St. Patrick’s Day at the Eagles in Morris, Minnesota

Joshua 5:9-12
2 Corinthians 5: 16-21
Luke 15: 1-3, 11b-32


It’s loud and smoky. Earlier, there was a beef stew dinner, but being a vegetarian, I skipped that part and came out later, at 10:30, for the green beer. Pitchers are $3.50. There’s a group a 20-somethings at the pool table who work at the local grocery. Some tried to go to college here but didn’t finish; others went away and came back home but couldn’t find another job. I am not sure how I know these things about them exactly, but I do, or at least I think I do. Who knows what people know or think they know about me. One of the women is wearing green makeup and green ribbons in her hair. Another has on a giant green wig and a shirt that says, “I was trained by lesbians.” (I’m not even commenting on that one).

There are some college students who have come back early from spring break at the other end of the bar, dressed up as if going they were going out dancing. They lean in to talk to each other, seemingly unaware of what is happening around them. There’s an elderly couple at the bar, and a couple of old men. A young woman and her boyfriend, out with her parents. The university’s football coaches and their wives. One of the local doctors and his wife. The entire staff of one of the daycares in town, all women in their 30s. And me and my friends.

And there’s karaoke, of course. Next to the karaoke machine is a group of people who actually know how to sing. In between sets, they sing their hearts out, not looking at the words. They’re just as drunk as everybody else, but they know better than to scream into the microphone. They make the music bearable.

By 11:30 only one of my friends and I are still at our table. I go over to the football table and congratulate the assistant coach, who I barely know, on his promotion. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him and his wife out without their kids—they have at least five, including one daughter in a wheelchair, and they are the most affectionate parents I’ve ever seen. The coach’s wife smiles at me and nods, then points to a friend of hers at the microphone and throws her head back, laughing. My doctor waves at me, a little embarrassed because he’s just finished singing “Come on Eileen,” shouting the words into the microphone and signaling to his wife each time he sang the chorus. His wife, whom I’ve never met, leans toward me and says, “Well, now you’ve seen another side of him, I guess,” and I say, “It’s good to know everybody’s human.” One of the child care workers, a single mom with four kids, gets up and begins to dance, awkwardly at first, but eventually she gets the rhythm and is almost beautiful because she looks so free.

The bartender signals the last call for alcohol, and my friend and I decide to get one last pitcher. We drink it quickly while the football coaches sing a few songs I’ve now forgotten (not surprisingly). My friend puts her name in to sing “American Pie.” The woman taking tickets, who has the most beautiful voice in the whole place, says, “Honey, that’s a terrible song, but if you really want to sing it, go right ahead.”

My friend’s the last one up. She starts to sing, and it’s terrible. She’s laughing too hard to get the words right. Two of the football coaches jump up, grab microphones, and put their arms around her. The mother shouts out, “Now that’s more like it,” and her daughter cracks up and says loudly to her boyfriend, “I can’t believe we got my mother wasted.” Then my doctor gets up and grabs the fourth microphone, and he begins to dance. “Come on everybody,” my friend shouts, “get on your feet,” and for some reason, we all do it. We start to sing together, crazy awful, mostly shouting the words. But when we get to the sad part near the end, everyone gets kind of quiet. One of the football coaches who isn’t singing pulls his wife toward him. The doctor gets a serious look on his face and stops dancing. The parents and their daughter look down at their feet. The elderly couple--the only people in the place who aren't standing up--stop clapping the rhythm and fold their hands into their laps.

But then, of course, we all get up again and sing the chorus, including that couple, laughing at each other, laughing at ourselves. It’s 1:05 by now, and the bartender starts to stack chairs on the table. We make a haphazard attempt to help, but eventually we realize we’re useless in this state and file out. I hear someone shout, “See you at church tomorrow.” I live a block away from the Eagle’s, so I walk home, laughing the entire way. I think about my friend and hope her husband will get the three kids up and feed them breakfast even though he had them all night.

I probably won’t talk to any of the people I sang with if I see them at the grocery. That is, I’ll say hello and smile, but that will be all. But for that hour from 12 to 1 we were all friends, all singing together, regardless of what we know of each other or think we know of each other. Maybe some of the people at the Eagle’s last night are there every night; this was my first visit to the bar in the seven years I’ve lived here. Maybe some of them are struggling with actual addictions, nursing a worse headache than mine this morning. Some people from the church I used to attend were there; they said hello and sang with me but didn’t acknowledge that I’d left.

Somebody stumbling into the Eagle’s last night could have said, this isn’t real. This has nothing to do with real, day-to-day connections among people. And they would be right, in a way.

But in another way, there’s something really beautiful about those celebratory hours when everything else falls away except the music, dancing, and drinking. If we can sing together at 1 a.m. in the Eagles, why can’t we talk across our differences? If we can toast each other’s successes, why can’t we also feel each other’s losses? In a way, these moments remind us of our common humanity—both what we’re capable of and how much further we need to go to really connect outside the moments of singing and dancing.

The prodigal son came home expecting to become his father’s servant at best and to be turned away at worst. Instead, he came home to a feast. His brother wasn’t too happy about this, but his father reminded him that he had always been there and was equally loved. The story ends here, and we don’t know what happens later, how the brothers manage to survive the years that will follow, how the father will feel when the party is over about his long-lost son. St. Paul writes about the “ministry of reconciliation,” saying that Jesus came to reconcile us all to God and to each other. It may be a stretch to say we continued that ministry at the Eagle’s last night when we joined tables and sang together—and then again, maybe it’s not.

Briars and Myrtle Trees

March 11, 2007 Readings:

Isaiah 55:1-9
1 Corinthians 10: 1-13
Luke 13: 1-9

I couldn’t stop at verse 9 when reading today’s verses in Isaiah. The whole chapter was so beautiful, but perhaps I am most drawn the verses that follow verse 9 because there are some signs that spring is coming, subtle but sure. The temperature has risen. The snow drifts are slowly pooling into the streets and sidewalks. The sun is bright on the snow. I’ve lived here long enough to know that anything could happen in the next hour—there could be another blizzard, or the puddles in the streets could freeze over, or the river could flood. I’ve learned to make snow angels in the middle of a blizzard, to stop what I’m doing and take a walk on the one warm day in the month because I know it may be the only warm day.

But I’ve also lived here long enough to feel the greater truth of every subtle weather change. “As the rain and snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth; it will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it.” I’ve talked to enough farmers in the region to understand how the below freezing temperatures, the hail, the snow, and now the warmer weather might affect their crops. I realize that our environment is suffering, but I can’t help but look forward to the growing season; I’ve already started planning my garden. “You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and the trees of the field will clap their hands. Instead of the thornbush will grow the pine tree, and instead of the briars, the myrtle will grow. This will be the Lord’s renown, for an everlasting sign, which will not be destroyed.”

If only I could see the coming of spring as an everlasting sign of God’s love, as God’s word made tangible in the world. If only I could be a part of the plan Isaiah lays out—that the word will not come back empty, but will achieve the purpose for which God sent it. Sometimes it’s easier to lose the big picture, to get caught up in my broken computer, problems at work, my very tight budget, the spring break that will get swallowed by work that I need to catch up on. But everything is impermanent: the computer will get fixed when I have some extra money; I’ll have some extra money this summer and will be able to pay off debts and also put some funds in savings; the work will get done; all job-related problems will seem insignificant in a year, maybe even in a month.

Meanwhile, the world bursts into spring. The seeds settle into the soil and begin their slow ascent from darkness into light. The world needs to be repaired, but there are activists and scientists and politicians working on this problem—and in the meantime, the farmers go on with their work, hope for the best possible harvest. Meanwhile, I go on working on each new challenge as it arises, and I try to keep the big picture in my mind. I have a rewarding and challenging job, and I can work through the small problems. I have a tight budget, but I’m learning how to manage my money and am repairing the damage of bad decisions in the past. I’m moving forward on the adoption process; the pre-adoption training is done, and my application is in.

Jesus reminds us in the parable of the fig tree that God always offers another chance. Give the tree another year even though it hasn’t provided any fruit, God says. The verse harkens back to Isaiah’s beautiful description of the word made real in the world: the briars will be replaced by the myrtle, the seed will create bread.

St. Paul tells us we are never tempted beyond what we can handle. I don’t know if I believe this exactly; I can’t bear to think of the suffering so many people in the world have to face, and I can’t believe that our cruelty to each other or even the natural disasters and losses in our lives stop just when we can’t bear anymore. But I do know that, although time does not heal wounds exactly, time makes scars more bearable, more meaningful; time places every grief and fear in a context, weaves every trouble into the fabric of our lives.

Interruption

To all you naysayers (you know who you are--well, one in particular!) who said I couldn't keep up the blog-every-Sunday routine, I wanted to let you know that the reason I didn't post today is because my computer at home seems to have met its end. Well, hopefully not forever, but yesterday it would not turn on no matter what I did! I don't plan to log on at work, or to go to work on Sunday mornings just to post, which means that I won't be posting for at least a little while...but let's hope my computer will be back on its feet soon...

O Jerusalem

Genesis 15
Philippians 3:17-4:1
Luke 13:31-35

I can remember very clearly my first spiritual experience. I don’t remember when it happened, but I was in a car, and my mother was driving. My sister was beside me, and one of my aunts, I can’t remember which one, was sitting beside my mother. It was an ordinary, gray Ohio day, probably in late fall or early spring, judging from the landscape as I remember it. We were on the highway, and I have no idea where we were going. I was staring out the window, half-listening to the adult talk in the front seat, when this feeling of longing and love came over me. I thought to myself, I don’t know any of the people in any of the houses we’re passing, but somehow, we’re all connected. Somehow I love them anyway.” It wasn’t exactly a peaceful feeling. I wanted to jump out of the car and put my arms around the entire city of Akron, state of Ohio, nation, world. I felt a sadness because I could not do this, but also a sense of deep wonder and belonging. I don’t know that I have ever felt quite this way again, though the feelings I have when I am truly present in any moment are similar.

When I read today’s gospel, I think that Jesus must have had the same feeling when he spoke these beautiful words. They’ve always been among my favorite in the new testament. Jesus was often pragmatic, full of one-liners and stories that focused on what people did and not on how they felt. But here, Jesus is poetic, his words beautiful and rich and sad. “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those who sent you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing! Look, your house is left to you desolate. I tell you, you will not see me again until you say, ‘Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.’”

I love the image of Jesus as the great hen, trying to coax her chicks to come under her wings. I want to be protected like that, loved that completely, but like the people of Jerusalem who could not accept Jesus’ message, I am not always able to respond to the invitation to be loved in that way. But Jesus also implies here that he is not capable of protecting all of the people in the way he wishes. He is sorrowful that they will have to face pain, grief, fear, separation, as all of us do.

In today’s reading from Philipians, St. Paul tells Jesus’ followers to focus on what is coming after this life. I’ve always had trouble with this idea of focusing on the afterlife—first of all, I’m not sure what I believe about the afterlife exactly, but more importantly, I think focusing on what comes next can be dangerous, excusing people from doing the hard work of love, peace, and justice that the world so desperately needs. Jesus seems to be saying the same thing Paul says—that the people of Jerusalem will never be fully connected until they second coming. I am not a Biblical scholar, nor can I read the original Greek, but it seems to me that this could be a misreading of this text. Jesus says, after all, You will not see me again until YOU say, “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord.” If we open our hearts and recognize Jesus’ message for what it is, we see Jesus. We are able to gather under the wings of the hen and feel Jesus’ love and act in response to that love.

The reading of Genesis calls us also to the idea of thinking beyond the present moment. Jesus tells Abraham everything that will happen. He will have many descendants. His people will get a great tract of land, then lose it and become slaves, then gain it again. He is telling a story that spans generations. I don’t know how I feel about God literally knowing what will happen in the future, but I do like the idea of being able to see the long view. On that highway drive in northeastern Ohio, I sensed a connection I could not fully grasp. I sensed a love larger than the love I had for sister, mother, and aunt, for people I knew well. I touched the past, present, and future all at once. God’s love is like that. We may not know what will happen in the way Abraham did. We may not be actively turning away from Jesus’ message in the way the people of Jerusalem did, may not want to silence him. But we are connected to all of the people mentioned in these passages, connected to the Jews who were enslaved and found their freedom, the people in Jerusalem who wanted Jesus dead, the people in the early church who were losing hope, who needed to be reminded by Paul that they believed in something larger than the present moment of their lives and that this “something larger” was what made their lives and work important.

Teach us, God, to find our way to the sacred, loving place beneath the wings of the hen who gathers her children to her. Teach us, God, to remember our connectedness to all those who came before and will come later, and to act out of that understanding of deep connection. Amen.