In 2012, the Catholic Church in the United States is crucified between two thieves. That's not such a bad place to be, given our history, our roots, our future, our sign, our nourishment, our heroes, our Lord. Still, it's fun to fuss.
On one hand, there's an administration that has demanded that all employers provide insurance for contraception and sterilization and chemically induced abortion. The Church objects that this requirement is a violation of their conscience and also of a truce that has been in place for 30 years. On the other hand, there's a political party that has blocked all efforts to accept 12 million facts on the ground: undocumented immigrants. The Church objects that inhospitality is a violation of the nation's conscience, and a transformation of our national identity.
Dear Lord, protect the unknown unnamed unnumbered unwanted unloved unborn, and also the undocumented unwashed unfed unemployed uprooted unwanted illegals. Teach us to cherish and protect all the grimy little Uns you have placed in our lives.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Sunday, April 8, 2012
the generous desert
Forty years ago, I went into the desert in New Mexico with a friend, Dave Gaetano. It was our second foray into the beauty of the Southwest. This time, we went into the canyon of the Rio Chama, northeast of Santa Fe, in Abiquiu. Abiquiu itself is a handful of houses and a store sprinkled lightly along a highway. Several miles away, there was a small sign, perhaps six inches by ten, hunched low to the ground, with an arrow pointing west along a track to “Christ in the Desert Monastery.” The road goes west a mile or two, then it tips over an edge and feels its way down and down into the canyon, then turns north again, and goes another ten miles or so to a dead end at the monastery. We went to the end, then backed up a mile and set up camp on a hill between the river and the extravagantly colored canyon walls.
We arrived there on June 24, which is on the liturgical calendar as the birthday of John the Baptist, six months and a day before his cousin’s birthday. I stayed there 40 days (Dave left after a few weeks to see family in Wisconsin). In 1972, the Gospel of the day on my 40th and last day was about the beheading of John the Baptist. I believed then (and now) that the time was blessed.
I did not have any agenda. What was on my mind was that Jesus invited us to call God “Father.” I wanted to give that invitation time to take root.
That summer, there were three monks at the fledgling monastery: Father Aelred, Father Gregory, and Brother Anthony. There was a wonderful family attached to the monastery, sharing their life: Priscilla and Bob Bunker and their children. There were assorted guests coming and going, including a couple of young men who had been there for months, stroking their beards and speaking slowly, but flashing into clear laughter. There was a man I never spoke with, although his attitude was a vibrant detail of my experience there: a probing testing doubting Thomas figure, who came to Mass in the monastery chapel and leaned against the wall, one foot crossed over and toed up, arms folded, turned facing not toward the altar but sideways toward the congregation, with an expression of skepticism -- a permanent expression, as far as I knew.
Father Gregory had a beautiful voice; when he sang the Psalms, they were seriously and completely sung. He was a Princeton grad, but a man of depth and thought and wisdom; when he preached, he knew whom and what he was talking about. One Psalm and sermon of his stirred my soul, far past the testing probe of Thomas’s quick-cleansing questioning eyes. “What return shall I make to the Lord,” Gregory sang, “for His goodness to me? The cup of salvation I will take up, and call upon His name.”
What return can we possibly make to God, who doesn’t need anything we have, who gave us everything we have, who restored it all to us after we tossed it away carelessly? Our response to God’s gifts cannot be a matter of justice; we cannot reciprocate in a balanced way. We cannot deal with God in the way we want, with justice and equality, giving and receiving without calculation but nonetheless with approximate tit for tat. Imagine trying: “Thank you for the world; have a well-warmed worm.” So what do we do? Just give up? Take everything we can take, mutter thanks once or twice, and go on our way? Gregory's response: forget about justice, and aim higher. God is generous, and we can be generous in return. Give, give, just give -- to God and to his children -- not because it is owed, but because your heart has overflowed.
Thank you, Gregory. Thank you, desert. Thank you, skeptic. Thank you, Lord.
We arrived there on June 24, which is on the liturgical calendar as the birthday of John the Baptist, six months and a day before his cousin’s birthday. I stayed there 40 days (Dave left after a few weeks to see family in Wisconsin). In 1972, the Gospel of the day on my 40th and last day was about the beheading of John the Baptist. I believed then (and now) that the time was blessed.
I did not have any agenda. What was on my mind was that Jesus invited us to call God “Father.” I wanted to give that invitation time to take root.
That summer, there were three monks at the fledgling monastery: Father Aelred, Father Gregory, and Brother Anthony. There was a wonderful family attached to the monastery, sharing their life: Priscilla and Bob Bunker and their children. There were assorted guests coming and going, including a couple of young men who had been there for months, stroking their beards and speaking slowly, but flashing into clear laughter. There was a man I never spoke with, although his attitude was a vibrant detail of my experience there: a probing testing doubting Thomas figure, who came to Mass in the monastery chapel and leaned against the wall, one foot crossed over and toed up, arms folded, turned facing not toward the altar but sideways toward the congregation, with an expression of skepticism -- a permanent expression, as far as I knew.
Father Gregory had a beautiful voice; when he sang the Psalms, they were seriously and completely sung. He was a Princeton grad, but a man of depth and thought and wisdom; when he preached, he knew whom and what he was talking about. One Psalm and sermon of his stirred my soul, far past the testing probe of Thomas’s quick-cleansing questioning eyes. “What return shall I make to the Lord,” Gregory sang, “for His goodness to me? The cup of salvation I will take up, and call upon His name.”
What return can we possibly make to God, who doesn’t need anything we have, who gave us everything we have, who restored it all to us after we tossed it away carelessly? Our response to God’s gifts cannot be a matter of justice; we cannot reciprocate in a balanced way. We cannot deal with God in the way we want, with justice and equality, giving and receiving without calculation but nonetheless with approximate tit for tat. Imagine trying: “Thank you for the world; have a well-warmed worm.” So what do we do? Just give up? Take everything we can take, mutter thanks once or twice, and go on our way? Gregory's response: forget about justice, and aim higher. God is generous, and we can be generous in return. Give, give, just give -- to God and to his children -- not because it is owed, but because your heart has overflowed.
Thank you, Gregory. Thank you, desert. Thank you, skeptic. Thank you, Lord.
Friday, April 6, 2012
dusty aching feet
Holy Thursday
During the liturgy for Holy Thursday, Catholics recall and celebrate the “Last Supper,” the last time Jesus ate with his followers and friends before he was arrested and executed. They celebrated Passover together, then he went out to become both priest and victim at a new Passover celebration.
One detail of that celebration was that Jesus washed the feet of his disciples. The point was simple: he serves, we should serve. But this year, I was struck anew by the specifics of his service. We don’t wash anyone else’s feet much in our culture. We wash our own feet. People get pedicures. There’s some interpersonal foot-washing in hospitals and nursing homes, for people who can’t bathe themselves. That’s about it.
In Jesus’ culture, people walked more, and wore sandals that let dust and grime get to their feet a lot more. And he lived in a land with less pavement, less meadow, more dusty desert. I don’t know many people who walk through dusty deserts.
The service that Jesus modeled was not meant to be culture specific. We should help others, with open-hearted generosity, meeting the needs that we see.
And yet, I do know some people with dusty aching feet.
Lord, have mercy.
During the liturgy for Holy Thursday, Catholics recall and celebrate the “Last Supper,” the last time Jesus ate with his followers and friends before he was arrested and executed. They celebrated Passover together, then he went out to become both priest and victim at a new Passover celebration.
One detail of that celebration was that Jesus washed the feet of his disciples. The point was simple: he serves, we should serve. But this year, I was struck anew by the specifics of his service. We don’t wash anyone else’s feet much in our culture. We wash our own feet. People get pedicures. There’s some interpersonal foot-washing in hospitals and nursing homes, for people who can’t bathe themselves. That’s about it.
In Jesus’ culture, people walked more, and wore sandals that let dust and grime get to their feet a lot more. And he lived in a land with less pavement, less meadow, more dusty desert. I don’t know many people who walk through dusty deserts.
The service that Jesus modeled was not meant to be culture specific. We should help others, with open-hearted generosity, meeting the needs that we see.
And yet, I do know some people with dusty aching feet.
Lord, have mercy.
Why care about immigration? family story ...
Irish immigrants had a rough time, but don’t always remember it that way.
My great-great-grandfather, John O’Keefe, came to the United States because of the Potato Famine, which killed a third of the Irish and displaced another third. But the music about Ireland that these refugees sang a generation later was syrupy-sweet. The story that my family retains about this ancestor is that he walked through Cork for awhile before he emigrated, and that he never slept without a roof -- that is, that his neighbors were hospitable to him, everywhere, every day. The family story suggests that young O’Keefe was easy to get along with, but it focuses on hospitality. And for sure: to get a picture of the devastated countryside, you have to go to some other source.
John O’Keefe was a stone mason in Knocknagree, County Cork; I am not sure what his work was here in America. He settled in Rockport, Massachusetts, and stayed there awhile. One evening, a neighbor came to see him. “O’Keefe,” he said, “I like you, so I’m telling you. We have decided that we don’t want Irish Catholics here, and we are going to burn your house down tomorrow. I like you, so I’m giving you warning, and you have time to pack up and leave.” He packed and left, and moved to Peterborough, NH, where some in-laws helped him settle on a farm.
In that time, businesses often had signs in the window that announced simply: NINA. That’s not Nina as in “the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria.” That’s NINA as in “No Irish Need Apply.” But we think of ourselves as irrepressible, and maybe we are. John’s son, John Aloysius (in retrospect, we identify him as John A the First; they were many more), received a good education in a one-room red schoolhouse on the side of a mountain a few miles outside the town of Peterborough. His teacher there was related to Thornton Wilder, perhaps his grandmother. It seems that she was a good teacher; it is sure that he was a good student. John A. went on to Harvard.
Just 15 years after the flight from Rockport, the family was back in the Boston area. John A. O’Keefe did well enough at Harvard (#2 in his class) to earn a slot as speaker at graduation in 1881, giving the “salutatorian address.“ He spoke about prejudice against Catholics, telling his classmates that they had been taught falsely that the Church was on the side of tyranny. When he finished, his WASP classmates were silent. A Jesuit from Boston College, Fr. Walsh I think, stood and applauded -- alone. That was 131 years ago, and we still chuckle about it.
It was his generation that established Irish power in Massachusetts. He was headmaster of Lynn Classical High School, and later another city school in Lynn was named for him. He supported the early labor movement, including the famous strike at the shoe factories in Lynn. In his generation, John (“Honey Fitz”) Fitzgerald was elected the first Irish mayor of Boston, displacing the previous patrician class.
The descendants of John O’Keefe are not as abundant as the stars, but they did proliferate. We are mathematicians, scientists, astrophysicists, chemists, geologists, (no biologists), doctors, lawyers, undertakers, politicians and activists, managers, glass-makers, teachers, soldiers, cops, tax resisters, engineers. At least 12 of his descendants went to Harvard. My great-grandfather was an educator who supported labor unions in their early days. My grandfather was a pediatrician who was very proud of his work with immigrants, including many Eastern Europeans, particularly Poles. My father was an astrophysicist who supported the civil rights movement -- hiring colorblind, marching, and collecting signatures for fair housing petitions.
Family lore does not record whether the house in Rockport was actually burned, after the offensive Irish with all their “Rum, Romanism and Rebellion” had left. What does remain in family lore is etched in stone, in New England granite: we remember that we too once were “strangers in a strange land.” But by God’s grace, we have seen much good and done much more.
My great-great-grandfather, John O’Keefe, came to the United States because of the Potato Famine, which killed a third of the Irish and displaced another third. But the music about Ireland that these refugees sang a generation later was syrupy-sweet. The story that my family retains about this ancestor is that he walked through Cork for awhile before he emigrated, and that he never slept without a roof -- that is, that his neighbors were hospitable to him, everywhere, every day. The family story suggests that young O’Keefe was easy to get along with, but it focuses on hospitality. And for sure: to get a picture of the devastated countryside, you have to go to some other source.
John O’Keefe was a stone mason in Knocknagree, County Cork; I am not sure what his work was here in America. He settled in Rockport, Massachusetts, and stayed there awhile. One evening, a neighbor came to see him. “O’Keefe,” he said, “I like you, so I’m telling you. We have decided that we don’t want Irish Catholics here, and we are going to burn your house down tomorrow. I like you, so I’m giving you warning, and you have time to pack up and leave.” He packed and left, and moved to Peterborough, NH, where some in-laws helped him settle on a farm.
In that time, businesses often had signs in the window that announced simply: NINA. That’s not Nina as in “the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria.” That’s NINA as in “No Irish Need Apply.” But we think of ourselves as irrepressible, and maybe we are. John’s son, John Aloysius (in retrospect, we identify him as John A the First; they were many more), received a good education in a one-room red schoolhouse on the side of a mountain a few miles outside the town of Peterborough. His teacher there was related to Thornton Wilder, perhaps his grandmother. It seems that she was a good teacher; it is sure that he was a good student. John A. went on to Harvard.
Just 15 years after the flight from Rockport, the family was back in the Boston area. John A. O’Keefe did well enough at Harvard (#2 in his class) to earn a slot as speaker at graduation in 1881, giving the “salutatorian address.“ He spoke about prejudice against Catholics, telling his classmates that they had been taught falsely that the Church was on the side of tyranny. When he finished, his WASP classmates were silent. A Jesuit from Boston College, Fr. Walsh I think, stood and applauded -- alone. That was 131 years ago, and we still chuckle about it.
It was his generation that established Irish power in Massachusetts. He was headmaster of Lynn Classical High School, and later another city school in Lynn was named for him. He supported the early labor movement, including the famous strike at the shoe factories in Lynn. In his generation, John (“Honey Fitz”) Fitzgerald was elected the first Irish mayor of Boston, displacing the previous patrician class.
The descendants of John O’Keefe are not as abundant as the stars, but they did proliferate. We are mathematicians, scientists, astrophysicists, chemists, geologists, (no biologists), doctors, lawyers, undertakers, politicians and activists, managers, glass-makers, teachers, soldiers, cops, tax resisters, engineers. At least 12 of his descendants went to Harvard. My great-grandfather was an educator who supported labor unions in their early days. My grandfather was a pediatrician who was very proud of his work with immigrants, including many Eastern Europeans, particularly Poles. My father was an astrophysicist who supported the civil rights movement -- hiring colorblind, marching, and collecting signatures for fair housing petitions.
Family lore does not record whether the house in Rockport was actually burned, after the offensive Irish with all their “Rum, Romanism and Rebellion” had left. What does remain in family lore is etched in stone, in New England granite: we remember that we too once were “strangers in a strange land.” But by God’s grace, we have seen much good and done much more.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Why do I care about immigration policy? Quick story ...
The writing assignment was something silly, something trivial. I think I had suggested that they recall a time when they were scared but had to do something anyway. The focus of the lesson was organizing a story chronologically, and I didn’t care what they wrote about. But there was Caridad, working away, brow furrowed, tongue poking out the side.
Cari (not her real name) is not in a remedial class because she has a learning disability; she has trouble with reading and writing because English is her second language. She’s from Central America. She tolerates me, but doesn’t like school. She is a petite beauty, and it is fun to watch her escape from class and start talking to her friends; her face lights up and her mouth motors up. But now, she is focused on her work, without any trace of boredom. I stop at her desk and read over her shoulder.
“The worse part of the trip is bus riding. We sit for three days, and I am very sore. My legs they are not a good shape. They are all stiffed and crammed. I am nerves and frayed all over my whole body. At end of bus, we run two days across the desert, and I am not running good. Dark is outside the bus and I am scare. Then light is outside the bus and I am still frayed. Soon I am running, but now my legs are bad crammed and I am scare stiff. I hate bus riding worse of all.”
Cari seems so empty-headed most of the time. She tends her nails and her hair. She giggles with her friends. She flirts a lot. I asked carelessly for a story with a clear time line, and I get this? I am supposed to correct the spelling, the grammar, the transitions, the chronology in that story?
I do not remember what I said: something useful, something forgettable. I do remember what I thought, because it has not changed: I am so privileged that this girl came to my country when she emigrated. I am so ashamed she had to travel in fear and pain to get here. I am so glad she is able to live a normal teenage life here now. I am so fortunate to get a glimpse past the curtain of silliness into the strength hidden inside. I admire her so much.
Cari (not her real name) is not in a remedial class because she has a learning disability; she has trouble with reading and writing because English is her second language. She’s from Central America. She tolerates me, but doesn’t like school. She is a petite beauty, and it is fun to watch her escape from class and start talking to her friends; her face lights up and her mouth motors up. But now, she is focused on her work, without any trace of boredom. I stop at her desk and read over her shoulder.
“The worse part of the trip is bus riding. We sit for three days, and I am very sore. My legs they are not a good shape. They are all stiffed and crammed. I am nerves and frayed all over my whole body. At end of bus, we run two days across the desert, and I am not running good. Dark is outside the bus and I am scare. Then light is outside the bus and I am still frayed. Soon I am running, but now my legs are bad crammed and I am scare stiff. I hate bus riding worse of all.”
Cari seems so empty-headed most of the time. She tends her nails and her hair. She giggles with her friends. She flirts a lot. I asked carelessly for a story with a clear time line, and I get this? I am supposed to correct the spelling, the grammar, the transitions, the chronology in that story?
I do not remember what I said: something useful, something forgettable. I do remember what I thought, because it has not changed: I am so privileged that this girl came to my country when she emigrated. I am so ashamed she had to travel in fear and pain to get here. I am so glad she is able to live a normal teenage life here now. I am so fortunate to get a glimpse past the curtain of silliness into the strength hidden inside. I admire her so much.
Protect Social Security!
Congress and the President have dared each other to get serious about reforming Social Security to ensure that it works in the future. I wish them well. But I do want to focus on one much-neglected piece of the puzzle. You can’t fix Social Security if you don’t fix immigration.
I don’t believe the charge that Social Security is a fraudulent Ponzi scheme, but I agree completely that it is depends on a growing population and economy. If a population shrinks, then the number of old folks grows as a proportion of the whole. In one generation, you could have ten healthy young people supporting each retiree; then in a later generation, you might have three. That’s not sustainable; it can’t work well for long. Social Security depends on population growth.
The birthrate in families of people born in the United States is already below replacement rate. That is, if you don’t count immigrants, we are already a shrinking country. When our population decline began, it was not obvious, because two things happened at about the same time. While families got smaller, medical care improved and people lived longer. Keeping older folks around longer kept our population up, which hid the drop in the birthrate. But still, for locally grown Americans, we are already below replacement: we have fewer children than parents. That could destroy Social Security.
Immigration keeps the nation growing, vibrant, young, and healthy. It’s better than Cheerios, better even than Guinness. Our population is NOT declining, despite our catastrophic birthrate, because people are flooding in by the millions.
I’m not saying that we should exploit our immigrants. I’m just pointing out that immigrants are paying for Social Security, like the rest of us, and that their contributions mean that the system can work (if Congress and the President, whoever they are whenever they get around to it, will get serious about reform).
On the other hand, if you want to guarantee that Social Security breaks and stays broken, just throw out 12 million immigrants, and tighten the border. That will break our hearts and bust the bank, both.
I don’t believe the charge that Social Security is a fraudulent Ponzi scheme, but I agree completely that it is depends on a growing population and economy. If a population shrinks, then the number of old folks grows as a proportion of the whole. In one generation, you could have ten healthy young people supporting each retiree; then in a later generation, you might have three. That’s not sustainable; it can’t work well for long. Social Security depends on population growth.
The birthrate in families of people born in the United States is already below replacement rate. That is, if you don’t count immigrants, we are already a shrinking country. When our population decline began, it was not obvious, because two things happened at about the same time. While families got smaller, medical care improved and people lived longer. Keeping older folks around longer kept our population up, which hid the drop in the birthrate. But still, for locally grown Americans, we are already below replacement: we have fewer children than parents. That could destroy Social Security.
Immigration keeps the nation growing, vibrant, young, and healthy. It’s better than Cheerios, better even than Guinness. Our population is NOT declining, despite our catastrophic birthrate, because people are flooding in by the millions.
I’m not saying that we should exploit our immigrants. I’m just pointing out that immigrants are paying for Social Security, like the rest of us, and that their contributions mean that the system can work (if Congress and the President, whoever they are whenever they get around to it, will get serious about reform).
On the other hand, if you want to guarantee that Social Security breaks and stays broken, just throw out 12 million immigrants, and tighten the border. That will break our hearts and bust the bank, both.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Jose Marti
Some years ago, a classmate from Oklahoma got me started reading Elmore Leonard. Or Leonard Elmore: I’ve read most of his books with great delight and still can’t remember which name is first. His Westerns and detective stories are shameless mind candy, just pure fun. But a thoughtful guy lurks behind the confections, and Mr. Leonard (I just checked) got me reading Jose Marti -- not for his poetry, but for his politics.
Jose Marti wrote “Guantanamera,” a simple beautiful piece of music that I have sung for decades in the shower and other uninhabited/uninhibited places. Marti sang (or wrote, others sang) that he preferred the mountains to the sea. Well, first, I agree; and second, it sounds so beautiful in mournful Spanish! Even mangled Anglo-Spanish. And he wrote that he “chose to share his fate with the poor of the earth.” That touches every romantic and spiritual chord in my body and soul. The song also has some “Old Macdonald” scraps that I like: “Guantanamera, ah-ee-oh …” I’m pretty sure it doesn’t mean anything, but I only know Manglo-Spanish. Still, it’s fun.
Anyway, Leonard got me reading about Marti, and I found that he is embraced by Communists and anti-Communists alike. I admire that. Marti was a Cuban revolutionary leader in the second half of the 19th century, who helped start the revolution that ended Spanish rule in Cuba. I admire that too. But he had a deep ambivalence about the United States. He admired our ideals, and was inspired by our drive for freedom and equality. But at the same time, he was appalled by our treatment of our southern neighbors. So even as he fought the Spanish, he had his eye on threats on the horizon, and spoke against overweening American influence.
I grew up hearing Fidel Castro roaring away about how he was going to stop Yanqui imperialism, and I thought he was hallucinating. I mean, I wasn’t planning to build an empire in Ecuador or Paraguay; were you? And if we had decided to build an empire in Latin America, what was Fidel gonna do about it, huh? So I was shocked when I learned that Castro got all this stuff from Marti, not from Jamaican weed. Over a century ago, Marti said that Cuba had great role to play in history: to make sure that American imperialism did not spread south of Florida.
Marti admired us, but did not trust us. He did not believe that we would treat Latinos with respect. He thought we were capable of deep hypocrisy, preaching equality but acting with savage naked greed and totally blind self-absorbed ambition. Where did he get that idea? Aside from our treatment of blacks and Indians and Tories and Canucks and Mexicans and Jews and Papists and Chinks and Japs and Wops and Krauts and morons and rag-heads, we’re pretty good with folks. Right?
Even now, I would like to live and act in such a way that I would be worthy of Marti’s trust, practicing what we have always preached.
Jose Marti wrote “Guantanamera,” a simple beautiful piece of music that I have sung for decades in the shower and other uninhabited/uninhibited places. Marti sang (or wrote, others sang) that he preferred the mountains to the sea. Well, first, I agree; and second, it sounds so beautiful in mournful Spanish! Even mangled Anglo-Spanish. And he wrote that he “chose to share his fate with the poor of the earth.” That touches every romantic and spiritual chord in my body and soul. The song also has some “Old Macdonald” scraps that I like: “Guantanamera, ah-ee-oh …” I’m pretty sure it doesn’t mean anything, but I only know Manglo-Spanish. Still, it’s fun.
Anyway, Leonard got me reading about Marti, and I found that he is embraced by Communists and anti-Communists alike. I admire that. Marti was a Cuban revolutionary leader in the second half of the 19th century, who helped start the revolution that ended Spanish rule in Cuba. I admire that too. But he had a deep ambivalence about the United States. He admired our ideals, and was inspired by our drive for freedom and equality. But at the same time, he was appalled by our treatment of our southern neighbors. So even as he fought the Spanish, he had his eye on threats on the horizon, and spoke against overweening American influence.
I grew up hearing Fidel Castro roaring away about how he was going to stop Yanqui imperialism, and I thought he was hallucinating. I mean, I wasn’t planning to build an empire in Ecuador or Paraguay; were you? And if we had decided to build an empire in Latin America, what was Fidel gonna do about it, huh? So I was shocked when I learned that Castro got all this stuff from Marti, not from Jamaican weed. Over a century ago, Marti said that Cuba had great role to play in history: to make sure that American imperialism did not spread south of Florida.
Marti admired us, but did not trust us. He did not believe that we would treat Latinos with respect. He thought we were capable of deep hypocrisy, preaching equality but acting with savage naked greed and totally blind self-absorbed ambition. Where did he get that idea? Aside from our treatment of blacks and Indians and Tories and Canucks and Mexicans and Jews and Papists and Chinks and Japs and Wops and Krauts and morons and rag-heads, we’re pretty good with folks. Right?
Even now, I would like to live and act in such a way that I would be worthy of Marti’s trust, practicing what we have always preached.
The American Dream: happine$$ ??
The American dream: is it about freedom and equality, or about money? To listen to presidential candidates today, you would think that the Revolutionary War was about the pursuit of happine$$. To be sure, that was and is a part of the picture. But it was third -- “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.“ And when Lincoln summarized it, he talked about a “a new nation conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” No one noticed then or since that he summarized the Declaration of Independence without mentioning the “pursuit of happiness.”
The Dream Act is about the identity of the nation. Are we the first nation in history that is defined by adherence to ideals, or are we just another place where Europeans accumulated wealth and kept it?
The Dream Act is about the identity of the nation. Are we the first nation in history that is defined by adherence to ideals, or are we just another place where Europeans accumulated wealth and kept it?
Is adoption for real?
I’m not adopted: my parents had nine home-grown children, and I’m the fifth. Normal birth. Two parents, married and monogamous, fertile. Still, I have wrestled with the idea of adoption for decades, with a restless that suggests a semi-conscious tension about my own identity. For some reason, I really desperately want to know that adoption works, that it is a real and enduring relationship, not just a temporary social construct, like getting into the gifted and talented program at school.
So I find it personally comforting to read the most boring section of the New Testament: the genealogy of Jesus. One part of the repeated and immensely significant identity of Jesus is that he was a “son of David.” And the genealogy asserts that Jesus was descended from David through Joseph, his foster-father, not through Mary, his mother. The statement that Jesus is a “son of David” includes, in the background, the assumption that adoptions, or even foster-parent arrangements, succeed, are real. To put it negatively (to assert the contrapositive), if foster parents aren’t “real” parents and adoptive parents aren’t “real” parents, then Jesus is not really a “son of David.” If I am confident that Jesus is the son of David (and I am), then adoption is real.
What comes out of this? Jesus, who was described in John’s Gospel as “the only begotten son of God,” has invited us to address God as our “Father.” What does that mean? We aren’t begotten by God. So is this a delightful metaphor, or is it something real? If this invitation is to become a reality, then we will have to be adopted. Adoption has to work, has to be a solid and lasting reality. Or, to put it another way, in order to pray the prayer that Jesus taught, in order to grasp that God is indeed my father, I need to believe that adoption works.
If adoption works, then migration is a no-brainer. Families share genes, and bringing someone into a family means crossing over a boundary that is objective, measurable, specific, concrete: an adopted child does not have the same genes as his siblings. But national boundaries are made up. If adoption works, then incorporating immigrants into society is a piece of cake.
I mean, if I am a child of God (adopted), and this stranger from El Salvador or Peru is also a child of God (adopted), then we are brothers and sisters (for real). And if we are brothers and sisters, then how can I reject these strangers, firmly and even angrily: “I am an American, and you are not! Go away, go home, go to hell!” How can this person be a member of my family, but not welcome in my nation? What kind of family are you from? What kind of family do you think God is trying to run?
So I find it personally comforting to read the most boring section of the New Testament: the genealogy of Jesus. One part of the repeated and immensely significant identity of Jesus is that he was a “son of David.” And the genealogy asserts that Jesus was descended from David through Joseph, his foster-father, not through Mary, his mother. The statement that Jesus is a “son of David” includes, in the background, the assumption that adoptions, or even foster-parent arrangements, succeed, are real. To put it negatively (to assert the contrapositive), if foster parents aren’t “real” parents and adoptive parents aren’t “real” parents, then Jesus is not really a “son of David.” If I am confident that Jesus is the son of David (and I am), then adoption is real.
What comes out of this? Jesus, who was described in John’s Gospel as “the only begotten son of God,” has invited us to address God as our “Father.” What does that mean? We aren’t begotten by God. So is this a delightful metaphor, or is it something real? If this invitation is to become a reality, then we will have to be adopted. Adoption has to work, has to be a solid and lasting reality. Or, to put it another way, in order to pray the prayer that Jesus taught, in order to grasp that God is indeed my father, I need to believe that adoption works.
If adoption works, then migration is a no-brainer. Families share genes, and bringing someone into a family means crossing over a boundary that is objective, measurable, specific, concrete: an adopted child does not have the same genes as his siblings. But national boundaries are made up. If adoption works, then incorporating immigrants into society is a piece of cake.
I mean, if I am a child of God (adopted), and this stranger from El Salvador or Peru is also a child of God (adopted), then we are brothers and sisters (for real). And if we are brothers and sisters, then how can I reject these strangers, firmly and even angrily: “I am an American, and you are not! Go away, go home, go to hell!” How can this person be a member of my family, but not welcome in my nation? What kind of family are you from? What kind of family do you think God is trying to run?
Book of Ruth
Ruth: what an odd book! Among Christians, the major use of the book (as far as I know) is at weddings. Ruth’s pledges of fidelity are beautiful, thorough, impressive: your home will be my home, your people will be my people, your God will be my God, your cemetery will be my cemetery. Sounds like a happy wedding! But there is a twist: Ruth was not talking to her husband or prospective husband. She was talking to Naomi, her mother-in-law, and in fact her dead husband’s mom. That’s not usually the person at the top of your loyalty list. Naomi is special, but (1) that’s a strange story, and (2) that’s not the plot of this story.
So what’s it about? The book is not just about King David’s ancestors. If the reason for the book was to explore royal genealogy, we should hear about a lot of other people before we get to David’s Moabite great-grandmother.
The beauty of this little gem lies, I think, in the relationship between Naomi and Ruth on one hand, and the Jewish community on the other. When three men in a single peripatetic family all drop dead, one widow returns to her roots in Bethlehem, one returns to her roots on Moab, and the third, Ruth, opts to tag along to Bethlehem. We lose track of one widow right away. But amongst the Jews, the two widows find hospitality, which grows from pity to respect to generosity to tender protection to committed love. The reader sympathizes with the two, wants them to make it, and is pleased when they do.
The story is about love, but it is more specific than that. It is about love for two widows -- including one Jewish widow and one adopted foreigner. The Jewish community -- Boaz in particular, of course, but the community -- feeds them, cares about them, gathers them in, enfolds them, embraces them. The story offers a picture of how God’s people care for widows, in accord with the Lord’s oft-repeated commands in the Law and the Prophets. Over and over, Scripture demands that we offer hospitality to several protected classes, including the fatherless and widows.* The Book of Ruth shows what this hospitality looks like.
*OOPS! Widows & orphans AND STRANGERS -- the list in Deuteronomy, Jeremiah, Ezequiel, Zachariah, and the Psalms always includes these three. Ruth was an immigrant as well as a widow.
So what’s it about? The book is not just about King David’s ancestors. If the reason for the book was to explore royal genealogy, we should hear about a lot of other people before we get to David’s Moabite great-grandmother.
The beauty of this little gem lies, I think, in the relationship between Naomi and Ruth on one hand, and the Jewish community on the other. When three men in a single peripatetic family all drop dead, one widow returns to her roots in Bethlehem, one returns to her roots on Moab, and the third, Ruth, opts to tag along to Bethlehem. We lose track of one widow right away. But amongst the Jews, the two widows find hospitality, which grows from pity to respect to generosity to tender protection to committed love. The reader sympathizes with the two, wants them to make it, and is pleased when they do.
The story is about love, but it is more specific than that. It is about love for two widows -- including one Jewish widow and one adopted foreigner. The Jewish community -- Boaz in particular, of course, but the community -- feeds them, cares about them, gathers them in, enfolds them, embraces them. The story offers a picture of how God’s people care for widows, in accord with the Lord’s oft-repeated commands in the Law and the Prophets. Over and over, Scripture demands that we offer hospitality to several protected classes, including the fatherless and widows.* The Book of Ruth shows what this hospitality looks like.
*OOPS! Widows & orphans AND STRANGERS -- the list in Deuteronomy, Jeremiah, Ezequiel, Zachariah, and the Psalms always includes these three. Ruth was an immigrant as well as a widow.
The Inalienable Right to Migrate
The Bible speaks about immigrants about 200 times, putting them in a protected class with widows and orphans. And the Catholic Church today continues to assert the rights of immigrants. The Church asserts migration in search of better economic conditions is a right.
The Catholic Church today has factions and internal squabbles; there is a left and right in the Church, as in American politics. Some Catholics brandish the rich “social Gospel” teachings of the Church about solidarity and peace, while other Catholics pound on the clear teaching of the Church about personal morality. The official teaching of the Church does not support such schizophrenia: the entire history of the Church is filled, generation after generation, with prophetic calls for justice and morality. (That’s AND, not OR.) Still, it is interesting where we find the Church’s recent teaching on immigration. It’s in the teaching on morality, the right-wing documents. It’s in the documents about family life.
In Familiaris Consortio, Pope John Paul II opposes abortion, opposes contraception, defends a right to religious education, denounces government intrusion into family decisions. He says that “the Church openly and strongly defends the rights of the family against the intolerable usurpations of society and the State.” That’s all good old familiar on-the-one-right-hand stuff. It’s in that letter that he lists specific rights, including a lefty: “the right to emigrate as a family in search of a better life.”
The right to migrate is not an absolute right which can never be abridged, like the right to life. It’s more like property rights, which have to be balanced with other rights. Still, it’s a right, not a privilege, says the Catholic Church. It’s a God-given right, not an arbitrary arrangement provided by the government.
We should help immigrants because we should be generous as God has been generous to us. But more: we are required to help immigrants, because it is a matter of justice. The Catholic Church, following the teaching of the Law and the Prophets and the Gospel, states firmly that when people uproot and move in search of a better life, they are exercising a God-given right.
The Catholic Church today has factions and internal squabbles; there is a left and right in the Church, as in American politics. Some Catholics brandish the rich “social Gospel” teachings of the Church about solidarity and peace, while other Catholics pound on the clear teaching of the Church about personal morality. The official teaching of the Church does not support such schizophrenia: the entire history of the Church is filled, generation after generation, with prophetic calls for justice and morality. (That’s AND, not OR.) Still, it is interesting where we find the Church’s recent teaching on immigration. It’s in the teaching on morality, the right-wing documents. It’s in the documents about family life.
In Familiaris Consortio, Pope John Paul II opposes abortion, opposes contraception, defends a right to religious education, denounces government intrusion into family decisions. He says that “the Church openly and strongly defends the rights of the family against the intolerable usurpations of society and the State.” That’s all good old familiar on-the-one-right-hand stuff. It’s in that letter that he lists specific rights, including a lefty: “the right to emigrate as a family in search of a better life.”
The right to migrate is not an absolute right which can never be abridged, like the right to life. It’s more like property rights, which have to be balanced with other rights. Still, it’s a right, not a privilege, says the Catholic Church. It’s a God-given right, not an arbitrary arrangement provided by the government.
We should help immigrants because we should be generous as God has been generous to us. But more: we are required to help immigrants, because it is a matter of justice. The Catholic Church, following the teaching of the Law and the Prophets and the Gospel, states firmly that when people uproot and move in search of a better life, they are exercising a God-given right.
Border Baby
BORDER BABY
Gabe, a Border Patrol officer, argues with his superior about a family.
Gabe: Captain, I think you should look at this bunch before we send them away.
Captain: Why?
Gabe: Hard to say. There’s something about them.
Captain: You woke me up for “something about them”? Okay, gimme a run-down.
Gabe: The facts don’t sound too good. I think you should meet them.
Captain: Facts, Gabe! Facts, first and fast.
Gabe: Okay. Young couple with a kid and a donkey. Crossing the border at night. Jose is a handyman. He speaks Hill-billy. He had work at home, but left it because he had a dream. The lady with him is Maria. The kid does not look like Jose, so I asked if it was Jose’s kid. She said no, right off, calm. The kid is young. Maria said his name was “Hey-you.” I ask Jose, “Are you kidding me? Hey-you?” “Hey-Zeus,” he corrects. I made routine inquiries about them, and got a hit right away for Hey-Zeus. He may look young -- he is young -- but he is wanted by the police. Still …
Captain: Gabe! Ignorant peasant day laborer, doesn’t speak the language. Girl has a baby, not his, with a smart-ass name The little bastard's got his own little rap sheet. I do not have to think about this one. Are they offering a bribe?
Gabe: No!
Captain: Services?
Gabe: Captain, it’s not like that! Just meet them!
Captain: This one is real simple, Gabe. Tell Jose to go home. If they try to sneak across the border out in the desert, it’s prison until we get around to deportation -- and extradition for the kid.
Gabe: Boss! I’m telling you, they got a kind of a glow.
Captain: I’m not gonna try to figure this out. Tell them they are not welcome here. They should get lost. I don’t know -- try Egypt, for Chrissake. That’s our law!
Gabe, a Border Patrol officer, argues with his superior about a family.
Gabe: Captain, I think you should look at this bunch before we send them away.
Captain: Why?
Gabe: Hard to say. There’s something about them.
Captain: You woke me up for “something about them”? Okay, gimme a run-down.
Gabe: The facts don’t sound too good. I think you should meet them.
Captain: Facts, Gabe! Facts, first and fast.
Gabe: Okay. Young couple with a kid and a donkey. Crossing the border at night. Jose is a handyman. He speaks Hill-billy. He had work at home, but left it because he had a dream. The lady with him is Maria. The kid does not look like Jose, so I asked if it was Jose’s kid. She said no, right off, calm. The kid is young. Maria said his name was “Hey-you.” I ask Jose, “Are you kidding me? Hey-you?” “Hey-Zeus,” he corrects. I made routine inquiries about them, and got a hit right away for Hey-Zeus. He may look young -- he is young -- but he is wanted by the police. Still …
Captain: Gabe! Ignorant peasant day laborer, doesn’t speak the language. Girl has a baby, not his, with a smart-ass name The little bastard's got his own little rap sheet. I do not have to think about this one. Are they offering a bribe?
Gabe: No!
Captain: Services?
Gabe: Captain, it’s not like that! Just meet them!
Captain: This one is real simple, Gabe. Tell Jose to go home. If they try to sneak across the border out in the desert, it’s prison until we get around to deportation -- and extradition for the kid.
Gabe: Boss! I’m telling you, they got a kind of a glow.
Captain: I’m not gonna try to figure this out. Tell them they are not welcome here. They should get lost. I don’t know -- try Egypt, for Chrissake. That’s our law!
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
9 of 10 people miss this
I have noticed, with great interest, that people who care deeply about Scripture make the same mistake about Matthew 25, 9 times out of 10. In the description of the Last Judgment, Jesus talks about feeding the hungry and giving drink to the thirsty ... and, and ... what's the third? Almost everyone says: clothe the naked. That's 4th. #3 matters, really matters. The passage is sobering: the Lord says, more or less: "Do these things, meet my Father; don't do these, go to hell." So skipping the itchy one is probably a bad idea. The third: "I was a stranger (alien, migrant, foreigner -- xenos in Greek), and you welcomed me."
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