Why I'm Wearing Purple Today

...and not just me, but my whole family.

• I am wearing purple today because I have come to realize that failure to stand up and proclaim what I believe is shameful for me, and potentially fatal to others.
• I am wearing purple today because GLBT youth are far, far more likely to take their own life, inflicting great loss on a world that has seemingly rejected them. 
• I am wearing purple today because I have presided at funerals of suicide victims, and have seen firsthand the chaos and ongoing pain generated and passed on.
• I am wearing purple today because I must not sit idly by as others fly the banner of Christianity over actions, outlooks and messages I find the antithesis of my Christ and his message. 
• I am wearing purple today because I want to show those who feel isolated and cast out that they are not alone at all.
• I am wearing purple today because I want to show the vociferous, misguided few who spew anti-gay venom that they are very much alone, and to rebut their profoundly mistaken belief that  bigotry, hate and ignorance are somehow Christian or Conservative or American values. 
• I am wearing purple today to shake up the "silent majority" of kids and adults who, if they themselves don't call something "gay" in derision, sit silently complicit when others do. 

I'm not big on contrived public displays, but I hope every young person struggling with issues of identity and orientation sees a veritable SEA of purple acceptance and understanding today. A public display is the only way to make that happen.

My wise friend Kristin shared the other day her distaste for the word "tolerance."I agree. I don't care to be "tolerated." I want to be appreciated. Don't we all?

AMEN.

(Being) Meat is Murder

Did you see this dress?

As a once and future vegetarian, I understand the whole meat-is-murder argument. In fact, given the recent factory farming crises in the beef, poultry and egg industries, I'd hope every sentient being would have an idea by now that, for omnivores, local and compassionate is the way to go for such things (eggs? try the free-range Jones farm on 5&20 in Bloomfield; Beef and chicken? Seven Bridges Farm on the Lima side of Factory Hollow is the BEST for us locals). But I don't want to talk about animal meat. I want to talk about human meat.

Lady Gaga's meat outfit at the MTV music awards was brilliant, I thought. I don't care for her music, but loved her absurd extreme.

In the exploitative, hyper-sexualized culture that MTV et al promote, every bit of push-em-up silicone, exposed lipo-ed thigh, and botulism-infected lip turns our screens into  butcher shop windows, so why not call it out quite literally? We hang our celebutantes on meat hooks and send them around the airwaves. We leer, stuff wads of cash in their g-strings, then throw them to the flash-popping, flesh-catching wolves. We sit back and shake our heads in judgment when the drinking-drug-sextape-insertscandaldujourhere inevitably breaks, complete with breathless back story, online video and falling-out-of-the-limo-curbside 8x10s.

Lindsay, Britney and Paris are just a few in the ever-lengthening line making their way across the butcher block. Who will sate our appetite tomorrow? It seems to me Miley and Katy Perry are well on their way there. As some of our young ladies and gentlemen emulate these flavor-of-the-month attitudes and actions, all the more reason to embrace Lady Gaga's outfit as cautionary:

BEING MEAT IS MURDER.

My undergrad degree is in broadcast communication.

I remember well my very first day of my very first broadcasting class, and the very first lesson from my very first communication professor. She shared the story of a small local newsroom in the southern US (if memory serves). A call came in one day from a man who planned to go to the town square, soak himself in gasoline and set himself on fire in protest (of what, I can't recall). 

A reporter and videographer went to the scene at the appointed time, and there was the man with his gas can. As the cameras rolled, he set himself on fire. Horrible.

The question was called to all of us media-wannabe neophytes: Were the reporter and videographer culpable in the mentally unstable protester's death? Had he set himself on fire because they were there?

I watched video yesterday of a Gainesville newspaper reporter being kicked off the property of that stupid church where they're threatening to burn the Koran (yes, I know the name of the stupid church and its stupid pastor, but they've gained more than enough publicity already). The intent of the video was to show how unfairly the church was treating one reporter because his paper had published an unflattering story, but I was taken with how many satellite trucks and eager observers were present. That first lesson from class at Brockport State came to mind.

Remove 24-7 HD coverage from the picture and one less bloated, self-important jackass can send shock waves around the world. Remove 24-7 HD coverage from the picture and the terrorists lose most of their sting. 

It is far past time for someone to report on the media's ever-expanding role in creating the news they then report.Depth and nuance are lost, but more and more air time is filled, nonetheless. Nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd. Lately when I turn on the news, I feel like a rubber-necker at a car wreck. PRURIENT is the word that comes to mind (marked by or arousing an immoderate or unwholesome interest or desire). 

I have this fantasy that all of the reporters and satellite trucks will leave Gainesville before Saturday night, and that idiot pastor will find himself alone with the crickets when he steps out on the church lawn to build his shameful fire. (I have another fantasy that he'll start a grass fire that burns his church to the ground, but I try not to dwell on that one.)

There is no solution -- probably not even a cogent point -- to all of this. But all of those people who send in videos of family members getting whacked in the gonads, hoping to win $100,000? I think several of them are now news directors at cable news channels around the world.

The difference between that pastor and his namesake pictured above? One of them is perversely doing whatever it takes to gain attention. The other one is an excellent comedic actor.

Terry Jones as Brian's Mother

THIS Terry Jones is the one we should be listening to...

Not Doing the Knee-Jerk

Let's go for a walk...



That's exactly how far the proposed Cordoba House Islamic Center  site is from Ground Zero.

*Imam Feisal Abdul Rauf is a practitioner of Sufism, and a vocal, long-standing critic of radical Islamic extremism.
*The area of Lower Manhattan where the World Trade Center would one day be built was developed in the 1880s by Ottoman Christians and Muslims and referred to as "Little Syria."
*Ground Zero is now a highly symbolic site: a cauterized national wound, if you will, that has been felt by the whole of America.

Deep breath.

Now then, can we discuss the issue intelligently?

Rich towards God

Someone in the crowd said to him, "Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me."

But he said to him, "Friend, who set me to be a judge or arbitrator over you?"

And he said to them, "Take care! Be on your guard against all kinds of greed; for one's life does not consist in the abundance of possessions."

Then he told them a parable: "The land of a rich man produced abundantly. And he thought to himself, 'What should I do, for I have no place to store my crops?'

Then he said, 'I will do this: I will pull down my barns and build larger ones, and there I will store all my grain and my goods. And I will say to my soul, 'Soul, you have ample goods laid up for many years; relax, eat, drink, be merry.' But God said to him, 'You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you. And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?'

So it is with those who store up treasures for themselves but are not rich toward God."  Luke 12:13-21




The old line goes something like this: No matter how well you do in the Rat Race, in the end you're still a rat.


At last count I have ten guitars in my house. Ten guitars! That's five each for the two residents who play them.


I love music, and its creation is a means of prayer, praise, meditation, reflection and joy for me. Having access to guitars is good for me spiritually and psychologically. There's a Yamaha classical propped up within three feet of me right now, and it feels good just knowing it is there, brimming with wide open possibilities, a boat launch to broad creative currents. 


Yes, a guitar is good for me. But ten?!? Definitely excessive. Methinks I have fallen into the "More Is Better" trap. Fueled to consume, consume and consume some more, we are propped up by our desires, and become easy targets for anyone with something to sell. I'm guilty as charged.


I have too much stuff, and just off the top of my head I can name five things for which I am in the market right now, none of which is a kidney dialysis machine or shoes for the children. My true needs are all met. It's my wants that have me strung out. 


What I really crave can't be found at Stuff-Mart, Lowes or even Rossi Music. What I really crave is this thing Jesus called rich[ness] toward God. I want a wealth of treasured memories shared between the One and me. I want a currency of complete trust and understanding between us. I desire a house full of golden love and a bank vault of restorative Soul. 


The thing is, such richness is already mine. I can't for the life of me figure out where or how I happened to set it down and let it out of my sight again. One moment I'm breathing deep the dew-soaked morning air, the next I'm sinking in swells of pounding, plastic frenzy.


You get caught up in it, too? I return time and time again to the motto/mantra/bumper wisdom: live simply, that others might simply live. Yeah, simple is best. But simple isn't easy.


I'm all lost in the supermarket
I can no longer shop happily
I came in here for the special offer
A guaranteed personality

I wasn't born so much as I fell out
Nobody seemed to notice me
We had a hedge back home in the suburbs
Over which I never could see

I heard the people who lived on the ceiling
Scream and fight most scarily
Hearing that noise was my first ever feeling
That's how it's been all around me

I'm all tuned in I see all the programmes
I save coupons from packets of tea
I've got my giant hits discotheque album
I empty a bottle I feel a bit free

Kids in the halls and the pipes in the walls
Making noises for company
Long distance callers make long distance calls
And the silence makes me lonely

It's not here, it disappeared.


-- Lost in the Supermarket (Strummer/Jones, from the Clash album London Calling, (c)1979 Sony Music)

Planting Grief

Lost another friend. He was someone I've known my whole life, fairly well for the last several years. This is his 14-year-old dog, who is now lodging with us:

This will be her third night with us after spending more than three weeks alone in her house while her man was in the hospital in his last stages. A neighbor saw that she was fed and all, but she was obviously in shock when I showed up to take her away on Friday. She came right up to me... something she'd never done before. She willingly walked right out the door without looking back. She had always been a one man dog, and I think she must have figured out her man wasn't coming home. She now follows me around the house. She's at my feet right now as I write this. Hello, old girl.

Anyway, tonight she seemed to wake up from her daze. We found her sitting in the middle of our living room, just kind of looking around with a furrowed brow... sort of the doggie version of what the heck is this place and how did I get here? I know the feeling.

As a pastor, I dive into death a lot. It is almost always someone else's family, and it is my job to keep my head to guide survivors who lose theirs. I guess I am sort of like a grief fire-jumper.

But after nearly 14 years serving the church in which I was long ago born and raised, I am, often as not, a sort of second-ring survivor myself. In these cases, it is important for me to find some way to channel my churning into some sort of constructive, reflective activity. About five years ago I found it: I plant trees.

When a death hits close to home, soon after the memorial services have been completed, my family knows they can find me out on the property somewhere with shovel, pickaxe, wheel barrow and peat moss, preparing the ground for a new arrival. The clay soil makes for tough work, which makes it all the better for my heart, soul and mind.

I focus intently on digging a pit that will not be a grave, but a cradle of life. As I experience flashes of my own mortality, I enjoy starting something that will live and strive and grow far beyond me. A complaining back, dirt under finger nails and sweat soaked clothing demand that I acknowledge the gift of living that is still mine.

It is not selfish to love and relish one's life all the more for watching someone else lose theirs. It is a rather healthy response, and probably one of the very best ways to honor the dead.

Anyway, I'm thinking of breaking with my standard solitary practice for the next tree I plant. I'm thinking I might invite this old dog along. I'm pretty sure she won't insist on empty, distracting conversation. Since she is evidence of death invited into my home, I think I might need her to share in my conversion of an ending into a new beginning. I also like the thought of her having a moment in her own fading life to rest once again in the shade of her man's shadow.

How have you processed grief? I'd love to have you share.