pastor prayers

A few weeks ago, I was picking my son up from camp and uncharacteristically arrived a few minutes early. It was the last day of camp for the week, and as part of their closing ritual they were giving out awards to each kid based on the most positive spin on their character. The formula was to describe all the characteristics, then pause dramatically before saying the name of the child.

The first child to get an award was lauded as “the most calm, collected, and thoughtful helper of all, who was always there with a considerate word for fellow campers and for the counselors.” When they said the name, up popped this skinny little five year-old girl, whose shoes looked like they could swallow her toothpick legs, and whose glasses were teetering heavily on her delicate face. She was adorable in the way that made me want to be able to follow her around through her childhood just to make sure no one is mean to her.

As soon as she heard her name, she exclaimed “Me? Really?” in the most sincere and genuine way, and turned bright red with what looked like a mixture of pride, embarrassment and shock. She marched up to get her construction-paper award, and on the way back, shaking her head, exclaimed with complete sincerity: “I had no idea I was that special!”

And then my eyes began to leak.

Eternal spirit, creator of all,

help us to nurture in each person the deep and unshakable understanding of the blessing of their being. Let none ever doubt that they are that special, that loved, that magnificent. Let the truth of it be known at our core, far past our culture’s thin veneer of meaningless affirmations. Help us to know the real thing by its failure to be drawn in to pettiness or self-aggrandizement, by its constant reminder that the God that makes one of us beloved makes us all beloved. May the power of that be-loved-ness be a source of great strength, so that we might meet its demand that we work for justice. May it fuel our courage to live and work for and with others. May we find the path to peace by making our home in the landscape of compassion.

Amen.

There has been a heated conversation over at Peacebang about the appropriate theological attitude toward the rich. It’s not surprising that the conversation quickly becomes very emotional and very personal. Money is our primary outward symbol of value. So it doesn’t take long for judgments about wealth to also feel like assessments of personal value. Jesus said and did a lot to confront unjust powers in his day, and it’s ours to do as people of faith today. That means we need to be in constant conversation about our own participation in injustice. I have committed my life and my ministry to engaging that conversation. Each year, I have fewer answers and my heart is full with the many contradictions and confounding factors on the road to that promised land in which compassion is wedded with justice.

Following is an excerpt of a stewardship sermon I gave in the fall of 2006 which attempts a Unitarian Universalist theological response to this question. It’s not complete. It draws heavily on an article by Walter Brueggeman (”The Liturgy of Abundance, the Myth of Scarcity” in The Christian Century, March 24-31, 1999) .

In the beginning, the world is created and is proclaimed to be good — very good. All beings are blessed, and their blessing is that they are given life. The life is so dramatically present and plentiful that God takes a break, a sign that God’s own faith is strong enough to believe that this splendid creation isn’t going anywhere. And the people of Israel celebrate that abundance in the Psalms – they praise Yahweh with trumpet, harp and lute, they hear the promise that all will be offered in abundance, they celebrate the great gift of life and the miracle it is to be offered forgiveness and reconciliation every day. The fruitfulness of the world seems guaranteed. (This is a paraphrase of Brueggeman’s starting point)

But along the way, we humans also show that part of our blessed nature is to compete with one another, and to compete always brings us death and suffering. Cain murders Abel for fear that he might be more favored and the line of deceptions and death does not end. Each time the faithful stray, they are restored to God and they are also offered God’s blessing. The deepest value, the understanding of their worthiness is not in question – the God of the Hebrew Bible gets pretty upset sometimes, and in ways we may not like seeing a god behave – but say what you will, this is a God who doesn’t give up on liars, murderers, covetors, cheaters… in short, humans.

But what gets humans into trouble – and I mean serious trouble – every time is losing faith in the basic fact that our value does not come and go. Our value, in fact, has nothing to do with having plenty – it is the plenty we seek. When Pharoah has his dream of the famine in the land, the world is introduced on a large scale to fear-driven politics. The Jews in Egypt are persecuted, and come to live in their persecution believing that it is what they are worth. Chosen people or not, there is comfort in the familiar captivity of fear. After some time passes, a people can forget what it is like to live outside that reality.

We have our own captivity as individuals and communities in this particular nation and time. We live it now in politics that let us condone torture and secret wiretapping, politics that allow us to keep ourselves outside the reach of international laws and agreements. Politics that keep us separated, keep us suspicious. We live it now in believing that tax cuts are the greatest good we can do for ourselves, that individual savings will magically serve the common good by letting those who are wealthy buy more stuff.

Our ticket out of this captivity is not an easy one. It’s not something we can manage alone. It requires constant companions – and guess what? They are right around you in this sanctuary. They are as close by as social hour, a circle of trust, a shared social action project, a committee meeting, a casserole when you are in need. The ticket out of captivity is to have these companions help us to see and know. We need each other to witness to that abundance of creation, and the fact that we ourselves are part of it. That we are good, we are good, we are very good. And if we have not always been good at every moment, we must be reminded that we were made for goodness. It is our vocation to live. We can redeem one another as the source of all offers us each redemption. We can be part of the transformation of the world as, person to person, our connection becomes apparent and we see God’s blessing in one another.

When we realize our connection, with one another here, with all people everywhere, with the many generations that have worshiped and argued and laughed and grieved and judged and sinned in this very church, we can start to really feel the truth of abundance. The wonder, the miracle, the irrational, embarrassing abundance that does transcend the market economy.

When we unhook the conversation about wealth from judgments about personal value, we can have a different conversation about justice. To those who have much and measure their worth in that wealth, whether it’s the worth of their work or the worth of their person or both, any statement that the wealth must be given away will feel like it is stripping them of their value. Until we create a conversation about the theological truth of abundance, and start to spread the gospel of “enough,” it will always feel like redistributing wealth is stripping some people of worth and dignity when in fact the opposite is true.

No transformation can come without some discomfort. Given that any of us who is reading a blog likely has some privileges that others in the world don’t enjoy, we ought to feel discomforted by that. We ought to meditate on it faithfully in relationship with the God who surrounds us in unending love and calls us to visionary works of justice. Brueggeman points out that in the eucharist, Jesus took, blessed, broke, and gave the bread, and calls these the “four decisive verbs of our sacramental existence.” If we were in the habit of doing the same with the bread of our lives in whatever manner we are wealthiest (our talents, our treasures, our time), we might spend less time consumed with judging others and more time living in the midst of the reality of abundance. And somehow, I think a lot more clarity would come.

Not there yet myself, I remain deeply dependent on forgiveness, love, and challenge from the God who gives me life.

“You must understand about hummus” is one of the stranger things people (and I do mean more than one) have said to me upon learning that I am Iranian-American. It’s rarer than the searching looks that go with the response, “but you don’t look Iranian?!” with a tone of betrayal. But still, there it is.

About a year ago I received this very glossy brochure in the mail. It was a personalized invitation to join the National Guard. (My last name is emblazoned on the fatigues on the cover, even!) The goody bag, should I decide to RSVP in the affirmative would include: expedited U.S. citizenship, family medical and insurance benefits, and a $15,000 enlistment bonus. All to be a “Language and Cultural Specialist” for the good old U.S.A. And if that wasn’t enough, they might also be able to help with a home loan, tuition assistance and a retirement plan.

Someone finally found a use for the millions of Iranians living in the U.S.! Thank goodness, because I was starting to feel left out. For years I counted on the fact that no one who asked the origin of my name would be able to find Iran on a map. Now that the jig is seriously up, it’s about time we got what’s coming to us: a chance to help the U.S. do serious damage to our homeland. But in our own language, with some respect for the culture. Smooth.

The following month, I went with a group from church to be part of rebuilding efforts on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. There, we witnessed first hand how little had been done in 18 months to help rebuild, and the utter absence of the federal government. Except in the form of “formaldehyde-rich” trailers. We stayed at a camp that was built expressly for Katrina relief workers by volunteers. It was run entirely by volunteers, and was being bankrolled by Saudi Arabian philanthropists who reportedly were dismayed at how long the rebuilding was taking and wanted to do something to help. So they asked the folks at Camp Coastal Outpost what it cost to provide the materials for a new home. The answer: $15,000. The Saudis replied that they would like to see 150 houses built, and would pay for all the materials if the volunteers could coordinate labor.

Our whole time in Mississippi we heard story after story of debacles with FEMA trailers, threats of having them taken away, and the hell people went through to get medications and decent water and everything you’ve probably read about a million times over by now. I couldn’t help but wonder that with this going on right here at home, it was amazing that suddenly the National Guard had taken an interest in me and what I could do to help abroad.

I never encountered hummus while I was in Iran, but there are some things I think I do understand. Perhaps I should enlist and send my $15K to Camp Coastal. Perhaps we should take all the $15K bonuses, let good people of Middle Eastern heritage stay home in the U.S. and ask every one of us to go be part of building or rebuilding homes in every place where they are needed.

Blessed creator, thread that weaves us into common joy and common suffering, tug us tightly into awareness of our connection. Help us transform our anger into clear thinking and right relationship. Give us rest from the cynicism that is a well-hewn shield from the pain of daily assaults on the cultures of our birth. Surround us with your grace instead: a warm blanket of understanding that can transform ignorance and hatred.

Give us patience with the dots that don’t connect and courage to speak the truths that do. Illumine the paths that are before us and well within our power to effect: a trip to the voting booth tomorrow; a decision to confront our fears with information; the practice of offering compassion first and judgment later. And let us know your presence by rewarding our faith in people of good will by letting us see the good that can come of working in common cause. And give us strength to walk the road ahead.

Whisper to us constant words of wisdom. Let it be.

William Sloan Coffin once wrote: “The world is too dangerous for anything but truth and too small for anything but love.”

Issues of diversity in my quiet suburban town have once again reached the forefront of our local news, with a racially and ethnically diverse school at the center of turmoil over redistricting and now over a case of alleged harassment of the child of a lesbian mother. We’re in difficult territory here, in a community where recent comers arrived for a sense of peace and security and decent schools. And where some longtime residents long for the simpler times before the pressures to educate so many children pushed property taxes sky-high.

It’s easy to dwell on the dangerous and small, to feel a bit surrounded by them, and to lose touch with the demands of truth and love. Notions of truth and love have themselves been co-opted by the sense of danger and smallness in the world, and we’re stuck with pressures to consider truth in terms of what danger it poses, and love in terms that ask no risk.

God of infinite understanding, god of justice and of love, god for whose existence I hope against hope for a sign…

We are here, regular folk who want all that is best for our children. We are here, hard workers who are anxious about keeping all of our financial commitments. We are here, kind people who want to be good, and be seen for our goodness. We are here, with many different skin tones and ethnic backgrounds and life experiences. We are here, tired from daily life and prone to recline into the comfort of old stereotypes. We are here, needing to see your presence in our neighbors. We are here, praying for wisdom and open hearts and sharp minds. We wish to be wise as serpents and innocent as doves. Please help us know which is which, and how to move with the spirit of life that makes all people free and encourages all people toward the good. The struggle is long, and some of us are praying for rest. Deliver us by helping us to see one another more fully, to offer forgiveness as well as challenge, and hope as well as commiseration. In your mercy, help us be truthful and loving.

Thank you, Jesus

One of my favorite art purchases ever is this ex voto from Guatemala. I found it at my favorite gallery about 9 years ago. It’s a thank you note to God (or in this case Christ the King of the Mountain) for having survived a school bus accident, hand stitched by the person giving thanks. As soon as I saw it, I was touched by it. At the time it was because it made me think about how often when we make it through something scary we move straight through the “thank goodness I’m alive” and on to: “whose fault was this?” and “How can I make sure I’m never so scared again?” or, in many cases, “Where can I get some financial recompense for being so threatened?” Taking the time and trouble to mark the sheer fact of survival when things could have turned out otherwise, to actually make a beautiful tribute to the fact of being saved… well, it just hadn’t ever occurred to me.

When I bought it, I had just graduated with my M.Div., been through a divorce, and had a brush with death in the form of a pulmonary embolism. I had plenty of reason to be thankful just to be walking around somewhat intact. And so I carried it home on the plane as a reminder of the constant need to offer thanks and praise. I don’t usually think of prayer as having magical powers or as something one does to stave off bad events in life. I certainly don’t tend to attribute miraculous survival to the person of Jesus. But whatever the direction of prayer, I am ever more convinced that it is important as an acknowledgement of the struggle and the joy of our lives. We sanctify them by offering them up, just as they are, to some great and ultimately unnamable force. And when we say them out loud, make them into art, preserve the significant moments of our lives, we come to understand them in a new way, to offer them a bigger context and sometimes a greater purpose.

As I have held onto this particular prayer from the journal of Zenaida, I’ve also come to realize the power of holding and honoring anothers’ prayer — one that belongs to someone I may never meet, with a life I probably can’t imagine. Most of us are familiar with prayer chains and different ways of sharing prayer as a way to magnify its efficacy or just to feel held in community. From Catholic altars and shrines to puja offered at Hindu shrines and temples, there seems to be a universal human need to offer prayers publicly, to share them and believe they can be heard — if not by the gods or goddesses, then by our fellow humans. Who knows, they could be one in the same.

One of my favorite parts of the liturgy we do at my church is the Morning Prayer. Before worship begins, anyone in the congregation is invited to write down a prayer and light a candle on a table at the front of the sanctuary. They can indicate whether they wish for it to remain private or want it to be shared, and then as I speak the rest of the prayer I read the words of prayer of the folks in the congregation. On the days when I think about its meaning too deeply, I end up choking back tears. There is something astoundingly powerful to me about having the honor of speaking the prayers of others. I consider it the centerpiece and most religiously important part of our worship.

I don’t know how many people are reading this blog (my stats just say how many hits there were, but I don’t know about duplicates or from where), but I’d like to offer this as a place where folks might also offer prayers to be shared. Not in a creepy chain-letter way, but as a way to offer up genuine thanks, or concern, or sorrow, and let it be held by a larger community that will offer some tender care. I can hear many of my beloved rationalist atheist UU’s rolling their eyes at how cheeseball it may seem. But I’d be willing to bet that even you folks have some deep yearnings that you’d love to get off your chests and have a little bit of help holding.

Give it up, dear readers. Do you have a thank you note to God? A lament? A tirade? A full-on angst directed at the universe? Let’s hear ‘em.

PS: Later update — I will have intermittent email access at best for the next week, so if you don’t see a comment right away, know that it will be posted as soon as I can get to it.

God of the in-between territory, where human needs converge and sometimes clash, guide me through these tender times.

I’ve reluctantly gotten used to the referee role of parenting, mediating disputes over sharing and hitting, tattling and bad words. I already pray daily not to be too shrill, and not to be too indulgent, and not to say things that will come back and bite me when my son tries to apply the same rules to me, and generally not to screw my child up any more than is necessary. But now we’re in the emotional zone that takes it to the next level. We’re into the disputes in which no one is wrong, but the clash of differing needs can be devastating.

One child wants a hug and another doesn’t like to be hugged. One child needs quiet when another wants to have a conversation. One is feeling gregarious and goofy when another wants to concentrate. They happen to be getting together to play when any of these things occur, and the tears and anger are like every volcano in the world erupting at once while the deadliest tsunami and the most forceful hurricane batter our shores. Help me to know how best to communicate your love for each child and their bodily desires. Let me honor their need to be cared for and help them know their friend cares for them even if they don’t understand how to show it. Help me to convey in ways a four year old can understand that no one is bad for having another need, and that when we care about someone we can allow space without judgment. And we learn to share, when things are a little less hectic, what was happening for us, so that we may know each other better and thereby honor each others’ humanity.

I know it takes a whole lot more words and understanding than an upset four year old can muster. I still want to offer the clues now so when the mind is ready to get it, it will not seem like a stretch to believe: Sometimes no one is wrong. We’re all beloved. What we need is what we need and our job is just to communicate it respectfully, lovingly to the people we care about. Because that’s where we get to know you best, god, when we take those risks and learn how you’re present in the mysterious other.

I pray this earnestly, and wish I could be hilarious and clever about it. Most of the time I’m pretty tired, and a little harried, and far short of possessing the patience it all takes. As I watch this unfold daily for my son I see nothing short of a glimpse into the lesson the world of humanity needs to learn, and needs to learn desperately. If we can get it well, if we can start to get it a little more right than we’ve gotten it all this time, there’s this glimmer of peace that’s visible for our world. My yearning for it brings me to tears.

God on the narrow bridge between I and thou, help me follow that yearning, and hold on to hope, and offer examples of forgiveness, and kindness, and your eternal embrace to the people (little or big) in my care, for life or just for a day. Amen.