This past Sunday I gave a sermon about faith as the hope that those things we desire are still possible even in the midst of our deepest despair. I talked about the rainy days we have quoting Longfellow’s poem “Rainy Days,”and about how easy it can be to slip into a form of despair where everything seems bad and we can’t seem to see good.

I have had the privilege of being invited to participate in a sweat on the Northern Cheyenne reservation near Coalstrip MT., the Monument Valley Navaho reservation in southern Utah and the Yakima reservation in Yakima, WA. Each time I was honored by the invitation to participate in something so rich in tradition and sacred for each tribe. The sweat can be a place of intense religious meaning where sacred moments and visions occur and it can also be a place to simply relax and share a time together. The other day I went into a hotel sauna just expecting to release some tension and do some cleansing, but what I ended up with was a sweat experience with a man from the Makah peoples of Neah Bay. Something about the atmosphere with the tension releasing steam and the mind clearing heat and sweat turns even a hotel sauna into that special place where sharing can occur. It’s funny because my experiences have all been in native american settings, but my mind also went to the ancient Roman baths with their steam rooms in which social barriers could be broken down, strangers could be friends and all manner of gossip could be heard. I confess that I didn’t do much sharing, but for the man I was with it was clear that the heat triggered something in him as he shared about the sweat he used regularly up in Neah Bay. He told me about his work since May on boats in the Gulf cleaning up oil and how he was glad to be home with his kids. His work took him away for months at a time and even now, with at least his part in the clean up done, he would be going off again soon to California or Alaska to work on other boats. He told me several times how he missed his kids as he boasted about their sports talent and told me about his wife’s art and how proud he is of her as well. He was clear that he needed to take these jobs to support his family and that a part of him loved it and felt like he formed new versions of family in every place and on each boat he worked, but you could hear some of the struggle in his voice. In the sweat he unburdened himself a bit and shared his pride in his family. In the sweat a sacred moment happened in the sharing. You never know what might happen in the sweat but you have to respect it. It’s good to sweat.

I had the great honor of being one of six Christians invited as observers to the Seattle area celebration of Eid al-fitr which marks the end of Ramadan. The celebration itself is an opportunity for muslims after a month of fasting to rejoice for the blessings they have gained during the fasting and is often a time to focus on charity and giving in thanks for those blessings. The gathering at the Washington Convention Center today brought together somewhere between 5000 and 8000 muslims from the region to pray and celebrate together.
People arrived in a steady steam for the event starting just before 9am. It was a bustle of activity as people greeted friends and family and found their way to a spot in the vast convention hall. As my small group of invited guests gathered in the lobby listening to the Adhan blaring through the loudspeakers calling everyone to prayer, we were quickly spotted by the press as outsiders and approached for interviews. They asked the obvious questions about the Mosque near ground zero and the pastor in Florida who might burn a Quran and what we might say to him. I appreciated one of my colleagues who simply asked that the pastor read the gospels again and see what it tells him. It was a nice chance for us as Christians to lift up our view, which is not always the one that gets portrayed and to be clear about our support. For me it was a chance to talk about shared beliefs and values like love of neighbor and peace as fellow children of Abraham and as “People of the Book,” a message which was reinforced by the speaker about an hour later. The call to prayer lasted for nearly an hour as they tried to get people into the hall and organized. As they made the call to line up for prayer (the iqama) we were ushered in to sit on a raised platform off to the side and near the back. It was an interesting perspective for us and gave us a view out over the entire hall. There was no mention of who we were or why were there, but people seemed to know anyway or at least to sense (and notice) that we had been set apart.

The prayer began around 10am and it was beautiful to watch as thousands of people prayed, bowed and prostrated themselves in unison. The men were in front and the women in back, a sea of colorful hijabs and flowing gowns, in near perfect lines moving up and down like waves. There is no jostling for position and even as late comers rushed to join in they were either melded into a line or they quickly formed a new one and got into the rhythm of things. The joyful exception to the lines were the hundreds of adorable children dressed in their best; some trying to partcipate and others just absorbing the atmosphere. For those who haven’t experienced it the prayer is not long but it can be powerful; especially in a vast hall with thousands all focused on one God together. In some places on Eid the prayer is followed by a message about unity or something along those lines while in others people simply pray then go off to be with family. Today’s message was about being the best neighbor you can be (this sounded oftly familiar to me as my own faith tradition teaches me the commandment to “love thy neighbor as thyself”). The speaker talked about Moses and Jesus and told a story about a Jewish neighbor reinforcing in numerous ways an ethic of love and compassion. He was clear that he was addressing a muslim audience, but the message rang out well beyond in it’s scope and as I said before it could have been given in many a church or synagogue without much change.

During the message many of the people got up to leave and we were overwhelmed, sitting on our raised dias, by the numbers of men, women and children who came over to thank us for being there and to express their sincere welcome and appreciation. I told one of my colleagues that it felt like Sunday after church when my church members file past me to shake my hand and to give their greetings and thanks for the message, only this time I hadn’t really done anything or at least I didn’t feel like I had. Obviously though to many of those gathered having us show up really was something. It was a precious moment as parents brought their kids to shake our hands and they offered us a message of peace and unity. It was after all why we were there. It wasn’t so much about witnessing the event, it was about simply being there to say, “we care, we support you and we are your neighbors” (keep in mind what we say about our neighbors).
I am profoundly thankful for the opportunity to be there and in a world where there is much that is misunderstood I am thankful for a chance to be clear even if just by my pressence. I have often said that it is much harder to hate someone when you know them and I think it is critical that we find ways to be together as individuals and as faith communities so that hate and ignorance can be defeated. All this weekend there are many more showing of love than hate going on and I hope those are what gets lifted up. We are neighbors and we all need to (as the speaker said) be the best neighbors we can be.

At some point in our lives in the guise of decorum, adulthood, whatever, many of us simply stop dancing in the sprinkler. We may, in those delightful moments when our inner child takes over, take a mad run through a sprinkler as we pass by some yard or field, but it is a rare thing to stop and dance. There are places like Fisher Fountain in Seattle, the Central Square in Bern, and the plaza outside the UN in Geneva near the giant chair, where the water features call our name and invite everyone who passes by, at the very least, to stop and watch; mesmerized by the way the water dances before us, most can’t help but get at least a little wet. In places like those the rules don’t apply in the same way because it’s just what everyone does like some spell that is cast over the place which suspends the rules and rids us of our inhibitions. Yesterday I watched as my daughter ran through the sprinkler and slid time after time on a makeshift slip and slide. I will confess that if I didn’t think it would have ripped I would have tried the slip and slide, but there was this hesitation that can’t be quantified, but which kept me on the sidelines. I thought about it all night and when today my daughter invited me to come dance in the front yard to the tune of our brand new spinning turtle sprinkler, I was ready. For nearly an hour we ran, we jumped, we cartwheeled, and we danced in that sprinkler. We weren’t sheltered in the backyard where even the most conservative of dads (which to be fair is a label that has never been applied to me) can always make fools of themselves for their children, we were in the front yard in plain sight, but we didn’t care. When we are willing to give ourselves over to the delight of being silly it brings a freedom like almost nothing else. it made me want to build a feature like the ones in Bern and Geneva where even the dignitaries (I have no proof of this, but I hope for world leaders outside the UN willing to dance in the water) can be as unpretentious as a child seeking joy. I am thankful for my daughter’s invitation to join the revelry of the sprinkler dance and I hope if you are reading this, you too will find your inner child and take the chance to dance. There are much worse things than getting wet for fun and I for one prefer to be a fool for joy over what ever it is we’re “supposed’ to be for decorum. There is nothing like the tune of the sprinkler dance and the rhythm is guaranteed to energize the soul.

The Reverend Kenneth Ransfer of Greater Mt. Baker Baptist Church in Seattle brought his own organist to accompany his sermon for the AME Annual Conference Ecumenical worship. His message hit many crescendos, but none more delightful or moving than when nearing the climax he burst into a song which turned into a medley and ended with everyone singing. His message took us through the nuances of what it means to be a light for others. He offered the analogy of sunspots who’s darkness on the surface of the sun can not diminish the incredible light of the sun and reminded us that we are not called to be in the light, but rather to “be the light.” His tag lines like, “before Elvis sang his jailhouse rock there was a rock in a Philippian jail,” kept things moving and building as he swept you in aided by perfect chords not rehearsed but felt and conveyed though the synthesized organ and the hum of the gathered congregation. Sometimes we talk about preaching to the choir as preaching to those who already know or are already on board with the message, but this really was preaching with the choir as everyone gathered became part of the message. Once his medley was done the bishop picked right up and kept things going with another song and the Spirit was flowing. I had to wonder how that might work in my very different congregation, but I resonated with what was happening as he brought us into and I hope all those of us who are called to preach use whatever we can to bring people into that feeling. The spirit was pervasive and connections were made. A choir was formed as the rhythm took hold. It was a worship event.

As a kid, my brother and I used to run through the forest around our family cabin. We would rise early and romp through the woods as the suns new rays filtered through the dense evergreens on the fringe of the Olympic National Rainforest. We would race along; climbing over logs, balancing on fallen trees, following the stream that runs along our property down the mountain. It was an introduction to the joys of trail running (not that we actually used trails). Then when I was in high school playing soccer we used to go on what we called “jungle runs.” We would run ten miles through the woods and if you weren’t bleeding or covered in mud by the time you came back you would have to keep running until you were. It had been awhile since I had gone on a true trail run until the other day when my feet just led me away from my usual road routes and onto the trails. It brought me right back to those old memories where you have to almost have rubber ankles and your balance and agility are constantly being tested by tree roots, rocks, puddles the size of ponds that force you to skip across fallen limbs then jump over a tree that has come down across your path and any number of other natural obstacles along the way. I have been hiking plenty, but there is something about running hard through the forest or (as was the case last Saturday in Utah) up a dry desert ridge, that you just can’t feel any other way. There’s something almost primal about it like getting in touch with our hunter gatherer ancestors as you give yourself over to nature, understanding that you are moving as a part of it not just through it because it is the trail that makes you pay attention and if you try to just run you will miss something and probably even get hurt. Maybe that’s what it’s really about, the heightened awareness and the connection. It’s a microcosm of how I wish every moment could be, where we keep moving, but at the same time we are in tune with what’s around us, adjusting to it and being a part of it, while still somehow remaining in control of the part that is ours. Then again maybe it’s just refreshing because it gives us something different than the monotony of road running. Either way it’s good to hit the trails.

For many of us we feel like we know our parents, but they had this whole life before we even existed, and it’s always interesting what stories you never hear about your parents until you somehow end up in a situation or a place that reminds them or that invites that story to be told. Walking around the University of Puget Sound with my Father, where both of my parents graduated I got to hear a story about my father that made me as proud as I have ever been of him. What made it even more poignant was that it was a story he had never told simply because to him it really was just him doing what he should. His story was about how he had quit his fraternity over an issue of racism and justice. He talked about a group in his fraternity that was refusing to admit black students and his response was to not admit the white students who this racist group was in favor of. To my dad this was the only response he could make and when pushed he felt he had to resign his membership in the fraternity because what he was doing wasn’t fair to the white students either and he could not remain a part of a group that was making decisions like that. The thing about it is that this thing he felt he simply should do, was an act of justice that many might agree with and understand and respect, but few would actually act on. Even reading this now I feel like it doesn’t nearly represent how big this little act of justice that was just what “should be done” was.

Graffiti on the bathroom stall at a graduate school of theology makes you wonder about the human need to mark their territory, to leave their imprint so that the world will know that they did indeed exist. Admittedly the graffiti was somehow appropriately deep in its scope posing questions as to the existence of the soul and an image of the three crosses on a hill with a question mark forcing you to think about what they were trying to imply; but still somehow it was surprising to see. In public places it’s something pretty much expected. Graffiti has ancient roots so much so that even in the forum of Rome and on monuments in ancient Greece, the walls were tagged with advertisements for anything from lawyers to prostitutes, and with messages like, “Claudius was here” alongside professions of love and some of the same obscenities we see today. Driving along the freeway today we see on retaining walls, underpasses, even the buildings along the road all manor of images, political messages, gangs marking their borders, profanity, you name it. Some are incredibly artistic, so much so that it has been recognized as an art form and is being demonstrated all over the world (there was even a live demonstration and display along the banks of Lake Geneva in Switzerland last summer). You never know what you might find from deep “philosophical fragments” (Kierkegaard probably wrote some interesting graffiti in his time) to ignorant statements of hate, or from vulgar stick figures to vibrant caricatures and vivid landscapes with a poignant message; graffiti is not limited to back alleys and school bathrooms.

On the plane from Baltimore to Denver I sat next to a nice young woman who is a student at the University of California in Davis, but was in Maryland for a friend’s wedding. She was telling me about what a great time she had even though she had to miss classes and despite all the work that went into making the wedding great. She was quite expressive and talked with her hands so I noticed that she was wearing a sort of light green nail polish. I asked if she been in the wedding and if that was the color of the bridesmaids dresses, and her response is what inspired this blog. She said, “nope, I wasn’t though I did a whole lot to make the wedding happen (including she would later point out cleaning a barn which would hold the reception), but my dress sure was this color and thank you so much for noticing.” It struck me how often we may notice things, but never mention them, or on the other hand how often we miss things that others are really hoping we will notice. Green nail polish is a small detail, but often it’s the small details that we put the most thought into and which we really hope will be appreciated. It’s a new hair cut, new shoes, a new whatever, or the little things we do like folding laundry, doing the dishes, or any of those things we don’t really do for the recognition, but which we sure hope someone notices. The thing is, the little things, the nice touches (like matching nail polish) or the chores done without prompting, those things really say a lot about a person and they deserve to be noticed. When we notice we should say something; it matters and it feels good.

For two weeks now I have been riding the DC Metro across the city from Cheverly, MD to Tenley Town, followed by a nice mile or so walk to the American University/Wesley Theological Seminary campus. The trip requires just one transfer about half way through from the orange line to the red line at Metro Center. It takes about an hour from point to point and I try to leave time each morning to stop and grab some breakfast at Tenley Town. On this my last day of classes I boarded the train at about 7:15am and was on my way just the same as every other day with one exception; the difference today was that I was for some reason a bit sleepy still (you can begin to guess where this is going). I am not a morning person, but have had no problem being up at 6am every day until today. I sat down and began to read “The Express” (which is a mini version of the Washington Post handed out as you get on the Metro), but the news today was apparently not compelling enough to pull me out of my sleepy state and I began to doze in and out as we came to each stop. At some point the out had no in until I found myself two stops past my transfer station. At this point I could have panicked or become frustrated. I had options, but who wants to wake up in a place where they did not intend to go. I could have crossed over to the other platform and taken the train back two stops to my transfer, but that would have taken twenty plus minutes that I didn’t really want to use for that. The thing in my favor is that I have spent enough time walking around DC that I knew I could walk to a red line station and pick up my journey there. Instead of feeling like this was a tragedy I moved quickly from the feeling of “where am I and how do I get back to where I need to be,” to thoughts of what seemed to me an opportunity to perhaps discover something new, a new bakery or a new café to grab breakfast, or something else altogether unexpected and fascinating. That seemed like the only choice I had to make in order to redeem my morning thus far.

With this in mind I headed out into the light of a gorgeous DC morning and proceeded north towards my new transfer station. As it turned out the “Marvelous Market: bakery and café” was about half way between the two stations and I found a delightful selection of pastries; meaning that I would not have to stop at Tenley Town and really wouldn’t loose much if any time at all. The pastry alas ended up being good, not “marvelous,” but still all of this could have ruined my morning or been quite frustrating if I had let it. Instead I chose to turn it into an opportunity to experience something new within the context of an unexpected change in my routine. It’s actually a great and simple lesson in making lemonade out of lemons. Sometimes we shut down and when things happen outside of our norm we don’t know how to deal with them. When we end up past where we were intending to go or pushed beyond where we thought we needed to be, we can easily get frustrated or angry. We have to decide whether to feel lost in our new reality or excited about the new possibilities. The story would be better if the pastry was the best I ever had (marvelous), but maybe the point is better taken that even a merely good pastry is better than letting your morning be ruined. It’s so easy for us to let the little things get in the way of what could be. You never know when falling asleep on the train will be a good way to start you day.