Bastille Day Bastions

If you're not ready to stop celebrating the human drive for freedom from tyranny, you're in luck!  Today we have another chance to celebrate the human thirst for liberty and to ponder who gets to enjoy equality and who does not. It's Bastille Day, the French equivalent (sort of ) of our Independence Day. I see this historical event as one of many that launched us on the road to equality. It's an uneven success to be sure. More of us in the first world enjoy more liberty than those in developing nations. But that thirst for freedom and equality found some expression in the French Revolution, and I could argue that much liberation theology has some rootedness in that soil (yes, it would be a problematic argument, I know).

I am afraid that today we may have reason to reflect on the nature of government.  We're told that ICE agents are planning raids today in 10 cities to find people with deportation orders.  We might argue that people with deportation orders must be forced to leave.  We also know that these raids find many people who are awaiting due process, and they often get deported too.

So it's a good day to think about the storming of the Bastille, about what happens when the powerful abuse the powerless for years and centuries and the powerless finally decide they've had enough.

Bastille Day is the French Fourth of July, and you could make a strong case that both revolutions should be celebrated in tandem. The French began their revolution in the decade after the American colonies broke away, and for the next century, maybe 2, abusive leaders worried about the example set by these revolutions.

I remember very few dates without having to look them up to be sure, but I do know that the storming of the Bastille happened in 1789--and by reversing those last 2 numbers, I can remember that Wordsworth and Coleridge published Lyrical Ballads in 1798. I can make the case that both events forever shaped the future.

Today is also the birthday of Woodie Guthrie, an artist who always had compassion for the oppressed.  I find Guthrie fascinating as an artist. Here's a singer-songwriter who doesn't know music theory, who left behind a treasure trove of lyrics but no music written on musical staffs or chords--because he didn't know how to do it. For many of the songs that he wrote, he simply used melodies that already existed.

I think of Woody Guthrie as one of those artists who only needed 3 chords and the truth--but in fact, he said that anyone who used more than two chords is showing off. In my later years, I've wondered if he developed this mantra because he couldn't handle more than 2 chords.

I love this vision I have of Guthrie as an artist who didn't let his lack of knowledge hold him back. I love how he turned the deficits that might have held a lesser artist back into strengths. I love that he's created a whole body of work, but his most famous song ("This Land Is Your Land") is still sung by schoolchildren everywhere, and how subversive is that?  The lyrics are much more inclusive than you might remember, and there's a verse that we didn't sing as children, a verse that talks about how no one owns the land.

If I could create a body of poems that bring comfort and hope to activists, as well as one or two poems that everyone learns as schoolchildren, well I'd be happy with that artistic life. If I could inspire future generations the way that Guthrie did, how marvelous that would be. I could make the argument that artists like Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen and the members of U2 would be different artists today, had there been no Woody Guthrie (better artists? worse? that's a subject for a different post).

So, Alons, enfants de la patria!  There's work to do and people who need us to do it.

Lights for Liberty: Pembroke Pines, Florida

I wasn't sure what to expect last night.  I liked the idea of being part of a nationwide group of people saying, "We do not approve of this administration's immigration policies which result in immigrants held indefinitely in substandard conditions which result in human rights violations."  But I also knew that my church had only been part of the group for a few days.

I thought we might have the 10-20 people from the congregation who feel strongly on this issue and are able to drive at night, along with a few community activists.  We're fairly close to the Homestead site where unaccompanied minors are being held (45 minutes if the traffic is running smoothly, but the traffic is rarely running smoothly), so I thought the bulk of the community activists would make the trek down there.

Imagine my surprise when we got to church and took the last parking space.  Even on most high holidays, like Christmas Eve, we don't completely fill the parking lot.

The time before the 9 p.m. candlelit vigil was surprisingly inspiring--I had worried it would be dreary/horrifying, like a newscast but with real humans speaking.  Instead we had singing, poetry, and a reading of the words of children being held in awful conditions.

My pastor asked people as they came in to be part of the reading, so the voices were varied, which gave the readings a more genuine feeling.  We also had a period where a woman read the names of children who had died in custody followed by a bit of information about each child.  Then one of our choir members rang a hand chime so that a bell tolled for each child.

The time went quickly, and soon it was time to light candles.  We processed with our lit candles to the front of the church which is at the intersection of two busy streets.  There, too, we sang songs, and one woman had thought to bring a sign.

Traffic zoomed by, with some cars honking.  I want to believe that they honked in support.  And then we blew out our candles, and most people went home.

Some of us lingered, and we had a delightful time with a child and musical instruments.

 My spouse had his violin with him, and she's had lessons.  She could play "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," which seems to be the first song that most children learn on the violin. 

In so many ways, this picture sums up the evening:  a mix of ages, genders, religions, beliefs, but finding intersections of solidarity:

As we all interacted, I did think about how lucky we are to be assemble peaceably, light our candles, sing our songs, and criticize our government.  I have always assumed we would always be able to do this, but the current administration does give me pause.  But I also believe it's important to resist--if we just cave in, if we obey in advance of even being asked/ordered to succumb, evil will take complete control.  As Timothy Snyder says in On Tyranny:  Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century, "Anticipatory obedience is a political tragedy."

Last night's demonstrations around the country, and the expressions of support from those who couldn't make it to vigils, tells me that although we're in danger, we may survive.

Caterpillars, Butterflies, and the Work of the Prophet

Many times in the past few weeks as I've done work in the butterfly garden, I've thought, I did not think this through.  I didn't anticipate how many caterpillars we might have and how much milkweed they would eat.  I didn't think about where the caterpillars would go to make their chrysalis.  I didn't think about the fact that so many of them might not make it to butterfly status. 

We are learning/relearning lessons I didn't plan to teach.

Yes, it's a metaphor for much of my life.  But the butterfly garden has brought me joy, even as I consider the logistics of it all.

Yesterday a student came to get me:  a butterfly was emerging from its chrysalis.  We had a great time gathering and watching.  The rains swept in, and one student went to her car to get an umbrella.  The student who didn't have to go to class held the umbrella over the emerging butterfly.

This picture may be my favorite from this butterfly garden adventure:

Sadly, by afternoon, it was clear to me that the butterfly was struggling, and by the time I left in the evening, I'm fairly sure the butterfly was dead.  Sigh.

But there are other chrysalises and other caterpillars and life will continue.

My writing time grows short, but I do want to remember how long I had this vision for the garden, and how few people shared it.  They weren't openly hostile, not most of them, but they had trouble envisioning it.  And now, people tell me how much they enjoy it.  One student said that even if we had no caterpillars or butterflies, that she would still enjoy the green additions to the concrete space.  Hurrah.

I came across this quote this morning, and it seems a great way of concluding this post--as well as preserving a quote that I want to remember:

"The prophet does not ask if the vision can be implemented, for questions of implementation are of no consequence until the vision can be imagined. The imagination must come before the implementation. Our culture is competent to implement almost anything and to imagine almost nothing. The same royal consciousness that makes it possible to implement anything and everything is the one that shrinks imagination because imagination is a danger. Thus every totalitarian regime is frightened of the artist. It is the vocation of the prophet to keep alive the ministry of imagination, to keep on conjuring and proposing futures alternative to the single one the king wants to urge as the only thinkable one. . . ."

Walter Brueggemann, The Prophetic Imagination

Praying for Social Change: The Immigration Edition

For those of you distressed about the immigration situation at the southern border of the U.S., this Friday is an important date.

I found myself thinking about what I'd do if I lived in one of these border towns that held a detention center.  I tend to think about those towns as hot and dusty and in the desert.  Then one morning I realized that one of those centers is in Homestead Florida, which is one county away from me.

These past few years have given me many reasons to revisit what I thought I knew about the years leading up to the Holocaust.  As a younger person, I always wondered why German citizens did nothing.  Now I know that they did do things, but a powerful government has efficient ways of crushing opposition.

I am pleased to see resistance movements still going strong in the U.S., but I wish I could do more.  I've thought of driving down to Homestead--but then, to do what?  To stand in silent witness?  I know that this administration might be energized by that witness to do more evil.  I'd like to deliver supplies, but I know those haven't been accepted.

Friday night there will be candlelit vigils across the nation.  Some of those will be at the detention centers, but there will be other options.  Some will be prayer vigils.  Some will be educational.  Some will be rallies.  All will end in candles.

If you go here and scroll down, you'll see all the locations.

If you're in South Florida and you can't get to the Homestead site, let me offer my church in Pembroke Pines, Trinity Lutheran, on Pines Blvd, just to the east of the South campus of Broward College. We're a congregation that embraces radical hospitality--all are welcome. 

I know that many have been wounded by The Church, but not all churches are like the ones that have done harm.  My church has welcomed a huge variety of people, from the man who was transitioning to a woman, to a Muslim woman, to several homeless people, to doctors, to educators--I could go on and on.  We are one of the few ELCA churches with a diverse racial and cultural population that mirrors our community.

The larger question might be:  what is the good of all of this?  Why pray?  Why light candles?

I have several answers to this question.  It's good self-care, for one.  It's hard to be a witness during these times.  It's hard to be an activist.  We need to remind ourselves that we are not alone.

It's important to remind those with power that we have demands that this power be used responsibly, and we are not going away with these demands.

It's good to show the wider world that we do not support the evil that this administration does.  We are not approving these human rights violation.  We need to let later generations know too.

And we pray because we believe in a God that has an expansive vision, but God has given us free will.  If God intervenes, it's because we lament and demand action.  Will God comply?  That's a larger theological question than I have time to answer this morning.

I return to the work of theologian Walter Wink. 

For those of you who would sneer at the idea of resistance working in our evil, evil world, I would say that nonviolent resistance can bring mighty social change.

Walter Wink, writing in 1993, notes, “In 1989 alone, there were thirteen nations that underwent non-violent revolutions. All of them successful except one, China. That year 1.7 billion people were engaged in national non-violent revolutions. That is a third of humanity. If you throw in all of the other non-violent revolutions in all the other nations in this century [the 20th], you get the astonishing figure of 3.34 billion people involved in non-violent revolutions. That is two-thirds of the human race. No one can ever again say that non-violence doesn't work. It has been working like crazy. It is time the Christian churches got involved in this revolution because what is happening in the world is that the world itself is discovering the truth of Jesus' teaching, and here we come in the church, bringing up the rear.” And of course, more lately we can point to a variety of revolutions, in the former Soviet Union and the Middle East, some of which have fairly peacefully gotten rid of dictators who had been in power for decades.

Maybe we are not up for the task of resistance, which can be scary and can lead us to unexpected places. At the very least, we can pray. We can pray for those people who are doing the heavy lifting of resistance. We can pray for those who are transforming their societies for good, whether they live in our country or on the other side of the planet. We can pray for the softening of the hearts of the hard ones. We can pray that we have the wisdom to recognize evil when we see it. We can pray that we have the courage to resist evil in whatever forms it comes to us.

Let's all do this on Friday, July 12.

Shelter from the Various Storms of the World

Yesterday I had a different vision for our cottage.  One of my friends asked on Facebook if we knew any South Florida resources for a trans teen kicked out of her home.  She's got friends to stay with right now, but that situation can't be permanent.

Before I go any further, let me mention Project Safe, which has many more resources for South Florida than I do.

I am aware that I have a tendency to want to rescue people, so I want to proceed cautiously.  Taking in a homeless Florida teen seems to come with lots of possible legal ramifications, so again, I want to be cautious.

I thought back to a night in 1994 when I watched the episode of My So-Called Life when gay teenage student Ricky is kicked out of his home for being gay.  He's been beaten up, and the audience assumes that it's his family who beat him up before they kicked him out.

I remember watching that episode and weeping and wondering what the larger community could do.  I remember understanding why Angela's parents are reluctant to help.

This morning I also thought of That 70's Show, which has a different troubled teen who finds himself homeless.  That situation is more comic, but it's still depicted with sensitivity and the awareness of a deeper issue. In that show, the homeless teen Steven moves into the basement of his friend Eric, who has an intact nuclear family.  It's not a great bedroom, but it's better than his other options.

When we've thought of the cottage, we've thought of the temporary shelter program that our church participates in, where homeless families who are in the process of getting permanent housing stay in a church for a week.  We've wondered if we could be a shelter.  But we're not a great location for families with children:  our cottage is small, and we have a pool that doesn't have the proper protections to keep children inside the fence from drowning.

I've thought of giving shelter to refugees, maybe even working with the Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Services group.  There, too, we might not be the best option, although the rustic nature of the cottage might not be a dealbreaker for refugees.

I've thought of providing Section 8 housing, but there are long-term implications and agreements that make me uncomfortable.  I've wondered if there's another way to find people who would be good renters of property for people of low to moderate income levels.

Until last night, I hadn't thought of other groups of people who might need housing resources.  Teens who have been kicked out of their houses for their sexual status:  hmm.  Let me think on this further.

Poetry Tuesday: "Modern Abolitionist"

In this time of turmoil at immigration points at the southern U.S. border, I've been thinking about a poem I wrote during a different time of immigration crisis, at the turn of the century, during the George W. Bush administration.  There was talk of prosecution of those who helped immigrants in the desert.  I couldn't imagine what the charges would be, and no one was prosecuted during that time.

I was teaching the Survey of American Literature class at the University of Miami, and the history of slavery and the people who tried to help runaway slaves was in my head.  One day I wrote a poem,  "Modern Abolitionist."

Those times have turned into these times, and man did go on trial for helping people lost in the desert.  I was heartened that he wasn't sent to jail.  I am still despairing that the federal government would even bring charges.

The other day I thought about this poem and wondered how it would speak to this current day.  I think it holds up well, and so I'll post it here.  It was first published in the South Carolina Review and was part of my larger chapbook, Whistling Past the Graveyard. 



Modern Abolitionist


Two hundred years ago, we would have stitched
cloth, hung our quilts on the line to give guidance.
We would have sung songs, whispered directions,
left lamps burning in strategic windows.
Then, as now, we would have helped with the herding north.

Now we hang flags of blue plastic
above water stations in the desert. We patrol
these tanks to make sure they never run dry.
Dryness means quick death for those who make the daily
dashes towards freedom. We position
these water stations in national parks
under telephone poles that stretch high above, a sure sign
even during dehydration induced hallucinations. The flags whip
in the wind, a dry rustle above the rattlesnakes.

I keep extra food and water in the truck. When I see
parched refugees, dusty and sunburned, I offer
these meager rations. I’m not above
giving folks a ride. There’s no Fugitive
Slave Act to make me cower in fear.

Some mornings I find a few of them in the fields
or huddled against the garage, the barn.
Unlike my neighbors, I don’t threaten
them with my gun or call the law.
I’ve learned enough broken
Spanish to invite them to breakfast.
Eggs and toast translate to any language.

I wish I could fully claim my Abolitionist
heritage, instead of just dancing on the edge of lawlessness.
But I am no Harriet Tubman to safely lead
people out of slavery, no John Brown
to plot uprisings and raid munitions bunkers.
Alas, I don’t have the eloquence of Frederick Douglass.
All I can offer is a glass of water, a bite
of food, substandard shelter, and a ride north.

Chills, both Big and Little

I didn't plan to spend a chunk of the week-end rewatching The Big Chill.  In fact, what I really wanted to watch was Bull Durham.  Once I owned a copy of that movie, but it's gone the way of many outmoded media--I think I had it on video tape.

I have owned at least one video tape of The Big Chill, and I did upgrade to DVD, but this week-end, it was running multiple times on one of our local PBS stations.  I got sucked right in.

The movie came out during my first year of college, and I loved it then.  When I first watched it back in 1984, I assumed that these college friends had stayed close--I was in college, and that was the story I wanted to believe. It was only upon seeing it again years later that I realized how far apart they had drifted, both from each other and from their ideals.

And then, this week-end, I realized that I'm not even sure they EVER lived up to their ideals.  But I still enjoyed hanging out with them again.  Would I want to be friends with them?  Some of them.  Most people I know have lives that have gone in different directions than their college selves planned, and it makes for interesting conversation.  The characters in the film do seem good at heart--well, with some very obvious exceptions.  And even Michael, the scuzzy guy who keeps pursuing the girlfriend of the dead friend Alex, was entertaining; I wouldn't want to be trapped in an elevator with him though.

I thought the dialogue was still snappy, and the scenery gorgeous.  The shots of the South Carolina Lowcountry in autumn made me homesick for a landscape that probably doesn't exist anymore. When they filmed that movie in the early 80's, it was very underdeveloped--not the case anymore.

What a beautiful house in that movie!  I'm talking about the big house, of course.  I thought that the kitchen was still beautiful--I'd be happy to have that kitchen. I'd love to have that house, but I'd furnish much of it differently.  And I also love the little house on the plot of land--not sure what that says about me--I'd take that one too if anyone wanted to give me a house.

It's also fun to see this slice of the early 80's, to see what cutting edge technology was then (a video camera!   A big, clunky thing) and what stays fairly timeless.  The clothes aren't as dated as many 80's movies, and the cars have aged well.

And the music--oh the music!  During our Independence Day meal clean up, the Rolling Stones' "You Can't Always Get What You Want" came on, and we sang at the top of our lungs.  I'd have likely watched the movie anyway, having stumbled across it, but I was even more in the mood after having talked about it.

When we were in college, we talked about which characters reminded us of real life counterparts.  Different characters speak to me at different times, but I've always nodded my head when Sarah says that she was tired of being a good girl who could always be counted on to do the right thing.

And now, like those characters, it's time to get back to regular life.  But I begin the week differently.  I leave at noon today because we've got a meet up with my spouse's sister who is in town and other family members.