Grapes and Okra

Isaiah 5:1-7
Psalms 80: 1-2, 8-19
Hebrews 11:29-12:2
Luke 12: 49-56

I planted okra for the first time this year. I had no idea it could grow in Minnesota. When I was in Greece in 2005, my aunt Bethlehem taught me how to cut off the stems diagonally and stew the blossoms in vinegar, oil, onions, and tomatoes, all of which came right out of the garden. It was the best stew I had ever tasted. Last night, I harvested onioins and okra and tomatoes from the garden and lovingly, attentively, made this stew, praying for my mother, who would have been 73 yesterday, my Thea Bethlemem, who would have been about 80, and thinking how lucky I was to have this concrete way to connect to those I have lost, through gardening and cooking. The whole house filled with the familiar smell and took me right back to my aunt Bethlehem's kitchen.

But in the end, the okra were much too tough to be edible. I managed to eat the stew anyway--I cut open the tough blossoms and poured the seeds into the stew, and added rice. It was good, but not the same, of course. (Later, I talked to a friend who grew up in the South and therefore knows her okra--and she told me I had simply waited too long to pick them from the garden. Duh.).

Even though there's not much of a connection in terms of the message in the stories, I thought about that okra as I reread the verses from Isaiah this morning: "My love had a vineyard on a fertile hillside. He dug it up and cleared it of stones and planted it with the choicest vines....Then he looked for a crop of good grapes, but it yielded only bad fruit...What more could have been done for my vineyard that I have not done for it?" The story is a metaphor for the way the house of Israel turned away from God, yielding nothing but "bad fruit" despite God's care. God promises to destroy the vineyard.

Today's psalm is a response to God's promise of destruction. "Why have you broken down its walls so that all who pass by pick its wild grapes?...Watch over this vine, the root your right hand has planted, the branch you have raised up for yourself...Then we will not turn away from you." God's people pray for redemption, for a re-planting, a new harvest. We know, of course, how the story turns out: God chooses in the end to hear the people's prayer and to care for them despite his anger. Today's verses in Paul's letter to the Hebrews is a reminder of this, of the people's faithfulness and God's blessings on them.

At first, the verses in today's gospel did not seem related to this narrative. In fact, I considered ignoring them altogether. Like God's promise to let the vineyard with the "bad fruit" go to waste, they are hard to hear. They are, in fact, some of Jesus' harshest words, and they have always bothered me. The religious right, not to mention several religious cults, have used these words of division between father and son, mother and daughter, to convince people to cut themselves off from anyone who does not believe exactly as they do. In other places in the Gospels, Jesus preaches love; Jesus asks his followers to put away their swords. But here, he tells the people that he came to earth not to create peace, but disharmony. Why?

When reading about a division of "father against son and son against father, mother against daughter and daughter against mother...," I thought of a student of mine who just got back from Iraq. Again, the connection makes no logical sense except that he has been in the midst of extreme disconnection on a global scale for longer than he'd expected. He came to see me last week to tell me he would be going to seminary after finishing his degree at UMM. He wants to create change in people's lives, and he doesn't think his earlier life plan makes sense anymore. He talked about how hard it was to tell his fiance and family of this change in plans. They worried. Perhaps he was not in his right mind, having just returned from such horrifying circumstances. This wasn't the son, the partner, they knew.

During the first Iraq war, when I was in college, I talked to my friends for the first time about my political views. I had assumed we were pretty much the same; I had managed at this point in my life to hide my shame about my home life, to generally fit in, doing well in school, joining the marching band, partying with friends on the weekends. But when the war started, I had difficulty functioning; it seemed so wrong to go on with my life, safely alive in this country, when we were bombing Iraq for no reason at all. How could I just go on taking classes, studying, partying with my friends, when we lived in such a corrupt country that sought power without considering consequences? What was the point?

I lost several friends because of my views. One friend threw a chair at me in a drunken rage. Once, someone wrote "Go back to Greece" on the whiteboard on the door to my dorm room--I knew what the message meant. I had been too vocal. Eventually, my roommate and best friend asked me to move out, and I agreed this was a good idea. While I regret how depressed I became--I realize now that I could have found ways to channel my feelings more positively--I am proud that I spoke up, even if only to my small circle of friends, despite the consequences.

I am not sure how any of this ties together, exactly: how the okra I waited too long to harvest connects to my student, who sat calmly in my office, explaining that despite everything he'd seen, he believed he had the power to change people's lives through ministry. I'm not sure how the okra or my student connect to the 20-year-old college student I once was who had to start over with new friends her sophomore year because of her views about the war. And I'm definitely not sure how any of this connects to this week's bible verses.

But perhaps Jesus' harsh words simply meant that as God's people, we will have to stand up for what we know is right, which will sometimes mean we create conflict even among those closest to us. Speaking truthfully, even harshly, is an act of hope, even if it is also divisive. Choosing a path that will be difficult for those closest to us to accept is an act of hope, even if it is also divisive. Sometimes we have to cut open the harsh, inedible exterior and go straight for the seeds; sometimes we have to pull the plants up by the root and start over.

This week, I spoke some harsh words to a friend who was choosing to stay stuck in her pain and anger; I told her I didn't think it made sense for us to keep talking unless she really, truly wanted to work through her past and change her life so that her past no longer controlled her present or her future. It took a couple days, but she thanked me for those words; she has since made a plan to move forward, and I have agreed to be there for her as she continues to heal from her past. I have been on the receiving end of words like these in my past, and I have not always responded as positively, but I feel lucky that people I loved told me when I was living a life that was out of control or thoughtless or selfish, when I was not being honest about my motivations.

My soldier-student and I were lucky: his loved ones eventually accepted his new life plan and agreed to stand by him; my friend accepted what I had said, and we were able to remain friends. But we both took risks--we couldn't be sure of the outcome. We just knew we had to speak, just as many of my friends were called to speak harsh words to me at different times in my life. In a way, God's metaphor of the vineyard holds the same message. God responded in anger to the people's decision to live without considering God's love for them. God's people responded with a sincere desire to change, and then God acted in love, continuing to care for them. In this story, God was showing us how we are to treat others--we need to be honest and also loving, to risk disconnection in order to connect more deeply, because any relationship that is not based on honesty, any friendship in which we cannot say what we really mean, is not complete. God was also showing us how to respond to him, with a sincere and humble desire to follow, and, often, to change.

Letter to first-year college students of color

I just finished teaching English in the Gateway program, a program designed to provide incoming students of color with an opportunity to get to know the UMM campus before everyone else arrives. (I didn't manage to post last night because I was busy grading--and then busy enjoying the Stevens County fair). The program includes academic components, workshops on college life, and fun activities. Teaching in this program is one of the most rewarding parts of my job. This year, I wrote the students a letter on the last day. I've included it below because I think it is relevant for anyone who teaches or takes classes; it also references some of my favorite short stories and essays.

Dear Gateway students,

In lieu of sharing a poem today, I decided to write you a letter explaining why I chose the readings I chose for this class. I hoped that they would lead you to begin your time in college with some questions in your mind, questions that do not have an easy answer but that I hope you will ponder throughout your time in college.

The first question is, “What will it mean for you to become educated?” In other words, is your education going to be about separating yourself from your past, or learning to understand that past in new ways? Will you approach education as a series of hoops you have to jump through, as Richard Rodriguez admits he did in “The Achievement of Desire?” Or, will you use what you have learned to create positive changes in your communities and in your own lives?

The second question is, “Will pay attention to the overall quality of your life, or only to your achievements?” In Gish Jen’s story “Who’s Irish?,” the daughter Natalie becomes a successful vice-president of a bank, but her life otherwise is unhappy, and her connections to others, at least as far as we can tell from the grandmother’s perspective, are tenuous at best. This question is really about balance. Is it possible to cherish the core of who you are, the redeeming and amazing parts of your heritage and culture and experiences, throughout your life? Is it possible to mourn and/or reject the parts of your past that have done more damage than good? You have to answer these questions for yourself, but I believe these things are possible, but only if you apply every piece of new knowledge you learn—as well as the knowledge you have already acquired from your first 18 or so years of life—to the life that is now unfolding, while also being flexible and open to change.

Which leads to the third question: “How will you deal with change?” College will stretch you, force you to consider viewpoints you’ve never considered and to make decisions you never thought you’d have to make. Each time you encounter a new viewpoint or have to make a difficult decision, you will have to decide whether you will act in fear or in love (for yourself and for others). In Randall Kenan’s story “The Foundations of the Earth,” the character Maggie chose love; I hope you will do the same.

And a final question: “How will you deal with the pressure you face to be a hero?” In Sherman Alexie’s story “The Only Traffic Signal on the Reservation Doesn’t Flash Red Anymore,” Julius Windmaker (and before him, Victor) faced the pressure of being a hero for their community. I know from the essays you wrote on the second day of class that many of you face the same pressure, although in a different way. You might be the first in your family to go to college, or even to graduate from high school. You might have family members or people in your community who are pushing you to be even more successful than they were in life. There may be people who don’t believe you will finish, and people who are counting on you to finish because they need you to do what they could not do. I have seen too many students of color and working class/poor students—as well as students who for other reasons face a lot of pressure from their families or communities--lose themselves in this pressure, holding themselves to standards higher than anyone can possibly achieve, or simply deciding to give up before failing. Don’t be one of those students. If you’re thinking about dropping out, talk to me or someone else you trust first.

Will you be able to do what Victor and Adrian were unable to do? Will you be able to shift your sense of responsibility from “I don’t want to disappoint anyone” to “I have to make my own decisions and live my own life” to “I am responsible for taking care of myself and creating positive changes in my community, and it’s possible to do both at the same time?” Many of you faulted Victor and Adrian for sitting on their porch day in and day out, never reaching out to the young people on the reservation; think about how you can do better.

I wish I had the time to make this letter more personal (i.e, write each of you a separate letter)—but I hope that something in this letter will resonate with you. Teaching Gateway is one of the most rewarding things I do at UMM, second only to seeing my Gateway students graduate. By the way, if you are wondering why you never got back the essays you wrote me on the second day of class about how you came to be in college: I will return them to you with a more personal note in a graduation card in four years. I think they will have some resonance at that point in your life and provide you with a chance to reflect back about what you were thinking about at the start of your college journey. So, between now and then, be sure to stay in touch!

Argie

"My heart is changed within me"

Hosea 11:1-11

There is something so beautiful about the reading from Hosea that I can't figure out a way to paraphrase it. I need to put it down here, or most of it, at least:

"When Israel was a child, I loved him, and out of Egypt I called my son. But the more I called Israel, the further they went from me..."

"It was I who taught Ephraim to walk, taking them by the arms, but they did not realize it was I who healed them. I led them with cords of human kindness, with ties of love; I lifted the yoke from their neck and bent down to feed them...My people are determined to turn from me..."

"How can I give you up, Ephraim? How can I hand you over, Israel?...My heart is changed within me; all my compassion is aroused. I will not carry out my fierce anger, nor will I turn and devastate Ephraim. For I am God, not human--the Holy One among you. I will not come in wrath...I will settle them into their homes, says the Lord."

Listen to God's longing for the people, how tenderly God loves us. Listen to the anguish, the decision God has to make about whether to act in anger or in love, to destroy or to heal.

There is nothing like it, this compassion. These verses resonated deeply with me this week. As I noted last week, I'm having conversations with an old friend who was the victim of a hate crime in 2002. In our most recent conversation, she told me that what hurts her the most now is that so many people refused to cooperate with the police investigation. There was a spiral of silence, wide and deep, in our community--the clerks at the store where the crime began, the alleged perpetrators themselves, their family members, their friends. The police essentially knew exactly who had committed the crime, but there was no way to prove it because not a single witness would speak up.

I can remember the anger I felt then, and continue to feel, about this silence. There is a quote from Audre Lorde, which I have on a bumper sticker on my car: "Your silence will not protect you." To me, it's a reminder of my obligation to speak out about injustice, including injustices that don't affect me. I know I have not always done so.

There is nothing like the pain of multiple people turning away, ignoring, staying silent--nothing else hurts as much. It is like the pain of a child who suffers in an abusive household, knowing someone could stop what is happening, knowing there must be a way to make it end, and wondering why she herself does not have the power to do so.

The idea that God aches in the same way that my friend ached for acknowledgement, that an abused child aches for acknowledgement, is incredible. That God has been there since the beginnning, teaching us to walk, taking us by the arm--and not just each one of us individually, but our entire communities--is perhaps the most profound message in the bible. Our God is not all-powerful; our God cannot control what we do, the messes we get ourselves into, or the messes we end up in the midst of by no fault of our own. All our God can do is choose whether to respond to us in wrath or in love.

And God chooses love. "For I am God, not human--the Holy One among you," God says, showing us that choosing love is the way to pull ourselves out of the misery of our human existence, that love is a higher way.

Love. How does a child who suffered love the father who hurt her, the people who ignored what was happening, inside the house and out? How does a crime victim love the perpetrator, the people who stayed silent? Maybe it's not possible. Maybe the best we can do is let go of the anger and turn the love back to ourselves so that we will survive. Maybe the best we can do is act out of love when we see injustice.

I struggled a long time with the question of how powerful God actually is. Can God sweep down and change things, and if so, what makes God choose to do so in some situations and not others? Can God change people in the profound ways people in the Old Testament or St. Paul was changed--and if so, why doesn't God do so more often? Can God destroy, and if so, why are hateful people allowed to remain hateful? Can God keep destruction from happening--and if so, why doesn't God do so more often?

I don't know exactly how I let go of these questions, but I have. I have learned to see God as love, pure love, as a being who struggles always between reacting in anger and reacting in love--or, rather, a being that feels anger but does not let the anger turn to hate. A God who can fuel the work God does with love rather than anger or hate. A God who can teach us to do the same.

The Bible is the story of God's love for the people God created and nourished, creates and nourishes--and the story goes on. We are part of it, called to heal ourselves and the world, called to speak out, called to ask forgiveness and try again when we fail to do so.

"My heart is changed within me. My compassion is aroused," God says. If only we could say this, every time we watch other people hurt themselves or others, every time we realize we've hurt ourselves or others. If only we could allow ourselves to struggle as God strugged in this passage and decide to choose love.