I wanted one thing — a boy named Tommy LaRue.
He was my first boyfriend. My first kiss.
I learned three things from him.
What is a French kiss? To drink cheap Champagne. That I was expendable.
In those days, I knew nothing of myself. How to be with people.
Life mystified me. What was its purpose?
I had no aspirations. I didn’t know what I was meant to do.
And that scared him. My dad
who wanted more for me. More than
whatever it was that I wanted. That I hadn’t figured out.
The summer that I was nineteen
After sleeping through my first year of university he told me
“You will go there. You will do that.”
You will find more than whatever it was that you think you want.
I didn’t know that I had the power to say no. Or the power
to think or want anything. And so, I went. I did
As I was told.
And slept
through two more years of university. Literally.
Mostly. Not. There. Not really anywhere.
My junior year I was told
to choose.
“What is it that you want?” they said. “Why are you here?”
I want nothing. I have no aspirations. I have no
Hopes, dreams or desires. Life mystifies me.
This coma that was my life became clear
Twenty years later. It was a slow awakening.
Thawed by unconditional love, I found
Safety. No one was telling me
Where to go. What to do. Who could have known, that I needed
S p a c e to figure it all out, whatever it is that I wanted.
For I did want
More.
Ever since I can remember, I have
spun words. They were flying out of my mouth
Faster than I could think them. These words, the flying kind,
Cut flesh. They hurt the people I loved over the years.
And all because I was too afraid
To say anything to him.
And so
I stopped. Speaking
in that manner. I gave up
my voice. That was easier than saying
anything.
When he died it began. The trance was over and it was a
Dreamy awakening. A discovery.
Almost trembling I came to understand. No longer
Could he tell me — anything.
And for a while, with no one telling
Me anything, I was lost.
And then though I was afraid
Of hurting, and afraid of his ghost that watches
And lingers even now. I began
to unearth my voice again. No longer
Is this a vacant place inside me.
I have dreams.
I have words.
And I use my words to heal. Yes, I have found my purpose.
This moment, here. These words.
Now. There is no vacancy.
I just realized that most of my older poems are not on my blog. Rather than transport them, I will offer a link here to more than fifty poems & photographs offered on my flickr site under the set “My Words.” They can be found here.
What I wrote a few years ago about this group of work:
These poems are a reflection of my life’s journey which includes many things including faith or lack of it, love given and received, acceptance of myself and others, and those uncomfortable feelings toward people you rub up against in life.
I have the utmost regard for my parents and so while acknowledging that they did their ‘best’ with what they were given, I can only hope that I somehow do ‘better’ for my children.
This journey is mine, I share it so that others who battle with self-loathing, doubt, depression, anger, even suicide can move to a place of acceptance and renewal. As a person of faith, there is also an element of hope in the written word. A declaration of the past as well as a statement of hope in the future.
Said it before, but I am thankful for my home which is a peaceful haven and for the love I experience there.
Love in The Shadows
What do you see
in the shadows?
What are you searching for?
I see you wanting;
hoping for more.
Can you hear the music,
the song lingering here?
Shelter, comfort, home;
fragrant with his scent and sound.
What is the color of
the shadows,
the songs,
the scent
of love?
Tranquility,
it has no color, sound,
or smell,
but it is abundant.
My Dad’s death stirred up so much turmoil for my sisters and me. Processing that, I wrote this poem.
Good Dad. Bad Dad.
I shed no tears today
for the warrior who has fallen.
Taken down by Cancer’s sword.
My heart is full of memories,
good and bad.
Good Dad. Bad Dad.
Constant worry.
Constant change.
Who could have foreseen
the Cancer overtaking his mind;
that became my liberation
in five short months.
The danger —
of loving too much;
needing tenderness,
and all the things Daddy’s are supposed to be.
PAIN. FEAR.
Emotions jangling around me
like some kind of white noise;
pushing their way into my conscious thoughts.
Invaders, threatening to undo
the weak hold I’ve found on a Good Life.
So many memories
good and bad,
bad and good.
Who was he? Why was he MY dad?
MY tormentor.
MY warrior;
Finally broken,
beaten by the cancer
that was to become my friend.
Betrayal,
these thoughts which plague me.
Broken;
the unspoken promise
to keep our secrets to the end.
How do I remember?
How do I stay true and honest,
when the Truth causes an ache
too strong to feel,
to face,
to bear.
Good Dad. Bad Dad.
Who was he in the end?
A demon? A saint?
Now simply a Muse —
remembered, but no longer feared.
Thought of
in furtive,
anxious moments.
Good Dad. Bad Dad.
Who is he to me now?
A man driven to despair
Living a chaotic, frantic life.
Not the Good Life I choose,
Not the legacy I will repeat.
Good Girl. Bad Girl.
Who will I listen to?
Who will I believe?
I am the woman I choose to become
today,
tomorrow.
These are the Good Days
that I can change.
Yesterday is Dead.
Burned in the funeral pyre.
Vapors
Mist
Dust settling around me.
I often wonder if I am too hard on the memory of my father. As the years go by the memories fade good and bad ones. A couple of things happened this weekend that made me think of my father. He died in his early sixties. He should have had another thirty years.
92-year old Billy Graham was interviewed recently. He has come to the time of his life when he spends a lot of time alone, requiring the care of others. I suppose that stage of things makes one reflective.
When asked to give advice to those who are aging he said “Accept it! And thank God every day for the gift of that day.”
I do dread getting old. And yet I have this idea that I will just sort of live on in perpetuity with my body and mind falling apart. I have joked that I want to be euthanized to save everyone the misery of my madness gone out of control.
My father wouldn’t accept that he was sick or was going to die, so much so that he refused to talk about when he was gone. Even when he was diagnosed with brain tumors in regions of his brain that would leave him without speech and would impact his ability to sort out emotion. And yet as he slowly left us, his body breaking down from the chemotherapy and his mind slowly slipping away from us, he became meaner. And more confused about reality. And eventually he couldn’t form words. One or two here and there in the week that he died were like small gifts to those who received them.
His very last words to me, when I told him I loved him, were “I love you more.”
When he was still cognizant and before the surgery he did to his credit want to clear the air. Those last conversations differed for each of us daughters. In mine, I spoke more than he did. Fearful, I told him his anger and disappointment with me over the years had shaped my life. He listened and accepted. He spoke the words of apology. It would have been miraculous and life changing had he not then gone on to spend an hour with my sister berating and criticizing her for how she managed money. He wanted some money my parents had loaned her.
I felt responsible for that. My conversation had been unexpectedly positive and though a lifetime of experiences told her not to she trusted him and met with him. He crushed her as he had each of us so many times over the years.
That’s what he left us. He left no letters for us. He left without any parting advice or even the last word. Ironically, the man who always had the last word in life refused to believe he was going to die. He was going to get back out there to continue God’s work. He believed he had time.
When asked of his regrets Graham said “he would spend more time at home with his family, study more and preach less.” Wow! I think every MK and PK alive today longs to hear those words from their parents. He wished he had spent more time with his family. My dad prayed for healing to get back out there, not a few more months of life so that he could treasure his family and say his goodbyes. He wanted to get back out there and reach our world for Christ. (At that time it was his work in China.)
Graham continued:
“God has a reason for keeping us here (even if we don’t always understand it), and we need to recover the Bible’s understanding of life and longevity as gifts from God—and therefore as something good. Several times the Bible mentions people who died “at a good old age”—an interesting phrase (emphasis added). So part of my advice is to learn to be content, and that only comes as we accept each day as a gift from God and commit it into his hands. Paul’s words are true at every stage of life, but especially as we grow older: “Godliness with contentment is great gain” (1 Tim. 6:6).
I miss my dad. He was never content. And I’ve concluded that he had to die for the rest of us to live. I know those are harsh thoughts. Do I really believe that God “took him” or did his life finally just end? I will never know and it doesn’t really matter does it? What I do know is the result of his death. I could not break free from the chains of my experiences with him and my mother. I did not have the strength or the knowledge of how to do that. In the end, he left and I became free.
Could I have experienced the growth of the last eight years with him still alive? Not so quickly. Or intentionally. Or in the same way. He was such a force. He was IRON in my life, but as iron sharpens iron, iron on something weak shapes it in the ways it wants.
So why so much talk of legacy and more time and regrets? Because it is a bittersweet thing to lose a parent when they were a coercive fury in your life. Choking. Compelling. And yet all that you knew of love.
Excuse my perverse sense of humor. Image via Wikipedia
My in-laws celebrate fifty years of marriage this year and each family member was asked to write something to them.
December, 2010
Dear Bonnie & Terry,
I must say how much I have been blessed by a marriage that is relatively easy — For Tom and me, it was a joining of two people’s lives that made complete and total sense. Growing up, my parent’s marriage seemed so hard, which I now know was as much a reflection on the people than the institution of marriage.
I am so grateful for the man that Tom is, the man you raised him to be and for his life experiences that have shaped him into the person he is today. But I know that much of his character was formed as child in your home and I am so grateful to you and to God for allowing him to grow up in a healthy home with Christian parents who loved one another!
When I think of you two, I feel I feel more than a little awe. Your partnership seems to work so well. You two don’t talk a lot about your marriage — whether it has been easy or difficult. There is so much I would like to know. Your marriage seems to have a quiet strength. I suppose the best testimony is the 50 years you have been together.Yours has shown the test of time. CS Lewis described that kind of love as not only a feeling but a deep unity, that must “be maintained by choice and will, and deliberately strengthened by habit, reinforced by (in Christian marriages) the grace which both parties ask, and receive, from God.” It is clear that you made a choice a long time ago and you work daily to support and reinforce it. “This quieter love enables people to keep the promise. It is on this love that the engine of marriage is run: being in love was the explosion that started it.” (Mere Christianity)
When I think of you two, I think of that deep unity and the quiet love that Lewis speaks of and I know that it must have been a daily choice to make it this long! But more than simply choosing because it is the right thing to do, you both seem to be happy in your marriage. My parents certainly loved each other, but they had a strange relationship. It was a puzzle to me why they stuck it out when they often seemed so miserable. But you all have been together for more than fifty years and you seem to enjoy your life! That’s a great example to us and to our kids.
Recently I read an article that said in a committed relationship roughly two-thirds of the problems are unresolvable. That’s daunting when you think of it, but especially in a coventant of marriage where you plan to stay together until death parts you.
You two seem to be quite different and yet you have made a good life together. Whatever it is that you have found, it works and it is a joy to see you share your lives together happily. Although we cannot hope to resolve every problem, being committed to a person and to the life that you want to build together, seems to be the key.
May your lives continue to be an example to us and to your grandchildren for many, many years to come.
I hope you have had a wonderful 50 years together. And that you have many more years. I think you are nice and generous people. Thank you for being my grandparents.
Love, Dylan
From my nine year old, Jacob (with a little help from his parents.)
Dear Grandma and Grandpa — Thank you for coming to Wisconsin in the middle of he winter and for all the trips you have made here from warm Florida. You are fun and kind. I love you. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for coming to stay with us and taking care of us when my parents go on trips! You do a good job. I am glad that you are my dad’s parents! Love- Jacob
Just saw a headline
in the Huffington Post.
Winter Cocktails Gone Wild.
And I am choked
by my longing. I can’t explain it
easily, but I’ll try. I still crave alcohol. Not
in the way
you might think. Infrequently. And not when
or where you might expect.
I go to church in a bar, but that only reminds me
of my gratitude
and drives deeper into God. My
humiliation is my heartfelt cry
There, my worship. Inside, every Sunday
I am on my knees.
[Dare I say
lest I tempt fate] I am not tempted
to break this life-long fast I have taken. Yes.
I can say that and mean it. I do not feel
like I need alcohol but it still
charms me. I think I want it. Especially if I linger
with the thoughts that whisper to me. Drinking is about
the moments, about intimacy
and good conversation. The idea
of being cultured,
intellectual and refined. All those remembered
or imagined
moments swirl in my mind.
The Liar brandishes his greatest weapon, uttering:
“That is what you’re missing.”
And I find myself thinking
If Only!
Then immediately — I don’t even
have to force it, the list of reasons come for
why I will
not ever = never
drink again.
They come. The list my counselor made me
so painstakingly write on a 3×5 card
(so that I would never forget.) Oh, I won’t
forget.
Memory brings it
and I remember
the vomit,
the disappointment,
the regrets (so many),
the fear,
the sink hole of depression and anxiety,
the danger.
No I don’t easily forget
that.
Alcohol, that sweet elixir
was my personal hell. Oh no, the truth
is so fresh and real as if
I quit yesterday.
And soberly and gingerly, I consider
Daddy, I miss you. I really do! I try not to,
because I think I am still mad at you.
I’ve got a nice fat file at the UW Department of Psychiatry to prove it.
I glanced at the back of the room and saw you
sitting there. With your grin,
how I lived to see that grin of pleasure.
It made the whole world feel r i g h t.
A belly laugh, so unexpected.
As if you were filled
with nothing but pleasure,
oh how I loved your laugh.
There is still so much goodness in you Dad
To be remembered — Passion. Faith. Hope.
I glanced over and saw you sitting there.
I want to remember you Dad, before I forget.
When the alarm tweeted at 4:59am,
and you disintegrated slowly,
as I woke and was left
full of longing; I am overwhelmed
by how much I miss you.
In life, I mostly felt your disappointment and my lack.
Perhaps it was your distractions, so important, God’s work
… coupled with a fear that you had.
You didn’t measure up
either.
Oh, in a crisis, if life was falling apart,
of course you were there
and would have honestly and truly,
if you could have, moved mountains to help. But if not,
if life were NOT falling apart, you were busy doing the “Lord’s Work.”
This should have been okay, could have even been healthy,
if — the damage wasn’t already done.
I want to be lifted from the mire of that gloomy, infested death hole. I want to be living not impulsively and with my FEAR overcoming EACH AND EVERY WORD. Not assuming others only tolerate me. Not speaking with a mute’s stutter. Not breathing in constant fear. Not stifling a scream. I want to live healed, anointed. I want to believe that you loved me
and are still hoping for me to have
the fullest,
the most joyful and gut-busting,
irrationally ecstatic, good LIFE.
You are no longer here. And yet you linger in my dreams.
What are you dreaming
for me?
MH 12-9-2010
My father, Dan Harrison, died of brain cancer about eight years ago. He joined my dream last night in a strange way. Just sitting there, in the back of a room full of people. As he often did. He glanced up and I found myself saying to my sisters “Dad’s not gone. He’s right over there.” Sometimes I do wonder if people linger in between this world and the next — hoping, wishing, praying even nudging. I have no theology for this but I do wonder.
My father had a profound effect on me. There are times when I believe that I did not truly begin living until he died. At the least I experienced a new life after he died. There are pages of this story here on my blog. Many many poems and other thoughts, insights, lessons found here. It is not completely a story of a broken person, because I found in a true way Christ’s love and that overcame all my sorrows. I work for and pray for Shalom.
by M.H. Hanson (originally posted December 7, 2010, updated December 7, 2011)
I do not know where the
words come from. They are like
water that gushes from a spigot.
I don’t question their existence. Only quickly place the
bucket of my heart underneath praying my confession.
Come.
And as I try to catch it I Hope that the drops will fall where they should.
In or outside the cup of my heart, dependent on a fate I do not control.
I have a thirst that lives within me, always with me.
And I must live with it every day. And with my commitment to be authentic.
This is an adventure that began with my cavernous need.
If it is true that God suffers with us in our grief, then I am grateful for the comfort of his companionship.
Even for this longing, a thirst that lives ever within.
Always thirsty. I don’t question the
Water’s existence. Only quickly place the
Bucket of my heart underneath praying.
I woke up “in a state.” I cannot shake the foreboding I feel. It conjures up thoughts of very bleak times in my life.
But I start my day just like any other by popping out of bed, drinking strong coffee, sitting and opening my heart to the day.
Days like this I cannot run from or even slip out from under out of timidity, no matter how hard I try. The gloominess sticks to me. That is until I figure out what’s bothering me. I’ve learned, if I don’t slow down and pay attention to it, this mood will pitch a tent inside me, lurking there for as long as it takes. Eventually plundering my heart and mind. And if I’m not careful, my soul.
Shivering from the fear of it, I cede to the fact that I must not ignore it so some things won’t get done today. I resolve not to be overcome by the anxious ideas or allow my heart to be looted by what I cannot tease out. My thoughts like are tangled and knotted up in such a way that the only result is my head and heart ache. Jumbled thoughts, but some along these lines …
Why must women work so hard for less money than their male counterparts?
Why is the Church the most subtly bigoted place I go to in my entire week?
Why are so many Christian marriages “women as modern-day maids serving ‘grown up’ boys.”
Why don’t more women question these things and speak up.
Why do I get hurt by the subtle ways of discrimination in our culture that don’t change: the old boys club that excludes women historically from the organizations, clubs, pulpits, schools, boards, Presidential jobs of institutions, rock and roll bands, television, important movie roles, and so on?
Why is it so hard just to be equals? And why do women accept it? Why is this still true?
I’m not hurt for myself, but I feel a deep empathy for these women. And for our daughters who are growing up in this world.
The suffragists managed to vocalize their concerns and in time changed things. And yet, even as I write this things stay the same. In doing research for his review of the movie Made in Deganham, about the women strikers against Ford UK, Roger Ebert wanted to find out when equal pay for equal work first became the law in the United States.
“I didn’t discover what I expected. Only two weeks ago, a Republican filibuster in the U. S. Senate prevented passage of the Paycheck Fairness Act, which would have added teeth to measures for equal pay…” Here’s his full article.
Yeah, you read that right less than a month ago.
Why do I lose sleep, live with heartache, and write about this. Because it matters, to me.
Jesus
I have read a book recently that parallels the words and work of Jesus through the Gospels: Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. His spiritual journey, guiding the three, twelve, the 70 and all the people he met. Many many things have struck me, but here’s something stunning that’s relevant here.
There is a story that is found in all four books. That makes it striking right off. Simon the Leper and the Woman found in Matthew 26.6-16, Mark 14.3-10, Luke 7.36-50 and John 12.1-8.
In these stories these things are true: A woman (unnamed in three books or called a “sinner” and Mary, sister of Martha and Lazarus in the book of John.) used very expensive, perfumed oil, called Spikenard, to wash Jesus’ feet. She wept on his feet, knowing that he was to die. She was anointing his body for burial. The men in the room disregarded her (and her importance) saying she should have sold the oil for money and give it to the poor. Jesus said, not only did you NOT wash my feet when I came, or honor me treating me with any sort of revere, but you also do not know who this woman is. She will be remembered he said. Because they were calling her “sinner” and implying bad things about her, in one account he even tells a story of the creditor with two debtors, one for 500 and one for 150. He forgave them both equally. And then, in all except Luke) Judas betrays Jesus. Yeah, right then and there.
Jesus promised the woman a place in history for she has done the thing that called out to be done if one is attentive, ready and attentive.
All I can do is highlight the thing that stands out to me.
The nameless woman heard of Jesus somewhere, and believed that Jesus was the son of God and would soon die. She came to honor him. She wept over his upcoming death, anointed his body in an action of believing faith after which Jesus said she was forgiven.
The Disciples saw her come in and wanted to throw her out. Pointed out what a terrible choice she made. Scolded.
Judas rather, one of the twelve disciples who learned from the Rabbi for years, betrayed him for a few coins not believing. Not learning — seemingly — anything.
I do wonder, if women were at the table with the twelve, oh wait she was there. Not “welcomed” at the table with them as a guest, but … If women were in the discussion, affirmed and given similar choices and opportunities to men, how would the world be different? How would I be different? And you?
I believe it is women who have been most betrayed in this life. As over and over again in our society message are sent that diminish and demean. I believe that Jesus has a different message for women. It’s just that men (some, not all of course) just don’t see and hear the truth of Jesus message to the Church about how men and women relate.
More to come.
————————————————————-
Reading Jesus: A Writer’s Encounter with the Gospels, Mary Gordon, Pantheon Books, NY, 2009.
Today I read in the New York Times
about how little men are threatened by their [more successful] women.
Significant or otherwise,
he doesn’t want her
to pay for dinner.
Or drive him here or there. He insists
on opening the door. A pretense
as he drinks to her, because she pays for their sweet vacation
and the fancy car he drives.
But in bed he needs her to know
he’s the “man” and she’s
the “little woman.”
Yes, that’s the way he likes it
and needs
the game
to feel like a man.
I have to say it makes me wonder how often
his fear is comes into the pew?
Into the pulpit?
Into the meetings and the holy readings?
God made us human.
Whether Him or Her.
Woman and Man. In God’s image.
That image [I don’t think]
involves a penis.
We are simply people,
worthy.
People, beautiful.
We are people, unworthy
and messed up.
God made them
perfect.
Both
fell
into temptation. Yes,
both made that bed.
I wonder how long the Church plays
this game just to make Adam feel
like a big man?
I was asked to write some brief thoughts about the application of Philippians 2.1-11 to my life.
My thoughts are neither brief nor, sadly, do I see them applied very well thus far in my life. Thankfully, the journey of faith is a road slowly traveled and full of grace.
Melody
“Therefore if you have any encouragement from being united in Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any common sharing in the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind. Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of others.
In your relationships with one another, have the same attitude of mind Christ Jesus had: Who, being the very nature of God, did not consider equality of God something to be used to his own advantage; rather, he made himself nothing by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a human being, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death–even death on a cross!
Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue acknowledge that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.”
Paul’s letter to the Philippians.
Obviously one cannot compare their life, whether you are a spiritual person or not, in any way to what Jesus Christ, the Son of God, gave up — his stature in heaven with God the Father — and Jesus did that for you and me. And yet, that’s the irony right? And the beauty. We are so very human and yet in the words of the Apostle Paul in Philippians we are taught to behave so unnaturally, even supernaturally. And we can’t. We can’t do anything like that. A human life can’t possibly compare. What then?
Reread this section of Paul’s letter to the Philippians 2.1-11 in Today’s NIV (above).
Honestly, the Apostle Paul rubs me the wrong way, at times. Especially the way he seems to command the church to do and not do so many things. That I have issues with control is no secret. So, I struggle with Paul’s emphatic tone and his sometimes enigmatic letters full of instructions that are not always clear in their application today. (Just my opinion here.)
But I have come to respect Paul’s story; his passion, his purity of purpose, his agape love for each church that he started, his strong prayer life, and especially as it applies here, his willingness to make personal sacrifices every day for the cause of Christ. What he was instructing the Philippians to do, he most definitely lived out himself.
Writing from a prison cell, it is striking that he says “fulfill my joy” or “make my joy complete” (depending on the translation) by having “the same mind and the same love, by being of one spirit and intent on one purpose.” He’s not saying here’s a way to become a “cookie cutter Christian” thankfully. What he is saying emphatically is do this to be united! And he continues, be humble because it is impossible to be “one church” if you are living for yourself, for your own desires, agendas and needs; If you are constantly seeking those things that only create a better life for yourself, you are not united. And then, as if that were not clear enough he goes on to say don’t do anything out of selfishness and think of others as better than yourself. And if you do this, the result will be unity.
I’m thinking at this point: “Okay, no biggie. Have some humility. Live for others. Give up your “rights.” Be unselfish. Wow, I need to work on this!” I just haven’t had it put so emphatically before. It is as if the message of Christ depends on it. Unity. And I should want to live that way! I guess it’s time to spend some time reflecting on whether that is true in my life. I’m four verses in and I’m totally convicted that I rarely live as if others are more important me.
Incredibly to me, at this point Paul becomes gentle so I guess he has a softer side. I’ve judged him from the lists of dos and don’t in Corinthians.
In a poem he goes on to describe in beautiful words the utter humiliation of Christ for us — Christ’s descent from the throne of God to death as a human on a cross. That is the humility Paul challenges the church of Philippi to and that is our example — Christ chose humiliation. As Christ became human, he gave up being seen as God and emptied himself taking on the limitations of human flesh. He never ceased to be fully God, but for a time he actually gave up GLORY for us. If your mind isn’t blown at this point, well, you’re not fully taking it in. It’s mind-boggling. It is worth pondering a while over the Advent season. It’s incredible.
Christ became human for me and wants me to become humble and unified with other believers in order to be more like him? NT Wright, in Paul for Everyone, says that an inner life of unity seems unattainable. No kidding. But, as we mature these things (paraphrased) should be true about us:
“1 We are to be bringing our thinking into line with one another.
2 Know the Gospel is the the final aim, not simply unity. If “it” doesn’t align with the Gospel, we could be unified around Krispy Kreme donuts, but that’s not what Paul’s promoting.
3 We are to perform the extraordinary feat of looking at one another with the assumption that everyone else and their needs are more important than our own.”
Humility is hard. Humiliation is harder.
When Paul was writing about this idea to the church in Philippi, it must be said, that they didn’t hold a high view of humility. No one aspired to be humble or to humiliation in the Greek world. If I am totally honest, do I really hold that high a view of humility? Being humble is hard! When was the last time I gave up my rights? My power. That is a form of humility and I honestly do not even know. That’s not really esteemed in our culture too much. Paul says we are to regard others as higher than ourselves. And in case we’re still unclear, we are to voluntarily give up our rights (like Jesus.)
As a part of the bigger picture of Philippians, Paul says “True people of God are united by thinking of others as more important than themselves.”
These are difficult times. The recession has effected so many people, that if you happen to have kept your job you feel incredibly grateful! If you have lost a job or may have been forced by circumstance to live with family or a friend, you know you are one misstep away from potential disaster. Perhaps even from joining the most powerless in our society — the poor, the elderly, many children, victims of domestic violence, youth fleeing abusive homes, many immigrants working two or three jobs to get by. None of these groups of people have power or influence in society. They are definitely “the least of these.” Their lives are a struggle and at times unbearable. At the bottom of this list, rock bottom I think, are those that are have lost their home and live now on the streets.
We make assumptions about the homeless and never question them. For the most part we avert our eyes and walk quickly past. There are homeless downtown that are the “stereo-typical homeless person — male, impoverished, smelly panhandlers that smell like alcohol and are acting slightly off.” But, actually, the average age for the homeless in Dane County is nine years old. My youngest is nine and he’s just a kid lucky enough to live in a house. Why him?
1 degradation;2 the state of being disgraced; shame; 3 a humiliating condition or circumstance.
I cannot think of anything more degrading or humiliating than being homeless. Often, if we think of the homeless at all, we convince ourselves that they somehow deserve it. It’s not a clear thought and if we keep it ambiguous and undefined we don’t have to face it. But we probably think that somehow homeless people chose. I challenge that idea completely.
When you are homeless no one knows who you are or where you are. You have lost everything: your old life, important relationships, job safety, the security of a locked door, and more importantly being known by someone, giving and receiving love, feeling content, the goodwill of being in community or a family — They chose to give up all that to be a wanderer known by no one? With no history — “lost” to your family and society — invisible — and somehow you chose that? This idea is absurd and is based on our chosen ignorance. Even selfishness.
Yes, the truth about homelessness is that it makes us uncomfortable.
A few facts:
The top three reasons people are homeless are:
1 mental illness,
2 domestic violence,
3 inability to pay rent.
In Dane County in 2008:
3,894 people were served in emergency shelters.
3,636 were turned away.
More than three thousand children, teens, elderly, veterans, mothers and fathers, uncles, aunts, PEOPLE were turned away from shelter for lack of space and resources in Madison alone.
A Simple Story.
As a member of BH Downtown, I was recently asked for$ .75 by a panhandler just outside of the Majestic. I was disconcerted because this wouldn’t happen on the west-side of Madison and I was unsure what to do. But I was with my kids. So I dug in my pocket and gave it to him, mainly thinking we have so much and my kids know it. And I wanted to show them that generosity is important. (Subsequently I learned giving money to panhandlers in Madison is illegal.) Looking back I think it is laughable that they might learn anything from our giving up less than a dollar to a homeless person. There was no sacrifice and there was no lesson learned.
Actually, I have learned because as a member of a downtown Life Group I learned that there are “real” ways to help. (more later)
When it comes to the homeless in Madison, in the past I have consoled my aching conscience with a few dollars and moved on. And I spent some hours thinking, reading, fretting about the complexity of the homeless situation, growing ever more hopeless about resolving the grander issues of funding and public apathy.
But, being downtown every week, if I choose to see the homeless, they are there.
There is a group here in Madison that does see the homeless.
Free Food gathers once a week, at three o’clock in the afternoon on Sundays, at the top of State Street, bringing whatever food and goods they have and giving them away. Variations of this group have been doing this for years. They give what they have — any kind of food, sometimes new socks. And now that it is cold they are seeking hats, gloves, blankets and anything to help someone stay warm on the street. (If purchasing some of these things interests you, shoot me an email and I can connect to pick them up.)
As I’ve thought about the Apostle Paul’s challenge to give up yourself for Christ, I see the actions of this group as an example of what Paul is talking about. I cannot think of anything more humiliating than living on the street, not knowing your next meal will come from; perhaps only having water and a meal once a day. Being constantly cold. It sounds horrible.
Homeless people likely did not lose everything by choice, perhaps simply bad luck or a series of unfortunate circumstances. The less power you have the more difficult it is to regain it. Powerlessness begets powerlessness in America, that’s a fact.
Paul says regard others [the homeless, or anyone] as higher than yourself. Voluntarily give up your rights. One way to do this is to serve the humiliated. Seethem. Go to where they are. Listento their story. Be a friend. Or just be a meal. In these cold nights of Wisconsin winter you might even save someone’s life by providing a coat or blanket or warm meal.
If you want to help on any given Sunday you will find these good people giving away food and other resources. Week in and week out, over the years, people have given up their time, money and things for the lowest and most humiliated in our city.
So even as I write these words in the comfort of my heated home and my belly growling just a bit from “forgetting” to eat dinner, I am convicted. In my humanity I cannot do anything and I don’t really even want to sometimes. It’s unnatural to put yourself in a situation like that. And, it is moving into winter and Sunday afternoons are cozy family times at home. My mind is full of dozens of reasons why I don’t really want or need to help out.
But we are instructed to behave supernaturally. Jesus Christ, the Son of God, gave up equality with God for you and me. That’s the rub. So I need to perhaps get cold and uncomfortable. Go be something more than I really am, because Christ did so much more for me. Not because I owe Him but because I am so grateful and humbled.
Do nothing out of selfish ambition
or vain conceit. Rather,
in humility value others above
yourselves, not looking
to your own interests
but to the interests of others.
I am challenged by these words of Paul to be more like Christ. Jesus was known for giving up his rights for the sake of the world. What am I known for?
And you?
———————————————————————————
Paul for Everyone: The Prison Letters, Tom Wright, Westminster John Knox Press, 2002.
The NIB Commentary, Volume XI, Abingdon Press, 2000
Logic & Imagination 