What is Really Hiding Under Your Bed?

Have you ever tried to get somewhere but forgot to bring the directions? You start out with a strong conviction that you know where you are going, but then something seems out of place; a little doubt creeps in, and you wonder to yourself, “Is this the way? It looks familiar, but then, again, it doesn’t.” And if the sky darkens as you travel, your doubt increases; you regret having left the directions behind, and you now wish you had the phone number of the person you were going to meet.

Children do not like darkness. They intuitively imagine bogeymen under beds and in closets. As a boy, I would ask my parents not to shut the bedroom door all the way after we said my bedtime prayers, or to leave the closet light on. It was more comforting to have a bit of light than to be alone with the silence of my irrational fears.

As we get older, we grow more comfortable with darkness, perhaps because we are more willing to face the reality of who we really are and to confront more prayerfully that which needs to be changed about how we live our lives.

Searching for meaning in our lives (some might call this looking God) is like that. We keep striving to find something familiar, something to light the way. But then we realize that God calls us to do just the opposite. We must enter the darkness of the unknown, turn away from the familiar, and enter into the threatening void of our deepest fears and anxieties, for that is where God waits.

Julius Caesar set the date for the winter solstice, the longest night of the year, as December 25, when the earth is farthest from the sun in its elliptical orbit. For those of us in the northern hemisphere, it is the time when we are tipped on our axis away from the sun. Science has corrected Caesar’s date for the winter solstice, and science teaches us something more. We now know that being deprived of light can lead to emotional stress and even depression. Modern research suggests that there is much more depression in peoples who live closest to the earth’s Polar Regions, where darkness lasts much longer during the winter days. The depressive psychological effect of winter darkness is called “seasonal affective disorder.” Some call it “cabin fever,” others “the winter blues.”

And the treatment for this disorder? Well, it may not surprise you to learn that it is light. A Wikipedia site explains that “Light therapy, increased negative ion exposure (which can be attained from plants and well ventilated flames, burning wood or beeswax) can reinvigorate the body from its seasonal lull and relieve winter blues by decreasing melatonin secretions, increasing serotonin and temporarily creating a more even sleeping pattern.”

Who is to say that our traditional winter festivals surrounding December 25, calling for lighted houses and trees, parlor fires, communion with close ones, and festive singing, aren’t simply winter therapies that have evolved to help keep us sane during our dark months? Imagine modern science supporting religious tradition and helping us to better understand of our fear of the dark and our intuitive craving for light.

The Judeo-Christian God knows about darkness. The Hebrew Bible opens this way: “In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep.” Two ideas merge in this story: One explains that God created light. God’s first words were, “Let there be light.” The second idea is that all creation was good. All of it was very good.

As we contemplate what God made, we cannot help but imagine that God wanted something more than darkness and void. When God commanded light, God created the opportunity for sight and with it the visual appreciation of the goodness of creation. In creating human beings, God gave us the potential to love each other and to love God. She/He did not command us to love Her/Him. Rather She/He gave us the freedom to seek Her/Him of our own free will. God waits in the darkness for us, and is willing to be lonely while we busy ourselves with our quotidian labors and concerns.

And God still waits. God waits for us to come into the dark, to seek and to say, “I love you” because we want to, not because we have to. Isn’t this the essence of the human condition—a deep desire to be loved and to be needed? The act of leaving the light on in the closet for a child is an act of caring and understanding. Perhaps it is not so much the light that matters as the compassion of the adult to have tenderness for a child who is afraid of the dark and to light the way to comfort and security.

Whose Voice Is It Anyway?

I have been reading and listening to two or three sources this week. One of them is an email my wife sent me while I was teaching on Saturday.

Does this seem odd to you? Because it should. People who live together in the same house do not need to send each other email. Or do we?

The need to connect, to communicate, is strong. No family is perfect, and one day, if you have a life partner who loves you unconditionally, you may find yourself communicating by email once in awhile, even though the person is in the other room.

The second source is a stack of questionnaires that my students filled out a while back. The feedback is very clear: Sunday chapels should be voluntary; and they are too long, too traditional, and too early. Not all of them said this, but many did and so it's time to evaluate the value of school chapel services.

The gospel message for today (Luke 3: 1-6) calls upon us to listen closely, and to consider making some changes in our lives. Here is how it goes: First, we hear from someone called John the Baptist, a country preacher who envisioned a better future for all humanity. He saw big changes on the horizon, and thought the world would be a better place if people would be more disciplined. The discipline he prescribed was fairly simple: Say you’re sorry for the bad things you’ve done. Be truly sorry in your heart. Forgive yourself and others for mistakes you’ve made and they have made. Then do your best to live a clean and honorable life.

John went on to give a reason for his “clean up your act” message. Basically he said: “Someone is coming who is going to radically change how things are evaluated around here, and those who aren’t straight with themselves and others are going to be very, very uncomfortable.”

Making positive changes in the way we behave is hard. We are programmed, it seems, to repeat bad habits. Just yesterday an Episcopal priest from Baltimore was elected suffragan bishop of Los Angeles. Mary Glasspool is a lesbian woman with a faithful partner, yet her election is already stirring up old controversies and fueling new criticism of the Episcopal Church. When will people ever learn?

Old habits are hard to break because changing how we think and act takes serious effort and a strong will. Look at the people who get marks for the same thing over and over. Do the reprimands really work? I wonder? Do advisor talks, deans meetings and residential reviews make a difference?

John must have thought so, because he proclaimed his message with phenomenal energy. I mean, the man had a vision that just wouldn't quit. “God will lift up the valleys and bring the mountains low,” he said. God is going to flatten this world, put everyone on an even playing field and evaluate, so get ready. Basically he was saying, God is going to inspect every nook and cranny of your life—your friendships and allegiances, your private thoughts—everything about your individual life; and God is going to straighten you up. The change will be huge. Monumental. So get ready!

Now, John did not claim to be the one who would change things. What he did was imagine that positive change was possible. In fact, John the Baptist preached that those who failed to imagine positive change, those who had no faith in themselves, would be condemned to live sour and uninspiring lives.

Some of us like flying way above the radar, some of us below. To those who seek to slip through the cracks, John proclaimed that God’s radar was not beatable. There is no stealth craft, no invisibility cloak. We can’t hide.

According to John, the discipline that releases our power of transformation for positive change is spiritual; it is the discipline of repentance—the willingness to say, I am sorry. I can do better. No. I want to be better.

That small but willing desire is an act of the human spirit. To begin we must look at our reflection in a mirror or a pond and say to the person looking back, “Today, I want to be better. God give me the will and the strength to make a change.”

That is what mattered to John.

It will come as no surprise to you that little commitments like this happen around us all the time. I see it especially as I watch my students perform in classes, studios, and on the fields and stages of my school. Several years ago I sat in on a student’s exhibition about the novel Beloved. The teacher made a few provocative remarks to start things off, then asked the student to comment on the strengths of the paper. The student began by defending a particular theme, but was nervous about the performance. Each time the student faltered, the teacher skillfully guided the student back to the theme, and even helped the student along in subtle ways. Witnessing the young person’s performance, I could not help but admire the poise, the ability to discuss certain passages and even quote them, the willingness to see the teacher’s point of view and respond intelligently to new ideas and questions.

Later, in talking with the student about the experience, I listened to wishes that it had gone better, that the themes the student had worked so hard to express seemed trivial now. Clearly the student was anxious and embarrassed by some of the things that were said and written, and the student expressed regret in having faltered under the scrutiny of the teacher.

But the teacher, a brilliant veteran, shared none of this negativity, and even said to me: “You know, there was a lot in that paper!” In that moment I realized that this teacher understood a deep, spiritual truth: no matter how weak or uninspiring an exhibition like that might be, Toni Morrison’s was the dominant voice in the room. Her characters still spoke, and they said, “Repent. Repent your self-loathing, and believe in yourself. Nothing is worse than being disconnected from dignity and self-worth, and no person or institution has the right to separate you from your God-given potential.” A brilliant teacher taught me to listen more carefully for true voices. That day, Morrison’s was not diminished by a student’s stammering or fumbles.

The human proclivity to dissect things and criticize them is nowhere more evident than in a college prep school. Whether we are teachers heatedly debating the need for more rigor in the classroom, or students complaining about food, too much work, or the length of chapel services, we seem to enjoy dissecting our experiences. It is a good thing to be critical, to strive for excellence, enjoy rigor, and have good taste in choosing what is important to us. If something is worth doing, it is worth our best effort. I believe that God deserves our best effort. Not second or third best, but best. And so when John the Baptist speaks to us of repentance, we need to be like that English teacher and recognize that the dominant voice in the room is not ours, but the voice of the Holy Spirit speaking to the human spirit.

John’s was not the voice. He said so himself. He was the mouth. God was the speaker. And God is still speaking. That is what Advent means, by the way. God coming, again and again, into our humble existence, calling to give our best and be our best selves.

So be alert, and be ready.

My wife’s email, though somewhat lengthy (she is a good writer), had a simple message. She said, “Some things change, but one thing does not: I am your friend and you are my friend. I love you unconditionally.” The discipline John calls for is repentance. The action, my friend said, is love. Those are voices make real change possible.

This Way to Advent

We come together this morning to give thanks that we are alive and to accept an invitation to a new season in the Church calendar. The seemingly endless green of Pentecost gives way to the refreshing blue/purple of Advent. As joyful and wonderful as the season is, we also know how difficult transitions can be. Psychologists tell us that we are most vulnerable to stress when we are forced to deal with change, especially when we do not know what to expect.

Looking back over the past two decades, I cannot think of a year that has included so much unexpected change, turmoil and suffering.

I don’t know about you, but in my office, I have two items that help me make sense of change. One is a calculator—a TI-84 Plus Silver Edition. This modern machine can do more calculations faster than most of the computers that sent the first human into outer space. It is programmed to do algebra, geometry, calculus, statistical analysis and much more. With the push of a few buttons, I can find solutions to six equations in six variables, calculate the odds of winning the lottery, or view your biorhythms. It is a remarkable machine, and it fits in the palm of my hand.

The other item I have in my office to help me deal with change is the Holy Bible, in the NRSV version. Inspired by the Holy Spirit, it contains all things necessary to salvation. The Old Testament reveals God’s mighty acts in creation; God’s deliverance of suppressed peoples; all the Law and the prophets. More than these, the Bible describes the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, the Messiah, whose coming was foretold in the Old Testament, and whose life is our model of the new covenant, one based on love. All that we are is based on God’s love working in us by the word made flesh in the person of Jesus.

As we engage in the transition from Pentecost to Advent, it is tempting to reach for the calculator instead of the Bible to measure our worth. In order to help us make sense of the past and prepare for the future, it is reassuring to measure assets, assess physical strength, and answer many other questions about the finite world.

But Advent invites us to something more profound than these. Advent gives us a glimpse of that which cannot be measured in human terms.

Advent is the first season of the church year, and it always begins on the fourth Sunday before Christmas. Using my trusty TI-84, I can calculate that after today, November 29, 2009, there are 25 days until Christmas.

In case you did not know, the word “advent” is derived from the a Latin word for “coming.” The season is a time of preparation and expectation for the coming celebration of our Lord’s nativity, and for the final coming of Christ “in power and glory.”

If you are like me, your idea of Christmas is more about the coming of the baby Jesus than it is about the final coming of Christ in power and glory? You are sentimental, and you take comfort in the scene of Mary, Joseph and Jesus in a cozy barn, with adoring animals sleeping peacefully nearby. In contrast, however, Luke’s gospel message to us in chapter 21 ends with the words, “Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away. Be on guard so that your hearts are not weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life, and that day catch you unexpectedly, like a trap. For it will come upon all who live on the face of the whole earth. Be alert at all times, praying that you may have the strength to escape all these things that will take place, and to stand before the Son of Man.”

This coming of Jesus is not a sentimental one. There are no shepherds, no cows or sheep, no star and no manger. Luke is telling us to grow up, to prepare for some pretty heavy responsibilities. The Church and its members will face tough times, but the “Son of Man,” i.e. Jesus, will come from heaven with power to change all things.

It is tempting, in the face of such warnings, to measure our life’s work, our past actions and behaviors, our acts of charity, and our love of God and neighbor, with a calculator—to add up all the good things and compare them to all the ways we have fallen short (and all of us have fallen short!).

That is the problem with the calculator approach. If God were to measure us this way, none of us would have a chance.

That is because the calculator is a machine. It is made of silicon chips, tiny wires, printed circuit boards, liquid crystals and lots of plastic. It can do sophisticated algorithms, but it cannot inspire us for change.

And so Luke reminds us of the other item, God’s redeeming word. The Bible is like a fig tree. Its pages may appear worn out, like dry leaves on dead branches in winter, but for those who pay attention to nature, we know that in spring those same branches will sprout again in a cycle as old as creation.

So consider this option: Open your Bible. Don’t throw away the calculator; you will need it to better understand and measure what you have. But consider, once again, that other resource. Use it to reconnect yourself to the core of your being. Keep it open to remind you to be alert and aware that the connection we all have to God and one another is love.

If we allow ourselves to be weighed down by our day-to-day earthly concerns, cynicism and doubt, we will not be aware of the nearness of God, and will not be ready when God comes.

Let us stay awake. Let us remain hopeful and optimistic. Let us use our energy for love and forgiveness. Let us believe in ourselves because the One who came believes in us and inspires us for positive and life-giving change.

Seats of Honor

Several years ago, I took my mother to see the film Dead Poet's Society, which had just come out. Little did I know that she was suffering from terminal cancer. We saw the movie together. She had been a career teacher. She was thrilled when John Keating (the role played by Robin Williams) challenged his students to "be extraordinary."

This week I watched another vintage film, Annie Hall, in which a man named Alvy Singer argues against leading the shallow life.

Alvy's girlfriend, Annie, the love of his life, the perfect soulmate, his best friend, had begun to wonder about her future; and, thanks to Alvy, who had encouraged her to take risks and fulfill her potential, she decided take time off from Alvy. Consequently, Alvy was devastated, sad, anxious, and, most of all, confused. One day as he was walking along a sidewalk in New York, he stopped to talk to a couple who were walking arm in arm.

Alvy asked, “Here, you look like a very happy couple, um, are you?

“Yeah,” said one of the strangers.

“Yeah?” said Alvy, “So, so, how do you account for it?”

“Uh, I’m very shallow and empty and I have no ideas and nothing interesting to say.”

“And I’m exactly the same way,” said the other stranger.

Alvy came away thinking, “Wow. I guess that’s one way to lead a happy life. Have low expectations and nothing worthwhile to offer the world. If I venture nothing, then I never have to worry about failing.”

It has been my experience that real life rarely turns out like those we read about in story books or see in movies. Real life is difficult. It involves suffering. Real life involves the choices we make and the risks we take. In our pursuit of things that really matter, we know that we will suffer from our mistakes, get hurt when we take risks and fail more often than we succeed.

John W. Gardner, overseer of the Elementary and Secondary Education Act, and a pioneer of the Public Broadcasting System, once said that "We pay a heavy price for our fear of failure. It is a powerful obstacle to growth. It assures the progressive narrowing of the personality and prevents exploration and experimentation. There is no learning without some difficulty and fumbling. If you want to keep on learning, you must keep on risking failure—all your life."

I am reasonably certain that those reading this blog have failed at something. I know that I have, often miserably and publicly, which is the most humiliating way to do it.

Almost from the moment we are born, we fall short. We can’t even feed ourselves, and our dependence upon others is painfully evident until one day we decide, “I am going to try this on my own. I can do this thing, by myself. I can do this thing, and I will do it! I am going to wrestle, play volleyball or the French Horn, sing in a choir, act, draw pictures, write poetry, speak Chinese.”

From that day forward, we start down the pathway of independence. We become self-sustaining, self-motivating, and self-reliant. Out of trial and error, we emerge stronger.

The leaders and prophets of Israel, who were clearly set apart, all lived lives that included failure. Abraham got lost. Moses was impatient. David had an affair with Bathsheba, which he tried to cover up and couldn’t.

There once was a man named Jesus, who chose followers, not because they were successful, but maybe because they were so good at failing. Many times during his ministry, he used their failures—failure to catch fish, failure to navigate boats, failure at healing and casting out demons, and, in the end, failure to defend him when he went on trial for his life—he used these failures to teach.

Jesus used each person's failed effort to strengthen that person's character. And those stories teach and strengthen us in our life’s journey and mission. Our failings and shortcomings are not simply minor disruptions in our ongoing journey through life; rather, they are clues about our special selves, those habits that make us different from each other.

How do you fail? Are there patterns? Do you fail at the same thing over and over? When you reveal what makes you uneasy, uncertain or afraid, with whom can you share this? Who do you trust?

I am growing older. I was once a popular young teacher where I work, but not before I was the new teacher and had to earn my reputation. With a new bride by my side, I started my career in a boarding school in Tennessee. It was a brand new school, and we were among the small group of founding members of that school. It was a magical time for me, but my good fortune as I began my career remains a mystery. It seemed that every time the headmaster of that fledgling institution came around the corner I was doing something good, something for students, something inspirational that made the head take note. I was encouraged to continue as a teacher, and I did.

After several years of curious success, I came to my present school. I couldn’t have been more uncomfortable. I was the new teacher. My colleagues were extraordinary. I tried lots of things: being funny, being macho, playing at being scholarly and witty. I failed at every turn. It seemed that every time the head of school came around the corner, I was doing something wrong: I was out of dress code; my dog was chewing up expensive school furniture; I once misread my schedule and was absent the day he just happened to drop by my class to see me teach.

But the biggest of all my failures was in not being myself. I paraded false images before others that I might earn acceptance and feel a part of the community. It didn’t work because all the community really expected from me was me. Imperfect, vulnerable, rough around the edges.

It is a very personal thing to reveal that we are not perfect, not always sure of ourselves, that we are sometimes broken, that we suffer personal insecurities others know nothing about. In a community that matters, one that is built on trust, intelligence, and hard work, the most painful of all our failures is the one that causes us to ignore, despise and reject those who don’t measure up to our high standards. It is a failing so subtle that it happens without our even knowing it. And a world where people feel suppressed, or have a sense that they do not belong, that world is a dark world.

It was into a darkening world, that Jesus taught his disciples to welcome the stranger and comfort the lonely. Jesus was not out for fame. He did not seek glory. Glory, for him, was in emptying himself by the spilling of his blood. Once, when his disciples asked Jesus to grant them a seat, one on his left and one on his right in his glory, his response was, “You do not know what your are asking.”

This was not a challenge to their aspiration for glory, but a redefinition of glory. The disciples had failed to understand that the pathway to everlasting life is not a pathway to privilege, celebrity, wealth, or high standing. That path will detach you from the people you care about and the people who need you.

While it would be absurd to choose the shallow path, we must be careful not to think ourselves so self-righteous, so deserving that a speacial seat awaits us in heaven. Instead, try to find the middle way. Stay connected with who you are. Be extra-ordinary by being intentional in your ordinary lives. Be serious. Stay connected. That is the pathway Jesus wanted his disciples to choose. Rather than having a seat of honor. He wanted them to have a spirit of honor. If any of us make it to a place called heaven, I have a strong feeling that we will not find a seat there with our name engraved on it. That is because we cannot serve others by sitting. We must stand for something, and that something has got to be something good.

This world is broken, my gentle reader. If we want to fix it, we cannot do it by sitting in chairs congratulating ourselves for the good men and women we have already become. We must act, and we must serve. Seek not so much to have a place of honor, but make the place where you are and honorable place.

In Hebrews, it says that “one does not presume to take this honor, but takes it only when called by God.”

If you are reading this, then know that you have been called by God. Offer God your will. You cannot offer more. You have answered the call.

Feeding the Fire

This week I have been thinking about signs and symbols, and three stand out: Salt, Millstones, and Fire.

I have a pretty good sense of what salt does. It accents the essence of food, builds up the taste, and makes the flavor more robust. Some people bathe in salt water for its medicinal powers. It makes a pretty healthy throat gargle too, and it can be mixed with water to clean a surface wound.

From what I have read about millstones, they were pretty handy for grinding wheat and corn, but they are really, really heavy. A few years ago, a 17^th century millstone was found in a creek in Nova Scotia. It was marked with what appeared to be a roughly cut cross. Finding the millstone lead historians to dig further into its origin, but nothing I read was conclusive—just that where millstones are, people must have been.

The third symbol is fire. For most Christians, fire is a symbol of the Holy Spirit, for purity, and for light.

These are all positive metaphors and symbols about salt, millstones and fire.

But each has a negative side. Salt does not really taste very good all by itself. It is a lifeless crystal. It symbolizes something cold, something barren. Who could forget Lot’s wife who turned to look back when angels told her not to.

Millstones are so heavy that, as Jesus put it, if you cause another person to sin, you would be better off to have one placed around your neck and be thrown into the sea. The stone will pull you down. You won’t resurface.

Two symbols of death—salt and millstone.

Fire, too, is destructive. When I think of fire, I think of hell, torture, and ruin.

Symbols and signs. How important these are to language and idea.

Yesterday, a football team from a school for students who are deaf came to my school to play a game. It was interesting to me to see this team communicate through signs. The players looked to the sideline after every down. Coaches flashed hand signals to talk to the quarterback. He, in turn, used hand signals to let players know when to snap the ball, and what to do.

It made me wonder about Jesus’ message to his disciples about tearing your eye out. It is all well and good to lose an eye if you have two good ears, but when you rely as much on your eyesight as these boys must in order to play football, …, well, you can see what I mean.

One of the most amazing things about watching that game was the contrast between the two sidelines. A good play by our side was followed by boisterous, jubilant cheers. When a similar play was made by the opposing team, you hardly heard a sound. Instead, players slapped their hands on their pads and clapped. They did not cheer. Those for whom they wished to share their jubilance could not hear.

For two hours, on a high school gridiron, the world seemed different. Half the people present could not hear what the other half was saying.

Maybe the lesson we are supposed to hear today is the one Meister Eckhart had in mind when he thought: The ears I use to hear God, are the same as those God uses to hear me. The eye with which I see God is the eye with which God sees me.

What has any of this got to do with salt, millstones and fire?

I struggled all week with the sentence in today’s Gospel that reads, “For everyone will be salted with fire.” My scholarly exegesis came up rather fruitless. It was the football game that taught me that language can be a stumbling block.

Many of the New Testament scholars I read suggested that the passage is warning us about the eternal punishment that awaits those who lead others astray.

Writing for The CHRISTIAN CENTURY, Loyola professor Stephen Fowl said, “If you are reading this column hoping to get some insight into Mark 9:49-50, you can stop now. These verses are intensely obscure; the commentaries offer little help; neither I nor anyone I know has received a special revelation explaining the text. Let us simply agree to move on to other matters.”

So it was that I found myself sitting in front of my laptop on Saturday night, blurry-eyed and puzzled, when the idea came to me that the stumbling block about this passage is really a matter of the language being used, and when language fails, symbols take over.

I believe that Mark wants us to know that the way of the cross means adding more zest to our lives.

“For everyone will be salted with fire” is how Jesus put it.

Salt: a mineral. Sodium Chloride. A crystal. Edible for humans, but toxic to most small plants. Salt flavors, heals and preserves. But without something to use it with, it is sterile. Think about the Dead Sea. Hardly any living thing can survive in this place, yet for centuries people have visited, dipped themselves into the water, and felt healed.

Salt can be deadly. Salt can be healthy.

Fire—that is what our tongue is. The words we use can be positive or negative. As we have seen these past two weeks, many have used words in very negative ways. They were used to call the president of the United States liar. They were used on a professional tennis court by a pro athlete to berate officials. They were used by a music super star to embarrass the recipient of a major award. Such misuse of words is rude; it is base; and more importantly, it is hurtful.

Salt can be used for good or be a symbol for what is bad.

As for being salted with fire, Jesus seems to be calling us to a higher self than the one we have chosen. He knows that we can be extraordinary, to live with passion and commit to something bigger than ourselves.

One of the promises we live by is that God will never ask us to do something without giving us the power to do it, but it is up to us to offer ourselves, everything about us—sins, passions, mistakes, hopes, selfishness, love—all of these to God, in faith, and, more importantly, with a demand that God take us and do something good with us!

To be salted with fire is to accept the fire that seasons us and makes us more worthy to season and support others.

The fire used is the fire that burns from the wood of the cross. The flames say, “Let go and be purified. Let go of ego and become seasoning for others. Let go of willfulness and begin to serve. Let go of greed and be generous instead. Let go and be broken by and for the sake of one thing—Love.”

Love makes us free. Love shapes each of us into a vessel that God can use to preserve that special salt—salt to heal this broken world. A poem by the late Bishop John Coburn contains the phrase:

“The wood/ of the Cross/ is the best/ for feeding/ the fire/ of love.”

When the wood is consumed, all that is left is the love—the love that we have for God, the love we have for God’s Son, and, through him, the love we have for each other.

The Cost of True Friendship

Old Friends.

True Friends.

Discipleship.

That is what this story is about.

Many years ago, I had a best friend in high school. I am not sure how it happened. Paul lived in the center of town, and my house was on the edge. His house was a 3-story Victorian mansion, built in the 19th century. Ours was a post World War II, single story ranch. But this was the 1960’s. With all due respect to Thomas L. Friedman, the vision of a flat world was beginning to become reality, even then. Perhaps Paul and I became friends because we were students at our high school who liked to build and fix things. We were the same age. We wore leather jackets. We drove Harley Davidsons.

Being friends with Paul was easy, relaxed and natural. I never thought to question the differences in our backgrounds. It just wasn’t an issue. We attended classes during the day, and went to work after school. We usually met at his garage on weekends to work on engines, talk about music, laugh and joke about lots of things, and always imagine the great difference we would make in the world when we got older. I was Patroclus. He was Achilles.

Sadly, I lost touch with Paul after high school. I have not seen or heard from him in over 35 years.

And yet, if you asked me to name one of my best male friends, I would still say Paul. We were alike in so many ways—all the best ways. We were kindred spirits. His friendship pointed me in the way I would eventually go, even though it meant we would part ways.

Today’s gospel reading from Mark reminds us that Jesus did not choose kindred spirits to follow him. He chose strangers. Over a period of roughly three years, Jesus lived, traveled, taught, ate, slept and prayed with men and women from diverse backgrounds. It is not surprising that Jesus sometimes wondered about his relationship with the disciples. At one point he asked them a question: “Who do people say I am?” Taking his question literally, they told him what they thought he wanted to hear. Something along the lines of: “You are a great guy. You are Churchill. You are Ghandi. You are Mother Teresa, Ted Kennedy, Eleanor Roosevelt.”

The disciples chose famous names, sage prophets, someone “other” to impress Jesus with their admiration for him. Realizing that they misunderstood his meaning, Jesus refined the question. He clarified the issue by asking: “Who do you say that I am? What do you think?”

With this question, Jesus changed the relationship he had with his disciples. He taught them that friendship is not one-sided. It has to be mutual.

Friendship is not like membership in a club. You and I can buy a membership—pay a few bucks and get a card that allows us to attend meetings, enjoy meals in a plush dining room, invite guests or clients to play golf and enjoy the facilities.

But friendship is not membership. It cannot be bought. I tried this with my first real girlfriend. I loved her more than anything in the world. I tried everything I knew to win her attention and affection. It didn't work. If you asked her about it now, she would say that it was all for the best. Time heals. People recover.

Real friendship is mysterious, deep, and lasting. One of the paradoxes of real friendship is that, although it cannot be bought, real friendship comes at a price.

The New Testament tells us that Jesus redefined his relationship with the disciples by saying, “I do not call you servants any longer, but I have called you my friends.” (John 15: 15) And the cost of true friendship is this: that his friends must deny themselves and follow him.

This idea will become a core concept of the Christian Life. It will not suffer lip service. It will not accept fair-weather friendship. Jesus says that his true followers, those he calls friends, will deny themselves, endure suffering, experience rejection, and accept death. “Greater love hath no person,” Jesus said “than that he or she lay down his or her life for a friend.” (John 15: 13)

Most of us recoil at this challenge. Like Peter we strive for action, freedom, joy and, most of all, a long life. There are churches that actively preach that joy, riches, popularity, success and long life are God’s way of rewarding those who live “righteous” lives.

While this may be true, Jesus did not teach his disciples to evaluate righteousness by measuring riches, possessions, happiness, success or a long life.

Jesus did not say that his followers should deny joy or success when it comes. He did not require this. What he did say was that to follow him, they must deny themselves.

To deny oneself means to set priorities that matter. Welcoming friends, with no strings attached, because doing so makes us happy, instead of trying to buy happiness to win friends.

If we spend our brief time on this earth striving to achieve self-serving goals, we will never know the true joy that God wills for us.

Unlike our fair-weather friends, true friends suffer when we suffer, pray for us even when they are feeling lost or lonely, stand beside us even when we have made mistakes, pay the ultimate price for us if that is God’s will.

For those of you who think that this is too hard, I offer you this simple fact. Jesus is not asking any of us to forfeit our lives. Rather, he is pleading with us to find our lives. He wants us to know that while many have gotten lost pursuing worldly pleasures, selfish gains, and power, others have found what they were looking for by giving away their time, their compassion, and their empathy.

A wise person once said that we become what we think about. If we continue to spend time striving for happiness, worrying about others who have more, wondering if we have enough worldly stuff, then that need, that craving, will always be with us and we will never be satisfied.

Jesus’ message challenges us to deny the need to gain more. That is what he means by saying that we need to deny ourselves.

The other side of this challenge is the life we find in doing unselfish acts of kindness, in giving more time and money to help the needy, and in being true friends to those around us.

Sometimes denying oneself offers unforeseen opportunity for truer friendships, and the discovery of more meaningful vocations. In a passage from Mark, Jesus says: "If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves, take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel, will save it. For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? Indeed, what can they give in return for their life?” (8: 34-37)

Do you ever feel lost? If so, it may be that, while you may be hoping to find your way, you are looking in the wrong place. Sometimes the best place to start a new search is in an old source. Hymn 711 in the Episcopal Hymnal offers the following suggestion: “Seek Ye First the Kingdom of God, And its righteousness/ And all these things shall be added unto you/ Alleluia. Ask and it shall be given unto you/ Seek and ye shall find/Knock and the door shall be opened unto you/ Alleluia.”

Why Cultural Awareness Matters

A person’s identity, race, class and culture strongly influence his/her ability to learn.

Although I have always believed that students thrive in an environment of safety and inclusion, 30 years in the classroom have taught me that students are more likely to succeed and be happy when they are around others who are like them.

When a person knows that an affinity group exists in the school, then he/she is more likely to focus on the important work taking place in the classroom. On the other hand, when a young person feels marginalized because of his/her ethnicity, background, socio-economic history, sexual orientation, gender, class, race, religion, or any other word used to label a person's identity, then that person will not feel comfortable in the classroom, practice room, or other setting where growth is supposed to happen. Consequently, he/she will not be fully engaged in the process of intellectual, social or emotional maturity that is a student’s right.

It is not enough for a teacher to have his/her awareness of these issues awakened. A teacher must engage in honest and meaningful conversation with colleagues and students about issues of social identity, and, whenever possible, include these issues in course goals and syllabi.

Some of the important innovations a teacher might explore are: To include discussion of multicultural issues in every course; To fight against aversive racism in a school’s hiring and/or admission practices; To work harder to include administrators, families and alumni in identifying and achieving the school’s diversity goals; To create a mission that embraces diversity and to develop a rationale for such a mission; To make sure that everyone who studies, lives and works for the institution respects its commitment to Diversity, Equality, Freedom and Inclusion, as they are articulated in the school’s mission.

As teachers and leaders, we need to ask ourselves questions like:

• What does it mean to belong?

• Does every member of the school community feel safe and comfortable there?

• When an individual feels alienated, confused or frustrated, does he or she have a safe place to go? an advocate to talk to?

Many schools pay lip service to diversity and acknowledge the value of including multicultural perspectives in their activities, traditions, and curriculum, but more can be done. Education is a basic human right, and it is the job of everyone, not a school’s diversity directors, to provide an excellent secondary education to every student.

Schools must establish and uphold the principles of justice, peace and respect for very human being. It is a promise they make and a responsibility they accept as soon as the first child steps through the front door each year. On every level, from preschool toddlers to school boards to the U.S. Secretary of Education, we must diligently seek and actively create, vibrant and diverse school communities, such that all students feel inspired to develop and pursue their individual talents. This means having a curriculum rooted in multicultural practice; it means asking students to investigate concepts from multiple perspectives; and it means that students, faculty and staff must come from many different cultures and backgrounds.

Schools can get better, and they will get better when they commit to the simple truth that cultural awareness matters.

Teen Leadership Potential

When teenagers talk about leaders they wish to emulate, they often choose a parent or a teacher. When discussing the reasons why they make this choice, they describe the actions of the person. They notice how the person behaves on the outside. They say things like: "My dad is outgoing and he speaks his mind.", "My mom is assertive, caring and consistent."

When teenagers talk about friendship, they want someone who cares about who they are on the inside. "A friend," they will say, "knows what I am really like, and still wants to be my friend. A friend sticks around when the hard times come. A friend cares about me no matter what. A friend doesn’t tease me to make him/herself look or feel better. Friends stay close. Friends are rare. Friends are with us for life."

It is easy for teenagers to confuse friendship with popularity. Why? What is the difference between friendship and popularity? Why do some teenagers seek to be with the popular kids, even though they do not feel close or friendly with them? How can we steer them toward the resources around them (teachers, counselors, advisors, friends, coaches, parents, siblings) to help them lead by example and not chase after popularity for selfish reasons?

The best way I know is to get teenagers talking about their role models. When asked to describe a good leader, they say things like: "A good leader does not have to be the one elected team captain. A good leader does not have to be the most popular student, a class officer, or the person with the highest grades. A good leader leads by example, even without a title, and does not seek recognition."

Leadership may be easy to define, but it is hard to teach. There are no shortcuts to good leadership. It takes practice. Someone once said, "Leadership is ten percent inspiration and ninety percent perspiration." I believe the effort is worth every drop.

Last month the New York Times published an article that noted one billion teenagers alive in the world today. That's about one-sixth of the world's population. Imagine the potential of that human resource. If every teenager could influence just six other non-teens, and that influence emphasized the Golden Rule, the world could not help but be transformed from selfish to selfless.

Imagine a world where teenagers join one another in a common mission to make the world better through selfless, committed, compassionate, responsible leadership. Imagine that.

Opening Day

Today is Opening Day at my school. Parents and students arrive both excited and apprehensive about the year ahead. Sometime this afternoon parents will say goodbye to their children. They will choose their parting words carefully.

The voice a parent uses at this time is a sacred voice. When they speak to their children, they speak from personal experience to the boy or girl they themselves once were. It is a timeless voice, but it is made in order that the child might live into the richness of the present with hope for a better future.

When parents talk this way, children should listen, for their parents are talking to the sacred, to the very holiness of a child's being.

It is ironic that children find these conversations uncomfortable.

“I know, dad. I hear you, mom. I know. I know. I know. I KNOW! Please don’t do this. I don’t want to talk about this now!”

Nevertheless, parents, guardians, grandparents, and all those who care about their children, persist. They want them to know that they are worthy of the opportunities they have. They want them to make their lives extraordinary.

Carpe Diem. Seize the Day. Be the best you can be. This is the message parents give their children. Although a child might not realize it now, in time, they will be grateful for the dreams their parents hoped to inspire in them.