Hospitality? Radical!

          When walking around DU, I often encounter campus tours in progress. I'm always curious to hear what the tour guide is saying; I may learn some new tidbit about DU, or some "slant" on the school coming from the guide's own perspective. And then, there are the questions raised by the visitors about buildings or sculptures. The pineapple on the Knoebel School of Hospitality Management (above) almost always receives some question/comment. The question usually goes "What's with the pineapple?" The answer, "Oh, the pineapple is a symbol of hospitality. This is the hospitality management school."
          True, that! But there's more to the story . . . or, at least I've heard more to that story. When we were living in North Carolina a couple of decades ago, we learned about the pineapple. It seems that when merchant sailors (especially ships' officers) would return from their voyages, they would post a pineapple on their front gate/fence. It was an announcement that they were home from pineapple-laden climes, and were ready to receive visitors. But, in addition to being an announcement, the pineapple was also an invitation: "Please drop by, and let me be your host!" Hospitality is also an act of anticipation and reaching out, not simply responding to a request.
          Hospitality was one of the primary virtues instilled in me by my family when I was growing up. The topic came up in a conversation with a colleague yesterday. This morning, as that colleague and I were both volunteering at Metro CareRing, the matter was before us all the time: the folks coming through the door, whatever their situation, were to be treated with utmost respect and hospitality. And, since many of them don't often experience that kind of treatment in other places, the light in their eyes shows how much it is appreciated.
           Of course, hospitality is one of the most central tenets in most religious traditions. "Welcome the stranger, the other!" we are taught. Examples abound: in the New Testament book of Hebrews, the author counsels: "remember always to welcome strangers, for by doing this, some people have entertained angels without knowing it" (13.2). or, from Hindu Scriptures: "The husband and wife of the house should not turn away any who comes at eating time and asks for food. If food is not available, a place to rest, water for refreshing one's self, a reed mat to lay one's self on, and pleasing words entertaining the guest--these at least never fail in the houses of the good" (Apastamba Dharma Sutra 8.2). What hospitality essentially does is to reverse power roles. The true host becomes the servant; the one who has becomes the one who gives, who serves. And the guest becomes royalty!
          Since I walk by the hospitality school just about every day, I'm ALWAYS reminded of the story of the pineapple. I'm also reminded of the importance of hospitality -- and the invitation to practice that radical virtue of using my power to turn strangers into royalty.
       
Blessings,

Chaplain Gary

You can't un-ring a bell

The conference my son and I have been attending this last week at Lake Tahoe celebrates its 80th anniversary this year.  Started as a youth conference in the 1930's, it has evolved into a family conference, as those youth (as youth will do) ages into adults, parents and grandparents.  One conference, several years ago, I remember three generations of one family all in attendance.  Kids who grew up together, but moved away return to renew friendships, compare notes on kid-rearing, and bask in the beauty that is Lake Tahoe.       As many of us often do at anniversaries, the theme of the conference demanded that we look back over the past, and then look ahead into the future.  In the reflective times, the memories were rich, both of significant events/program features, as well of many of the "characters" who've attended over the years. And, at the close, we were invited, as often happens at conferences, to submit an evaluation--an evaluation that included those common questions:  "What did you like best?" and a variation of "What did you like least?"  Having been on many conference planning teams reading evaluations (as well as reading my own teaching evaluations), I know that we all tend to spend more time on the "What did you like least?" question.       I know that we want to prevent as many "negative experiences" as possible, especially those that are "fixable".  But what some folks like will drive others batty.  We're not going to be able to fix everything -- and certainly things in the past.        The conference also provides plenty of free time, and I had the opportunity to read things that I otherwise might not have had time for.  In one of those books, one character says to another, "We all have things in our past we regret--people we regret--but you can't unring a bell."*   I was reminded by that, too, of a something Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote that I read each morning:  "Every new morning is a new beginning of our life. Every day is a completed whole."**  And, then, this morning, another saying appeared in my email inbox:  "I realize there's something incredibly honest about trees in winter, how they're experts at letting things go."***        Our deeds, actions, relationships -- all are like ringing a bell.  The effect travels in waves, influencing things we cannot control.  And we certainly can't "un-ring" that bell.  The 80 years of my conference have sent ripples around the world.  Our task, going forward, is to recall the pleasant sounds, and to labor in order that they are repeated.              Blessings,  Chaplain Gary  *  Sgt. Don Malarkey to Joy Toye in Easy Company Soldier (St. Martin's Press, 2008), p. 121. **  I can't remember the precise source any more. ***  Jeffrey McDonald, quote at this website:  http://www.dailygood.org/story/500/the-illusion-of-control-janice-marturano/

Road trip!

Just about twenty-five years ago this week, I was busy packing a truck, getting ready to move from Los Angeles, CA to Durham, NC.  I was preparing to start graduate school at Duke University, and I was excited to get there, and to begin my program. All that stood between me and that new life was 2500 miles of road in the front of a rental truck.  Fortunately, I wasn't going to make the trip alone; my dad was going to share the driving.          We had it mapped out -- relatively efficiently.  We were, after all, limited somewhat in the amount of time we might take by the rental contract.  And, since my sister lived in Houston, Texas, we wanted to spend some time with her (and getout of the cab of the truck for more than a few hours).  That said, however, we wanted to push the envelope on the driving side.   So, on day one we left LA at about 6 am, and drove to El Paso, TX -- 700 miles; day two was El Paso to Houston -- 700 miles (dang! Texas is BIG!).  After several days in Houston, it was back on the road, to Birmingham, AL -- 600 miles.  The last day was the short one, Birmingham to Durham, NC -- 500 miles.  We got into Durham in time to drop the towed car, stow some things in the apartment, and head off to a fabulous Bed & Breakfast for an easy, and enjoyable, arrival evening.         The next day, of course, was all about unpacking the truck.  Two grown men and a hand truck!  All the boxes and furniture, of course,  But also . . . . a washer and dryer to the basement (down a stair way that wasn't designed for modern appliances!).  A piano (!) up the front steps -- about six of 'em if I remember correctly.  "If I remember correctly" is key. Yes, it was twenty-five years ago.  But mostly, those kinds of arriving-at-the-destination-related memories fade in the face of BEING THERE!  I was in Durham!  In a couple of days, I would begin my graduate program at Duke!  I'd arrived!         Looking back, however, the real memories of that week are not related to the stairwell to the new basement, or trying to find the local grocery store.  The real memory--the real value--of that week of travel was a chance to get to know my traveling companion in a way that would have probably never happened otherwise  The real memories include:  crossing the Continental Divide in Arizona (there's a sign that says so -- but my dad missed the moment, changing a cassette tape in the player);  the huge thunderstorm in eastern New Mexico where we had to pull over to let the hail pass; the late night swim at the hotel in El Paso; the beautiful streams and scenery of west Texas, and stopping to put our feet in cool water; learning that "don't back up while towing a car" is actually good advice!  And, there are parts of the early evening at the B&B in Durham that are indelibly imprinted on my memory -- such as the circumstances of meeting the Chair of Duke's Religion Department for the first time -- that I'll keep to myself!       Travel was the centerpiece of an early part of conversation of which I was a part the other day.  The discussion was about the places people had been already this summer, and where they might yet be going.  Stories of Europe and Asia drew "oohs" and "ahs".  Some of the rest of us half-heartedly chimed in "New England" or "Kansas".  And, of course, I could have talked about my solo drive in the front of a rental truck from Portland to Denver a few weeks ago.  But I realized that some of the other trips were also "solo" trips, and how different those and mine were -- enjoyable as they may have been -- than a trip with a companion.      And, yes, there is a "spiritual" lesson here.  But I doubt I need to belabor the point.  I'll simply quote a Colorado author whose writings I've come to enjoy.  John Gierach is writing about going on fishing trips with a good friend, the well-known (in fly-fishing circles), A.K. Best: It's not that A.K. is a snob exactly, it's more that he just knows what he likes, and I appreciate that.  My tastes are a little more eclectic than his but I guess that's why most of us end up with more than one friend.  (I have friends who've been known to shoot carp through thin ice with shotguns, so there's lots of leeway there.)  And anyway, in the long run, a trip is more about who you're traveling with than where you go or what you're after.* Thanks, dad, for being my traveling companion!  It was an unforgettable road-trip.  And I'm equally grateful for all of the companions I've had on my spiritual journey as well!  Solo spirituality doesn't hold a candle to community!              Blessings,  Chaplain Gary  *"Where to Fish", Standing in a River Waving a Stick (Simon & Schuster, 1999) pp. 188-89.

Shock? and Awe!

Many years ago, I took part in a CPE program.  "CPE" stands for "Clinical Pastoral Education", and is generally required now for  people who are interested in entering into the ordained ministry in many Christian and Jewish denominations.  As the title implies, those who are part of the program are placed in a clinical setting (it could be a hospital, a prison, a retirement facility, etc.) and use the encounters in their day-to-day work as grist for reflection with a supervisor and in a small group.  Another model of CPE is known as "parish-based" -- that is, the participants use their current work-place as the "clinic" from which they draw the vignettes for reflection.  My program was such a "parish-based" program.         One of my fellow participants was already pastoring a couple of small churches in southern Virginia, and was going through CPE to equip him for future placements.  One week, he came to the group meeting very visibly shaken up.  This was pretty out of character, since he was usually very confident, almost to the point of being cocky.  As our group conversation progressed, it emerged that he had been wrongly accused of some misbehavior, but that the word had travelled around quickly through his various church-related circles.  His reputation was tarnished and his confidence shot.  As we in the group discussed this with him, he said something to the effect, "I just can't believe that this is happening in a church!  We're supposed to be about loving each other, and caring for each other!"  His worldview came crashing in all about him; he wasn't sure how to, or if he could, go on.         The rules on which he relied no longer reflected reality.  Certainty, confidence -- things of the past.         My colleague's experience -- and dismay -- is pretty common.  I certainly want certainty, especially moral certainty.  I find that predictability helps me negotiate all of the stuff I need to manage every day.  And most of us also want fairness, and what is predictable is usually predicated on some notion of fairness.  And many of us often "find" an external source, or ground, for that fairness or predictability we desire.  And, of course, our religious traditions have tried to "help" us with that:  "Do good (as God would want), and you'll prosper!"  But, as the biblical book of Job (as well as other writers) points out, it doesn't always work that way!  Job, the just man, suffers immeasurably for no apparent reason.  That story line can't have appeared out of thin air; it reflects our common frustration with the lack of "fairness".  In other words, the world as we wish it, is "out of order."  The resolution (whether satisfying or not) to Job's situation is that he'd never fully understand; there are things far beyond his, or anyone's, ability to comprehend.  And Job had to sit back in awe.         I've been struck recently, in my reading of the Hebrew and Christian scriptures, of this tension:  there seems to be a predictability to the moral universe (or there are those who think it should be), but it doesn't always play out.   And often the way of dealing with that dilemma is to place the resolution in the far distant future.  In other words, our notions of fairness are not necessarily out-of-whack, it's our time frame!  The same tension/solution I see in science as well.  What physicists were certain was the case -- in terms of Newtonian physics, for example -- has become thrown into question by quantum physics and chaos theory.  Yet, as I read the scientific materials, the hope is still held out that, somewhere in the future, we'll understand it all.         I don't know.  I want certainty; we want certainty . . . but there doesn't seem to be certainty.  I want the world to work logically and justly, as I imagine most of us do . . . but it doesn't seem to work that way.  It's a shock to my system that myway of perceiving the world, given my tools, and my understanding, doesn't work the way I want it to.   And pushing things off to some future afterlife isn't very satisfying for dealing with real-world problems right now         Awe, I suppose, is what's left.  A lesson in humility in the face of that which is larger than me.  But that shouldn't keep me from seeking to create some order out of the chaos -- social, legal, cultural, ethical, political -- in which I find myself.  Of that I am certain.       Blessings,  Chaplain Gary

Crime and Punishment?

A number of years ago, a music group called the Squirrel Nut Zippers released a song called "Hell".* The opening line is "In the afterlife, you'll be headed for the serious strife." It's a campy, strange song -- but, then, the Squirrel Nut Zippers are a pretty off-beat group. On the other hand, it's not often that a popular music group tackles such a significant theological topic.         Hell, or some other bleak post-death manner of existence, is found in most major religious traditions. While some biblical scholars might argue that the notion came late to Judaism, it is certainly present there now in some forms, as it is in the belief structures of Judaism's heirs: Christianity and Islam. And, even though pictures of burning lakes of fire aren't as present in Hinduism or Buddhism, the belief in karma and reincarnation can be seen to serve some of the same theo-sociological control impulses, i.e., "Straighten up and fly right, or . . . you'll spend eternity being punished, or you'll come back in your next life as a sea-slug."          So, why hell, now? First, several weeks ago, I heard an interview with film-maker Kevin Miller. He has put together a documentary called "Hellbound",** in which he asks the question, "Can we abandon hell"? And, in asking that question, he ran into amazing amounts of amazing push-back from all sorts of people. He repeats one young woman's story of telling her grandmother that she no longer believed in hell; her grandmother would rather have heard that she no longer believed in God! And, Miller points out, hell has to be a permanent destination to be effective, not just a punishment way station before a more benign eternity. Indeed, one of the reasons early Christian theologian Origen was declared heretical was that he believed that, at the end, even Satan would be redeemed. So, for many, then, if we take away hell, we take away any motivation to be good.         But a more immediate trigger was an article I ran across in the most recent Oregon Quarterly.*** The article told about the research of U of O psychology professor Azim Shariff (and his co-author, Mijke Rhemtulla) on whether or not a society's belief in heaven or hell has anything to do with their crime rate. And, according to their research, the answer is "yes." In short, countries that, overall, believe in hell as a place of eternal punishment, have lower crime rates than those that do not. The flip-side is that countries that, as a whole, believe more strongly in heaven have higher crime rates. The reasoning for those latter folks seems to be something like "I can go ahead and shoplift; God will forgive me in any case."         Now, certainly, the argument seems logical (and is often used, for example, to argue for the death penalty): severe penalties should lower the likelihood of certain crimes being committed. On the other hand, the underlying theology of hell (and a God who endorses its existence) is something that I, personally, find troubling. Like many of my religious compatriots (of differing stripes), I am much more drawn to a compassionate, loving, forgiving God. A God who condemns souls to an eternity in torment doesn't seem like a very good example of a Divine Parent (most parents DO punish their children, but most don't abandon them for some infraction of household rules).         So, what are we to do? Resign ourselves to a situation where a forgiveness/mercy-based theology might lead to higher crime rates? Or become hell-bound hardliners that would have us lead fear-based lives? I would hope that there are other alternatives, but it would seem that even though just about every religion has some sort of "Golden Rule", its mere existence hasn't kept people from acting out of self-interest, regardless of the consequences.         Thoughts?        Blessings,  Chaplain Gary  * A video of the group performing the song can be seen here:   http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9uiYp8xKjLM ** The interview can be heard here (it starts about half-way through):  http://www.cbc.ca/tapestry/episode/2013/02/08/spiritual-but-not-religiousand-totally-self-obsessed/  And a trailer for the documentary can be seen here:  http://www.hellboundthemovie.com/ *** Regrettably, I left that issue on an airport seat in Denver earlier this week! The original research, however was published about a year ago in PloS One:  http://www.plosone.org/article/info%3Adoi%2F10.1371%2Fjournal.pone.0039048

Disposable?

 

    Coincidence? Synchronicity? Fate? To whatever it may be attributed, I've been faced with multiple exposures over the last few weeks to the issue of "disposability".   

      Monthly, I head to Metro CareRing to volunteer.  As I've noted here before, Metro CareRing is hunger-relief organization, and much of the food that they distribute every day is "grocery salvage" -- in other words, food that was kept out of the waste stream, food that the stores felt they couldn't sell because of blemishes, damaged packaging, etc.  The food itself is certainly edible, but the stores doubt their customers would buy it.  Translation:  "Dispose of it!"  Fortunately, organizations such as Elephant Talk and Metro CareRing (and others) are able to get that food to people who need it.

      And, several weeks ago, I was in Portland cleaning out my mother's house in preparation for its sale.  As is certainly the case with any of us who need to move (especially if there's a time-crunch), a LOT of stuff was destined for the trash bin.  It wasn't necessarily broken or otherwise unusable.  Some of it may have been out-of-style, or reflected only one person's interests, or was simply "too difficult" to repurpose.  In short, it was easier to pitch it.

      I returned from Portland and, a few days later, found myself helping with "Move-out".  Students moving out of the residence halls are encouraged to donate things that they don't want to take back home, or to their next apartment. We don't have the final tally yet, but my guess is that the residence halls at DU contributed thousands of pounds of stuff to Goodwill. The variety was amazing.  There were clothes that had clearly been worn, but outgrown.  There were LOTS of plastic storage containers.  Thousands of hangers.  Unworn clothing with the sales tags still attached.  Small refrigerators and other kitchen ware.  And shoes, such as those above, that had clearly only been worn once -- and probably for a party.  All of it "disposable" -- at least disposable enough that it didn't warrant packing up.

      And, then, last week Pope Francis "upped" the "concern level" in an address he gave on World Environment Day:

"If in so many parts of the world there are children who have nothing to eat, that's not news, it seems normal. It cannot be this way! Yet these things become the norm: that some homeless people die of cold on the streets is not news. In contrast, a ten point drop on the stock markets of some cities, is a tragedy. A person dying is not news, but if the stock markets drop ten points it is a tragedy! Thus people are disposed of, as if they were trash . . . *

It's not refrigerators, diapers, razors, shoes, oranges or radishes.  It's people that the Pope is accusing us of treating as "disposable".  And I would tend to agree with him!

      So I've been thinking a LOT about what I consider "disposable", what I think isn't worth keeping.  Or what I purchase knowing that I'll use it for a brief moment and then throw it away.  Oh, convenience!  And certainly the stuff is one thing, but I'm confronted, too, by the people on the corners holding signs as I drive by.  People that I "dispose of" after I turn onto the freeway.

      Throughout the first creation story in Genesis, we read that, at the end of every day of God's creative activity, the product of that day (whether animals, plants, or heavenly bodies) was "good".  Then, after the creation of human beings, theentire creation was pronounced as being:  "VERY good!"  (Gen 1.31).  Everything around us, including us, is very good.  We seem to have forgotten that, especially those of us in this affluent culture of abundance.

      What do I throw away -- or consider "disposable"?  And what does that say about me?

Blessings, 

Chaplain Gary

*   Quotation from http://www.p-ced.com/1/node/135

Endings & beginnings & endings & . . .

      Much of this week I spent either in Portland, Oregon, or on the road between there and Denver.  I was in Portland with my sister and one of her sons.  Our task?  Clean out Mom's house in preparation for it transitioning to new owners.  Mom will be moving into a small one-bedroom apartment out of, and away from, a three-bedroom house that had contained decades-worth of dishes, photos, napkins, gardening supplies, and momentos.   More so than was the case for my nephew, going through each room brought up memories of joys, frustrations and sadnesses.  Along with several major questions:  (1) "Who is taking that?"  (2) "Will I be able to pack all of this?" (3) "What things do we need to keep at-the-ready for when she moves into the new place?"

      Certainly there were many things that I recalled having around me from my childhood, but just as many that I didn't remember (e.g., I'd forgotten that I had a signed hockey stick from one of the Portland Buckaroos!).  There were gifts we had given Mom over the years that had seen regular use.  There were old school photos (which probably should never have seen the light of day since their taking!).  In short, there were plenty of things that I wanted to retain, and just as many that I'd just as soon forget.

      But, Tuesday morning came, and I hopped in the front of the rental truck and began the drive east on I-84.  It occurred to me that I hadn't seen much of the road I was going to see since the mid- 1970's.  And, as it turned out, I took some alternate routes than Google Maps suggested, so I saw scenery I had NEVER seen.  In fact, until I hit central Wyoming, I followed much of the route of the Oregon Trail.  It was, overall, a great drive . . . and it provided plenty of opportunity to reflect on all the stuff in boxes behind me.

      One of the images that wouldn't leave me was the exodus of the Israelites leaving Egypt. (And, no, I'm not comparing my situation with a liberation from bondage!  Or . . . maybe I am!)  The book of Exodus reports that, relatively soon after the crossing of the Red Sea, the Israelites found themselves in want.  And they began to grumble.  Two-and-a-half months after their departure from Egypt, the "whole community" came before Moses and Aaron and said "Would that we had died at the Lord's hand in the land of Egypt, as we sat by our fleshpots and ate our fill of bread!  But you had to lead us into this desert to make the whole community die of famine!" (Ex 16.3).  In other words, they preferred bondage to the old ways than to freedom.  They could see little of real worth in their past, nor little promise in their future.

      The Jewish tradition has turned that perspective around, it seems to me.  Throughout Hebrew scriptures the heirs of that exodus community have been charged to recall being in bondage:  the refrain "Remember that you were once slaves in Egypt" occurs in various forms throughout scripture and tradition.  Why "remember"?  Remembering will provide a more expansive view of being a stranger in a strange land.  It will be a reminder of God's deliverance.  The slavery and subsequent deliverance become a defining point.  What those fleeing Egypt thought they should be leaving behind was part of the most important thing that they were carrying forward, a basis for much of their social ethic.

      And so, the boxes behind me were boxes of what I felt was the most important stuff from my past that I should carry into my future.  It wasn't so much the hockey stick or baseball bat.  It was the desk that I had helped my dad refinish.  It was the large binders of family history that my parents had assembled over decades.  It was the dishes that my mom had purchased when we were in certain places in Europe when I was a child.  Many of those things were a hassle to pack and unpack (I have bruises and cuts galore!), but they are central to who I am.

       The ending, then, of the "that's where home is" (i.e., a particular house in Portland) has become a new beginning.  And that, in its turn, becomes a new ending.  And the beat goes on.

        

Blessings, 

Chaplain Gary