has something to do with the molecular resonance of the paint. Anyway, his music is kind of dark, in spite of the slide guitar and the rock rythems. I was thinking while I did the molding around the window panes that there were some songs that I liked, not because the song said what I thought, but because there was a phrase, musically or poetically that resonated with how I felt or thought, kind of like the paint molecules. It made me consider again the power of music and poetry and the way it speaks to us.
Some of the most important themes in my life are sympathetic resonances, not structured meanings. They have less to do with understanding than with some shadow of a childhood memory, or a mental snapshot of a moment at a stop light, or a song that played while I did something for the first time. Or maybe a shadow of another reality that calls through melody, rhyme, and rythem across the distances and dimensional gulfs that seperate us from there and then.
I definitely want to go to the Grateful Dead dimension.

Sweet Water

In the week before we throw a party, we take a pilgrimage to Trader Joe's in Westfield. It's not the bouquet and oak that draws us. It's where we buy 'Three Buck Chuck's.' A nick name for a good wine that fits into our budget. But if truth be told, the place we stop for dinner after we put the cases of Shiraz in the trunk is as important as the deal we get on the wine.

I found the place years ago, be accident. Dark wood, mission stained glass, fire place, good food, great martinis. It drew me back. The gravity was greatly enhanced by Jeffery. He was and is the spirit of the enviornment. After my first visit, he remembered my name, he remembered my then-girlfriend-now-wife's name, he remembered what I drink, he remembered me. As the theme song of "Cheers" floats through, bear with me.

This time Jeffery wasn't there. He was in Jamacia, "tanning up," as the waiter said. We soldiered through, inspite of his absence. Then a family came in. The octigenarian stopped by the table to flirt with Chris. The couple who seemed in charge bussled. They wandered around speaking to the waiters. They came over and introduced themselves. They were the owners. The grandchildren followed, all introduced in turn, including Mia, asleep on her mother's shoulder. Somewhere in the conversation it came out I was a minister. By this time we had our coats on. Frank, Dad, owner, boss, apologizing, asked me very humbly if I would offer a "small blessing" on the place.

I've read about the role of shaman. I've witnessed the power of curses and the fear of superstition. I've also seen the relief and gratitude that people carry from a moment when they receive a benediction.

It's happened to me before. Someone asking for words of assurance that are based not on some reasonable and relational moment of sharing, but rather on perceived access to power beyond understanding. I've heard it denegrated and treated with the distain of adults for the belief of children. Paternalism is ugly. It assumes authority, the authority of superior knowledge. It is arrogant at best and abusive at worst. But such posturing cannot deny the power of humility and respect.

The blessing of touch, of words that acknowledge the power that is beyond our definition, our reason, our wisdom, that is to be respected and not to be withheld.

I don't understand how any of this works. I don't understand the cause and effect relationship between plains of being. But I do know that it touched me and grounded me to be a part of that moment.

Besides, they make great martinis.