If These Trees Could Talk

Today, Elie Wiesel (pronounced Vee-zel or Wee-zel) returned to the place he lived for a time, the place his father died. This is the concentration camp that, at the time of its liberation by western military forces, contained infants living in modified horse stables. Walking down a beautiful stretch of scenery several decades later, Wiesel turned to his company and lamented, "If these trees could talk . . . "

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Last summer, Wiesel spoke to Rochester Church/Rochester College. Here was my recollection of that evening.

I don't quite know how to describe the Elie Wiesel event from this past week hosted by Rochester College at the Rochester Church of Christ (adjacent to campus). 2009 is Rochester College’s fiftieth anniversary, and John Barton (V.P. for Academic Affairs) deemed it a good idea to invite one of the twentieth century’s most important writers and thinkers to campus to talk about the role of language regarding such religious concerns as faith, reconciliation and forgiveness. He could not have selected a more important voice.

The auditorium was at “capacity” by 6:30 p.m.—Wiesel didn't enter the room until 7:20 p.m. When he finally entered, the entire room (about 950-1000) erupted in sincere applause. There's something special about having a presence like Wiesel in a smaller, more intimate setting. I suppose it would be similar to listening to Eric Clapton play in a smaller venue, or hearing Maya Angelou recite her work in a high school auditorium. The venue was large enough for the event to feel important, small enough that the audience felt like participants, not spectators (as happens in church most Sundays). Jew and Gentile, some Christian some not, gathered to hear from this leader who survived the Holocaust over half a century ago.

As for the speech, Wiesel stood in one spot the entire 50 minute presentation. He weaved rabbinic wisdom and story-telling, with personal wisdom and lessons regarding "the power of language for forgiveness and reconciliation." There were times he strayed into philosophical fields and historical nuance, but, for the overwhelming majority of his speech, he kept the diverse crowd within reach.There were too many great quotes to list in their entirety (e.g. "I am defined by me relation to you. If I honor you I honor God. If I dishonor God I dishonor you." Or . . . "After the Holocaust, of any other profession, writers committed suicide at a higher rate than any other profession. Why? Because, writers need words to make sense of their life. And survivors of the Holocaust shared one conviction in common: we had no words for the abandonment we'd experienced." Or . . . "A handshake sometimes has the weight of a poem." Or . . . If Auschwitz did not end racism in the West, what could?")Wiesel shared several incredible stories of his work in reconciliation with well-known world conflicts and leaders.

One story lingers in my heart. Following Nelson Mandela's release from prison, Wiesel held a reconciliation conference in which he invited the then President of South Africa, along with Mandela. After listening to Wiesel and Mandela describe the brutality of ethnic genocide and institutional racism, the young president stood up and declared to the entire audience, "I was born into apartheid; it's all I've ever known. My fervent wish is that I now am able to attend its funeral."After the crowd left, I found myself contemplating the “so what?” of the night. I cam to this conclusion: As humans, we only get one brief shot to make a difference in this world. Most of us might not have the opportunity (or burden) to impact the world to the degree of Elie Wiesel. I am certain however, that with our very words, we can create and heal more worlds than we'd ever thought possible. I left the Wiesel event with more hope than I've had in a long time. Enough hope to think that God might do his best work in the midst of human chaos and suffering.

The United States is in the midst of an intense political campaign, in case you had not noticed. We, the baptized, should take Wiesel’s sentiment seriously that language possesses the power to create or destroy. The church should be the community which models to the rest of the world the meaning of such words as truth, dignity, respect, mutuality, honor, dialog, and trust.

If you have not read any of Elie Wiesel's work, I would start with Night and eventually find my way to The Messengers of God and The Kingdom of Memory.

Dancing with Both Legs

I use the phrases "personal piety" and "social justice" not because I personally use them often but because I hear them used often by theologians, ministers, students, and other people interested in religious/spiritual conversations.

I've noticed that people who are primarily passionate about personal piety (reading the bible, devotionals, keeping a journal and other daily rituals) do not always place nice with those who are strong advocates for the poor, homeless and invisible among us. And the same is true of the latter regarding the former. Anne Lamott once wrote, "You know you've created God in your own image when he hates all the same people as you."

I'm perplexed about this.

There are two examples within Torah/Pentateuch (first five books of the Hebrew Scriptures) that seriously challenge the separation of personal piety and social awareness.

First, the entire book of Leviticus. Many OT scholars now read Lev. 19 (specifically, love your neighbor as yourself) as the center or crux of the entire work. Anyone who's read Leviticus knows that the decrees are nuanced, detailed, and seemingly overbearing. OT scholars now suggest that Leviticus is an argument that to care for social issues, means one will take personal piety seriously. Therefore, the only way you can love your neighbor as much as you love yourself (and how many people do not truly love themselves) is if you keep the daily requirements. If that does not convince you, perhaps you should remember that Jesus himself said that loving God and loving neighbor was the heart of true religion.

Second example comes from the Sabbath. The Sabbath (shabbot) is God's commandment to humanity to rest just as he rested after creating the earth. In Torah, Sabbath is a part of a cycle of life leading up to Jubilee (something Jesus again picks up on in Luke 4 as he is preaching to his hometown congregation concerning the essence of his ministry). Jubilee was the time in which land, slaves, and debts were forgiven. It was God's radical act of justice in a world that was primarily concerned with profit, exploitation, and economic gain (like our world today). Therefore, if you wanted to end injustice, the way to do so, was to keep Sabbath. You rested on the seventh day. Sabbath created the space for humans to remember God's role as Creator. And to remember that there will be a day when all peoples of the world will rest, what some call "heaven."

You can't separate personal piety from social awareness. At least, not if you want to be a person who is formed by the Torah, and the teachings of Jesus.

The two largest groups of Christians in the United States (evangelical and mainline) seem to be interested in opposite sides of the same coin. Most evangelicals are interested in bible study, prayer, journals, book clubs, bible classes while many mainline churches are interested in slavery in Uganda, wars in the Sudan, poverty in India.

Of course, this has radically changed in the last twenty years. But it's still the overwhelming legacy of the twentieth century.

Mainline churches went wrong because they equated the Gospel primarily with social issues. Evangelicals went wrong because they privatized faith. Both are equally offensive. The product of personal piety and devotion is engagement with the world and neighbor. The sustaining force for those passionate about social issues is personal piety. If one is missing, it's like dancing with one leg. It can't be done.

Same Kind of Different as Me

I won't spoil the plot . . . but, if you get a chance, check out the book Same Kind of Different as Me by Ron Hall and Denver Moore.

All I'll say is this. I was exhausted last night. I picked up to read a few chapters and ended up staying up halfway through the night to finish. I laughed, cried (but hey, I watch Chick Flick's . . . remember?), and I felt a sense of deep hope for this broken world.

It begins outside a burning plantation hut in Louisiana... and an East Texas honky-tonk... and, without a doubt, in the heart of God. It unfolds in a Hollywood hacienda... an upscale New York Gallery... a downtown dumpster... a Texas ranch. Gritty with pain and betrayal and brutality, it also shines with an unexpected, life-changing love.

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In the spirit of Elie Wiesel (see posts from last week), I've decided I'm not going to blog about politics until after the election. There are many reasons, some good, some not so good . . . however . . . the venom being unleashed by Christians (right and left) is disturbing and I don't want to contribute to that in any way these next twelve plus weeks. So, that's my promise. I'm fasting from blogging about politics. If you are Republican, Democrat or independent . . . please show humility and grace to those around you.

MLK and the Good Samaritan

On this day, the 40th anniversary of Dr. King's tragic death in Memphis, we pause to remember a man who gave his life (as did Jesus of Nazareth) to show the world that love, not violence, is the most powerful force in the universe.

A true revolution of values will soon cause us to question the fairness and justice of many of our past and present policies. On the one hand, we are called to play the Good Samaritan on life's roadside, but that will be only an initial act. One day we must come to see that the whole Jericho Road must be transformed so that men and women will not be constantly beaten and robbed as they make their journey on life's highway. True compassion is more than flinging a coin to a beggar. It comes to see that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring, (Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. at the Riverside Church in New York City on April 4, 1967).

Sabbath, Liberation

For the past three months, Thursday's have been my Sabbath rest day. I used to practice Sabbath on Saturday's . . . but more and more that is proving to be impossible. Sunday's usually begin around 730am not ending until 9 or 10pm. Monday's and Tuesday's are fairly typical (9am to 5pm), while Wednesday is "marathon day"--I usually don't get home until 10pm or so. Thursday's a day of rest, while I use Friday to prepare for Sunday (teaching, preaching, pastoral care) and catching up one things that may have slipped through the cracks during the week.

All that to say, I crave Thursday's. I need them. I cherish them.

This fall/winter, I've been writing a book Jesus Feast: Spirituality in a Pluralistic World. It's been invigorating, tiriing, and frustrating--all at the same time. In less than a week, I send the manuscript to one editor, who seems to be interested in publishing the work. Then . . . the real work will begin.


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If you’ve never read anything about liberation theology, I would suggest this article as a good beginning point.

In the 1970’s theologians in Latin America and Africa began talking about God’s heart for the poor as the primary way to understand the God of the Judeo-Christian scriptures. I confess that I spent much of my time in seminary reading, and reflecting upon this approach to reading scripture and thus, thinking about the mission of the church as she heads into this time of uncertainty in these United States.

While, I’m not as convinced of its exclusive place at the table of theological inquiry, I still believe that one cannot possibly understand the prophetic punch offered by Jesus if one does not seriously consider the teachings of Jon Sobrino, Oscar Romero, and Gustavo Gutiérrez (to name a few). It is Gustavo who introduced me to the notion of "solidarity with the poor" as one of the purest experiences in life.

It is my interaction with liberation theology that has fueled my passion for Cass Park and thinking of the church as a missional body.

Here’s a snippet from the article I suggested per liberation theology.

I encountered Sobrino in the sacristy of his church after Mass on a cool April morning, but he at first declined to speak with me (as he had refused other interviews requests). Suddenly, I blurted out the one question that had gripped me since reading his books: What is reality? My question caught his attention.

In Where is God? Earthquake, Terrorism, Barbarity, and Hope, Sobrino wrote that reality is the Cross. “One must take charge of reality,” he wrote, quoting Ignacio Ellacuría, one of the Jesuit priests murdered in 1989 by U.S.-trained Salvadoran soldiers. “One must ‘bear the burden of reality’ with all its crushing weight.”

“Reality is what’s being covered up, the things that are covered up and are very hard to unearth,” Sobrino answered me, launching into a finely tuned reflection. “Hope is a reality. ... Reality is hard, but it’s wonderful. There is this energy, the will to live. ... I’m happy in this country. There are many good things.”

But Sobrino upends any simplistic view of the reality of El Salvador. True, 11 people are murdered every day and thousands flee every year, but many more stay and persevere. How easily we choose where to cast the lines of reality, from there choosing whose suffering merits help and who to kill.

“You know Sept. 11,” Sobrino states. “But what is October 7? It’s the day the democracies bombed Af­ghanistan. The poor of this earth, which are the majority, don’t even have calendars,” said Sobrino. “What should be said and what should be silenced is in the hands of the few and powerful, and that is what I fight against.”