“Can anything good come from Nazareth?” (or Christianity…the United Methodist Church…North Alabama)

As we enter the called General Conference of The United Methodist Church this weekend, where our global church body will debate and vote on the full inclusion of LGBTQ persons in the life of the church (marriage and ordination,) I’ve been reflecting.

Learn more about called General Conference, the process, and the options through this link.

 

“Can anything good come out of Nazareth?”

This is the phrase Nathanial throws at Phillip in John chapter 1. Phillip had met Jesus and was proclaiming him to be the Messiah they had waited for. Nathanial wasn’t having it. So, hearing that this supposed “Messiah” was from Nazareth, he responds rather flippantly, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” I would have loved to see the accompanying eye roll.

Phillip responds simply: “Come and see.”

“Ok, Nathanial,” Phillip seems to think in this short passage, “point taken. But come and see and you will change your mind.”

And Nathanial does! And quickly. Even before the miracle at Cana. Nathanial meets Jesus and proclaims, “Rabbi, you are the Son of God! You are the King of Israel!”

But what was wrong with Nazareth? Scholars have posited theories, but let’s just be basic here.

1. In Jesus’ time it was tiny. It was a “one light town.” Though let’s stay in the first century and call it a “one mikva town.”
2. It was likely aligned with Judean politics. So, for those who did not agree with Judea’s ideology, Nazareth would have been considered part of the problem. (For Trump supporters perhaps imagine going into a neighborhood with all Clinton signs and vice-versa for Clinton supporters.)

And yet, despite Nathanial’s horror and disbelief that something as significant as the Messiah could come from such an insignificant place with the “wrong” ideology, Jesus DID.

Over the past years and months I’ve read and listened to different points of view about The United Methodist church and this particular juncture.

From many progressive and LGBTQ friends I hear utter frustration with the denomination. In fact, many have left the denomination because of this issue. I’ve had seminary friends leave the UMC to answer pastoral calls in the United Church of Christ and Episcopal Church because of the rejection of LGBTQ individuals in our Book of Discipline. I do not blame them and it is our deep loss.

From many conservative friends I hear utter frustration with the denomination. Some are concerned that our church is following dangerous societal norms while disregarding Biblical law. Some threaten to leave the denomination and take congregations with them if the decisions of this weekend do not uphold the current language of the Book of Discipline. Despite what some progressives might believe, I think that would be our deep loss as well. While many inside and outside of the Christian faith tend to label those in this camp as “bigots,” I’m not convinced most are. I think that just like those who advocate full inclusion, anti-LGBTQ Christians believe they, too, are acting out of love—the love and concern for eternal salvation.

From friends outside of the North Alabama conference, the UMC, and Christianity I hear disbelief and even annoyance. Many who grew up in the church have abandoned Christianity over issues like these. After all, theologies of exclusion have created climates where our LGBTQ brothers and sisters are rejected, taunted, and even killed.

I hear, “Really though, how can anything good come out of the North Alabama Conference where it seems most are anti-LGBTQ, or The United Methodist Church, or, let’s be honest, even Christianity anymore. They have hurt too much and too often.”

I get it.

But even our Messiah came out of the most unlikely of places and in the most unlikely of ways.

And throughout our history as Christians, and even United Methodists, this trend tracks.

Let’s take a look:

When Christianity wasn’t Christianity, but rather an unpopular Jewish movement, we had similar debates.

 Can anything good come from the unclean and those who don’t follow religious laws?

Jesus thought so. This is why he touched lepers and healed on the Sabbath.

Can anything good come from the Gentiles (non-Jews)?

Paul thought so. But James most definitely did not. Peter was decidedly “moderate.”

Many early followers held fast that the only people who could properly follow Christ must be Jewish. That meant adhering to Jewish law laid out in the Torah (found in our Old Testament.) This ranged from strict dietary laws, to what clothes could be worn, to how hair should be cut, to adult circumcision. After all, what would become the New Testament was far from existing and their scripture was what Christians later would come to consider the “Old Testament.”

Paul berated Peter for siding with James and not eating with Gentiles. (We see this in Paul’s letter to the Galatians, but honestly, I like to imagine that Facebook argument.)

Paul saw the Spirit working in Gentiles as well as Jews. They had mighty gifts to offer the growing Christian movement. And thankfully, they were allowed to.

Can anything good come from women, slaves, or eunuchs?

Paul and others saw the gifts of the Sprit working in women, slaves, and eunuchs too.

Priscilla was a missionary with Paul and Phoebe was a leader in the church of Cenchreae. The entire book of Philemon is about advocating on behalf of a former slave. Phillip sees the spirit working in an Ethiopian eunuch and sits down to study Isaiah with him.

Can anything good come from divorced persons?

Early Methodism in America wasn’t so sure. After all, Jesus had “clearly” stated in Matthew 5:32 “But I say to you, whoever divorces his wife (unless the marriage is unlawful) causes her to commit adultery and whoever marries a divorced woman commits adultery.”

In 1888 the Methodist Episcopal Church decided, “No divorce, except for adultery or causeless and continued abandonment, shall be regarded by the Church as lawful.” (MEC GC Journal 1888, pp. 231, 279)

Gradualism began.

In 1908 the bishops of the MEC stated “the consecutive polygamy permitted by the divorce laws of some of our states is a disgrace to our country.” (MEC GC Journal 1908, p. 133)

1928: “a divorced person seeking admission into membership in our Church who manifests a proper spirit and satisfactorily answers the usual inquiries, may be received” (MEC Discipline 1928, ¶70, n.p.).

1972: “In marriages where the partners are, even after thoughtful consideration and counsel, estranged beyond reconciliation, we recognize divorce and the right of divorced persons to remarry, and express our concern for the needs of the children of such marriage” (UMC Discipline 1972, ¶72, pp. 85-86)

The work of the Spirit was recognized in divorced individuals. They were accepted, could be remarried, and serve as ministers.

Can anything good come from the abolishment of slavery? (Yes, we had to bring this one up again.)

The Methodist Episcopal church split in 1844 over this issue. In fact slavery and race were so contentious in this period of American Christianity (and even present-day) that several protestant denominations split over this. Pro-slavery ministers preached the biblical validation for slavery and thus, the continuation of its institution in America.

Of course, in later years after the Methodist church’s reunion, apologies have been issued. Because in our present consciousness, it is obvious (even with “biblical validation”) that slavery is not moral and that those who were bound in chains for so long have incredible gifts to offer Christianity.

 Can anything good come from women leadership? (Yes, we had to bring this one up again too.)

Even though John Wesley licensed Sarah Crosby to preach in 1761, it wasn’t until 1956 that women were granted full rights of inclusion in the life of The United Methodist Church.

The spirit moves in women too, and their gifts have been invaluable to the life and leadership of the church.

Can anything good come from LGBTQ persons?

 The evidence of the work of God’s embracing Spirit cries, “YES!”

I pray for the delegates this weekend. I pray for the hearts and minds in our global church body. I pray for my friends and loved ones on the whole spectrum of this argument. I pray for my friends and loved ones whose very identity is being debated.

Though the best, viable outcome (from my perspective) from this weekend is likely just another beginning to another path of gradualism in the UMC, the movement of our Gospel and our long history points to this resounding “YES!”

God, forgive us for taking so long to live into your way.

To All the Other Women Hiding in Target This Week

I sat on the ground hiding behind my shopping cart in the back aisle at Target. I had not bathed in two days. I cried.

God. How did I get here?

I stopped at Target to pick up a few things after my regular appointment with my therapist. In the middle of our session she asked me how this week had been with the current news cycle (a question becoming too frequent these days.) I broke down. For the first time in a while, I wept uncontrollably and could not stop. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t breathe. I just sobbed.

Then, of course, the overwhelming guilt of my privilege to get to sit in a therapist’s office and cry about the news swept in and I cried even harder.

When I got to Target I was still crying. I went directly to the clothes section because maybe trying on something pretty would make me feel better. That’s how it works, right? Of course, my “regular” sizes didn’t fit because I had a baby 6 months ago and still haven’t been able to regain my shape. And, of course, at night when I’m not sleeping because of newsfeeds and headlines and feelings of worthlessness…I eat. A lot.

I cried some more.

What was I even trying on? I found this pink sweatshirt that read: “MY VOICE IS VITAL.” “That’s affirming,” I thought. Maybe I need that. Maybe that would be another response I could add to my armor since 2016 when the sea changed to surface those that would go on to normalize (re-normalize?) overtly racist and sexist rhetoric. I mean, the initial power of the “Feminist With a To-Do List” and “Nevertheless She Persisted” and “Roar” and “Smash the Patriarchy” pins I had bought were really starting to wear off.

Yeah, maybe it would make me feel better to walk around in a overpriced sweatshirt that tells people that I matter. The brand, named “A New Day,” (eye roll) would have successfully capitalized on my pain this week…had it actually fit my new body and not forced me to look at myself naked to try the damn thing on in the first place.

I then get to the food section to decide how much indulgences I should get for the week ahead. I’m in the middle of the usual fight between myself and the articles and blogs that tell me “If you don’t have it in your kitchen you won’t eat it!” When I hear it. It’s the voice of one of my former students who took several of my classes at the college where I taught last year.

I panicked.

“He can’t see me like this. Oh God. What do I do??”

So I turn around before he can see me and run to the back of the store to hide behind my cart. But then I start questioning: “DAMN. I’m in the laundry aisle. Young men at college need laundry detergent too. WHY DIDN’T RUN TO THE FEMININE HYGIENE AISLE?”

Why couldn’t I face him? Would I have stopped to talk if it had not been a male student? I don’t know.

I probably would have felt more comfortable letting another woman in on this particular breakdown. Would she understand it? But then maybe the young man should have seen me like this: a seemingly put together college instructor breaking down in Target because of the events of week.

“Yeah, dude. This is what is happening to a whole lot of women right now. We are not ok.”

After hiding for a while I text my 3 best friends in our “be brave, you got this” moral support chain. One responds: “Just leave. I feel like Target is probably littered with abandoned carts by people who are having a rough week.”

She is probably not wrong.

However, I have to at least get back to the baby section to get formula because I have stopped producing milk. Here comes the shame again. More tears.

***

So what is it about this week? I would say it started last Thursday. You know, “The Kavanaugh Hearing.” But let’s be honest. This started when I was born 32 years ago, the doctor looked at my anatomy, and declared me officially “a girl.”

It started with sexual assaults I never wanted to name that because they had to have been my fault, or they involved someone who had power over me, or were more easily defined differently.

Last week I, for the first time, made a professional move that made me feel like I was worthy. I felt like such a strong, brilliant, bad ass for about 5 hours.

That was cut short.

Thursday arrived. I went to the gym to try to work out some feelings in a healthy way (Yay!) When I get there the Kavanaugh hearing is playing on every television screen with every major news outlet represented.

“God,” I thought, “this is overwhelming and has got to be triggering for at least one woman in this room right now.” I put on my headphones and blasted some show tunes.

Then, I get a text from one of my best friends who is an Episcopal priest. She tells about how a group of older men at a gathering before that day’s noonday Eucharist service commented on her weight.

“Don’t worry, honey, you wear your weight well,” one of the men said referring to her bottom.

“I then had to serve this man communion,” she concluded the text.

This. This is it. It’s just the casualness of it all. It’s the way that it is so NORMAL. It’s not the trauma inducing overt acts of rape or sexual assault that have led so many women to their breaking point this week (though for many, of course, those have too.) Rather, it’s the slow, whittling trauma of existing in this reality created by off-hand comments about our bodies; created by people crying “political correctness police!” when we stand up for ourselves against those comments; created by “boys will be boys” mentality; created by fellow women sharing memes like “Beware! Our sons are in danger!”

It’s the slow burning trauma of simply not valuing women enough to believe them.

That particular exasperation was put on display this week, but this isn’t new (for women who follow Christ anyway.) Jesus’ disciples didn’t believe the women either.

In Luke the women go to the empty tomb, encounter two angels, and go to tell the Good News to the disciples:

“‘Remember how [Jesus] told you when he was still in Galilee, that the Son of Man must be handed over to sinners, and be crucified, and on the third day rise again.’ Then they remembered his words, and returning from the tomb, they told all this to the eleven and to all the rest. Now it was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of Jesus, and the other women with them who told this to the apostles. But these words seemed to them an idle tale, and they did not believe them.” (Luke 24:6-11)

I imagine those bold women were a bit exasperated too.

Their profound and world changing cry of “JESUS IS RISEN!” Was met with, “Oh sure. Just the idle tales of women.”

For those of us aware of it (and perhaps even for those who aren’t) it’s the trauma caused by this casual build-up that makes weeks like this so painful. It’s this accepted attitude we live with; it’s the questioning about why we might be upset about this; it’s the labels of “over-emotional” or “angry feminist” when we express this pain; it’s the culture that responds to our profound speech with, “but these words seemed to them an idle tale and they did not believe them.”

It’s confusing. It’s exhausting.

***

When I finally made it back to the front of the store the woman at the register asked, “How are you doing today?” Our eyes met and locked for a little longer than comfortable, and then, with a sad smile she just nodded.

She knows. I know. You are not alone.

“F&*# tha Police:” When Poetry Says What we Can’t

I’m still angry.

 

The events in Ferguson, Missouri that began with the shooting and killing of 18 year-old Michael Brown are, in some ways, beginning to settle, and in others are only escalating.

 

And it will happen again.

 

This is the 3^rd time in last few years that an unarmed black teenager has been killed by a white person and the 4^th time in the last month that an unarmed black teenager has been killed by the police. This story is not unique.

 

And it will happen again.

 

So much has been written, and will continue to be written about what is happening in this Missouri suburb and its greater meanings.  People will continue to point to America’s broken history regarding race and its continued repercussions. Others will speak to the “self-justifying language of force” and the growing militarization of our police forces. Still others will use Michael Brown’s mistakes to legitimize his murder reducing the event’s complexities to something easier to conceptualize. Even more will speak from personal experience and conviction, from the families of police officers to the parents of black youth. There is no doubt that the events are complicated and require continued conversation. To ignore this would be irresponsible.

 

But I’m still angry.

 

There comes a point when even the most well-written and profound commentary can’t adequately respond to this kind of raw, irrational emotion. And I’m a middle-class, educated white girl. So while my anger is certainly valid, it only reflects the much deeper and internalized rage of so many of my neighbors.

 

But I’m still angry. I’m angry about redlining and the school-to-prison pipeline. I’m angry about the War on Terror and the War on Drugs and what they’ve done to our communities. I’m angry that so many police officers value their gun more than their badge. I’m angry that in places like Ferguson or West End, Alabama people contribute to this violent cycle with their own weapons. I’m angry that protestors in Ferguson are using violence and that that is going to become the story and the excuse. I’m angry about the sin of the people and my own sinful contributions to sanctioned, structural racism.

 

And so thank God for the Psalms.

 

And Dr. Dre.

 

There are times when the reality of Sin is so close and overwhelming that all we have is poetry.

 

There are times when any notion of an alternative reality where The Kingdom of God reigns supreme seems so absurd that any hope is absolutely paralyzed. 

 

I’m glad the Bible certainly does not shy away from this truth.

 

Biblical scholar Walter Brueggemonn likes to reveal this, especially in the Psalms, by using Paul Ricouer’s philosophy that life is characterized by maintaining balance between disorientation and reorientation.

 

And here we are. Disoriented. At least I am. Right now I can only hear the language of disorientation. Language that, as Brueggemmon explains “is extreme, rarely hopeful, and usually marked by the underpinnings of resistance.”

 

The psalmists knew this pain. The lament/imprecatory Psalms express the pain and confusion of being disoriented and the resentment of those who have seemingly caused it.

 

Save me, O God,

            For the waters have come up to my neck.

I sink in deep mire,

            where there is no foothold;

I have come into deep waters,

            and the flood sweeps over me.

I am weary with my crying;

            my throat is parched.

My eyes grow dim

with waiting for my God.

 

Let their table be a trap for them,

            a snare for their allies.

Let their eyes be darkened so that they cannot see,

            and make their loins tremble continually.

Pour out your indignation upon them,

            and let your burning anger overtake them.

May their camp be a desolation;

            Let no one live in their tents.

For they persecute those whom you have struck down,

            and those whom you have wounded they attack still more.

Add guilt to their guilt;

            may they have no acquittal from you.

Let them be blotted out of the book of the living;

            let them not be enrolled among the righteous. (Ps. 69: 1-3, 22-28.)

.

 Modern psalmists know what’s up too.

 

F*&# the police comin’ straight from the underground.

A young nigg# got it bad ‘cause I’m brown,

and not the other color so police think

they have the authority to kill a minority.

F*&# that shit, ‘cause I ain’t the one

for a punk mother*&#er with a badge and a gun

to be beatin’ on, and thrown in jail

We can go toe to toe in the middle of a cell.

F*$#in’ with me ‘cause I’m a teenager

with a little bit of gold and a pager,

searchin’ my car, looking for the product,

Thinkin’ every nigg# is sellin’ narcotics.

You’d rather see, me in the pen

than me and Lorenzo rollin’ in a Benz-o.

Beat a police out of shape

and when I’m finished, bring the yellow tape.

To tape off the scene of the slaughter

still gettin’ swoll off bread and water,

I don’t know if they f&$# or what,

Search a nigg# down, and grabbin’ his nuts.

And on the other hand, without a gun they can’t get none

but don’t let it be a black and a white one,

‘cause they’ll slam ya down to the street top

Black police showin’ out for the white cop.

 

(N.W.A., “F*&# tha Police, “ Straight Outa Compton.)

 

Both psalmists are angry. Both psalmists are so blinded by their own rage that they can’t see beyond their own experiences. Neither psalmist takes the time to stop and think about the situation from “the enemy’s” point of view. Both psalmists want their enemy thoroughly destroyed at the hands of violence. And though N.W.A. doesn’t say it explicitly, I’m willing to bet that both psalmists believe they have God on their side.

 

Luckily, we have a God who does not shame us for these very real emptions. We have a God that listens to our laments. We have a God who hears our name-calling and blame-passing and our cries for killing and narrow executions of justice. We have a God who can take our hatred and misunderstanding of God.

 

We have a God of transformation.

 

The funny thing about the Psalms is that they don’t stand alone. There are not just imprecatory psalms. There are psalms of praise and psalms of new life and psalms of restoration. There are psalms of reorientation. Even Psalm 69 doesn’t remain in the anger. By its end it moves from its anguished pleas to praise. In fact, Brueggemonn would argue that the state of disorientation is required for the psalmist to reach a new state of reorientation. This marks, he says, “a turn from resentful remembering to a fresh anticipation of an equilibrium that is a gift from God, genuinely new and not a reinstatement of the old.”

 

So today, I’m grateful for the poetry of the Psalms, and N.W.E, and of so many others who are angry and hurt and have lost all hope. We need to express our anger and utter confusion. We need the time and space to sit and truly experience this disorientation. We need to be angry and irrational about injustice and we need to rage about it because, as Brueggemonn explains, “The cry mobilizes God in the public arena of life.” This cry allows us to implicate God in the covenant relationship that has been promised. This cry reminds us of our part in that relationship. This cry, as it has before and will again, will eventually move us to praise. Not a false praise that comes from choosing to ignore the feelings that these disturbing realities elicit, but authentic praise that can only come through the experience and horrifying remembrance of our disorienting realities.

 

I’m not there yet.

 

But there is hope in a God who honors our rage and disorientation. It’s only through authentic rage that we can get to authentic hope in a God who will restore and renew our broken realities.

 

Here’s hoping that there will be a day when I can read the rest of the psalm:

 

I will praise the name of God with a song;

            I will magnify him with thanksgiving.

This will please the Lord more than an ox

            or a bull with horns and hoofs.

Let the oppressed see it and be glad;

            you who seek God, let your hearts revive.

For the Lord hears the needy,

            and does not despise his own that are in bonds.

 

Let heaven and earth praise him,

            the seas and everything that moves in them.

For God will save Zion

            and rebuild the cities of Judah;

And his servants shall live there and possess it;

            the children of his servants shall inherit it,

And those who love his name shall live in it. (Ps. 69: 30-36)

 

Required reading: 

Walter Brueggemann, Finally Comes the Poet: Daring Speech for Proclamation, (Minneapolis, Fortress Press, 1989).

Walter Brueggemann, The Psalms and the Life of Faith, ed. Patrick D. Miller (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1995).

*Thanks to Dr. Brent Strawn for introducing me to Brueggemann and to Todd Salmi for giving me that C.D. a long time ago.*

To my daughter on the day after Robin Williams’ suicide

Dear NK,

You’re probably too young to understand this, but then again what do I know? I don’t remember what it was like to be 1 ^5/6 year old. I bet you know more than I think you do.

Last night when I got home I had a text message from Aunt K. Here’s how it started: “I have some bad news. You may want to sit down.” (That is a terrible way to begin a text message, by the way.) Because the internet has made it impossible for me to savor words anymore (that’s what They’re saying anyway), I automatically took in the words in their entirety in one instant.

There was no time to sit down. (Thanks, Internet.)

Here is what the message read: “I have some bad news. You may want to sit down. Apparently Robin Williams killed himself.”

I did, indeed, need to sit down.

And I can only assume what you’re thinking. “Mom, I don’t even know who that is. He’s not in our family. He’s not our friend, right? Why does it matter?” And that is an excellent question, especially for a 1 ^5/6 year old. And honestly, I’m having a hard time answering it. Many people have been trying to answer that question today. Some say it’s because he touched so many lives through his unsurpassed television and film career. Others say it’s because so many were inspired by his comedic and improvisational genius. Still others talk about how it’s the suicide that is so devastating—and point to the need to de-stigmatize mental illness and put more resources into its study and treatment.

These are all true. And, as you’ll learn, this is not an original story. Pop icons, great creative minds, and transcendent artists die. Too many times in tragic ways resulting from depression, addiction, and other mental diseases. And society mourns. And we naively think, “How could someone loved by so many want to die or numb out to the point of death?”

I thought this today.

And I thought about the times in my own struggle with mental illness that I have just known that if I did something important, if I were recognized for something wonderful that touched thousands of lives, I would be happy. I would finally be happy. But then these deaths betray the utter fallacy of that logic. It’s a false conditional. (I’ll teach you more about logic someday, NK.)

I’ve learned that often when logic fails, you have to tell a story. So I’m going to tell you a story.

Once upon a time there was a knight of King Arthur named Percival. He wandered around the land doing all that knights did and one day came upon a place called The Wild Mountain. The king there was known as Amfortas, or, The Fisher King. Legend tells us that God had charged The King to protect The Holy Grail. The King, however, had been terribly wounded. The Grail had wondrous powers that sustained the life of The King, but just. Percival marveled the Grail’s powers, but was quickly thrown out by a page screaming, “Damn you!! You did not ask The Question!!”

The Court disgraced Percival. His entire family was disgraced. (NK, don’t worry. I will love you and stand by you even when you make mistakes.)

After a long time Percival stumbled upon The Wild Mountain again. He found it just as it had been when he was younger. The King still suffered, but even the magic of the Grail could not heal him. But this time, at once, upon seeing the King, Percival asks, “What ails thee?” (That’s a fancy way of saying, “What are you going through?”)

That was the right question.

The King rested and Percival became the new guardian of the Grail. And so the legend goes, the true owner of the Holy Grail is the one pays attention to the suffering of others. THE END.

This story is actually much longer and this is only one iteration. (I promise I’ll share more with you when you get a little older.) In fact, one iteration is none other than the Robin Williams movie, The Fisher King. (We’ll watch that later too.) The movie, a modern retelling, teaches the same lesson. Happiness, meaning, magic, “the Grail,” can only be possessed by she who pays attention to the suffering of others.

Recently, I’ve been re-reading an essay by Simone Weil, a 20th century French philosopher and political activist. The essay is titled, “Reflections on the Right Use of School Studies with a View to the Love of God.” In this writing, Weil makes the case for paying attention. In fact, she believes that our everyday tasks require the utmost attention because they train us to be able to pay better attention to each other. She writes, “Every time that a human being succeeds in making an effort of attention with the sole idea of increasing her grasp of truth, she acquires a greater aptitude for grasping it, even if her effort produces no visible fruit.”

She likes to use geometry problems as an example (I’ll teach you about geometry later, too). She says that even if math problems are absolutely loathsome, pay attention. It doesn’t even matter that at the end of the effort you don’t have the solution or understand the proof. What matters is the genuine effort of the attention. It’s never wasted because it makes you better at paying attention.

This is crucial, right? Our story just revealed the Truth. A Truth that often logic can’t uncover. Happiness, meaning, magic, “the Grail,” can only be possessed by she who pays attention to the suffering of others.

Weil continues with these powerful words: “Those who are unhappy have no need for anything in this world but people capable of giving them attention. The capacity to give one’s attention to a sufferer is a very rare and difficult thing. It is almost a miracle. It is a miracle. Nearly all those who think they have this capacity do not possess it. Warmth of heart, impulsiveness, pity are not enough.”

And, my dear daughter, I think this is all that I can tell you on the day after Robin Williams suicide. Pay attention. Remind me to pay attention. Let’s practice paying attention. So many suffer around us and, like Percival, we keep failing to ask the right question.

“What are you going through?”

We cannot possess the Grail without paying attention to each other.

We cannot survive without paying attention to each other.

Love,

Mom

(P.S. – I’ve been meaning to start a blog for a very long time. I’m glad I got to start it with you.)