Through Stained Glass: A Mid-Week Reflection-Building Bridges

Building Bridges

(This week's guest writer is by First Presbyterian member, Marsha Dallas. Marsha is an educator here in Lincoln and chairs the Mission Committee of First Presbyterian Church. When she isn't teaching, reading, or writing, she is enjoying lively conversations with her family and finding ways to make her friends laugh.)

Building bridges; it’s hard work, but when the work is complete it saves many people time and energy. We can think of it that way in respect to human relationships. If we work to build bridges of understanding we can avoid the negative efforts of hate and war.

I had the opportunity this week to hear two human bridge builders speak. The first was Marion Blumenthal Lazan, a survivor of the Nazi concentration camps of World War II. The second, Eboo Patel, is the founder and executive director of the Interfaith Youth Core.

Marion’s experiences were horrific, but she held out hope for her family through an imaginary game of finding four perfect pebbles. She was 10 when Russian troops liberated their camp. All four members of her immediate family had survived, but her father succumbed to illness after the liberation. Marion, her mother, and her brother emigrated to the United States. She and her husband now travel around the country and the world to share her message of courage and to ask her audiences to never allow such atrocities to happen again.

Marion’s message to the students at Lincoln Junior High was to respect each other, especially to respect others who are different. She asked them to reach out to new students and create those human connections that bring peace in the world. She told the students that they would be the last generation to hear her story firsthand, and she hoped that they would share her story with their children and grandchildren.

Marsha Dallas [far right] and others from First Presbyterian
with writer and activist, Eboo Patel.

In contrast to Lazan, Eboo Patel is relatively young and a Muslim. He grew up in a wealthy Chicago suburb. He attended the University of Illinois and became interested in working to overcome the divisive nature of religious beliefs. He realized that all religious traditions promote kindness, service, and hospitality to strangers. Instead of focusing on the beliefs that divide us as people with different orientations around religion, we should create bridges of acceptance by seeking out those similar beliefs. He expressed that it is not our mission to reach agreement on divisive issues. We should work on building relationships and respect. His focus is on young adults, because their energy and openness can join to support multi-faith service initiatives.

Building bridges is an important job. It’s not a mission that will get done immediately. We may still be building far into the future. But we should not forfeit the conversation to others who want to yell louder and spread hate. If we don’t speak up to preserve human dignity and build connections with others, we risk losing the chance to deepen our own faith.

**Note** 
If you are interested in viewing the talk Marion Blumenthal Lazan gave to the students at the Lincoln Junior High School, you can click here.

Through Stained Glass: A Mid-Week Reflection-The Tale of a Totally Unsuspecting Traveler

(This is the third of four reflections from a group of us, based on our recent visit to the Abbey of Gethsemani in Trappist, Kentucky over the weekend. Over the course of the next few weeks, others will share their insights and revelations, poems and epiphanies emergent from this adventure.)

The Tale of a Totally Unsuspecting Traveler

 This week’s guest reflection is by First Presbyterian member, Pat Baker. Pat is a writer and poet at heart, a retired schoolteacher by trade, and a lover of literature. She is the wife to Joe and the mother to Amanda. A proud southern Illinois girl, Pat calls Lincoln home and cheers for the Cubs when she isn’t reading William Maxwell.

I asked myself, not for the first time, “exactly,how and why did I wind up involved in a retreat to The Abbey of Gethsemani?”

In the letter written by the PNC, introducing Adam and Teresa, I was pleased at Adam’s mention of two authors, Wendell Berry, a favorite of a cousin of mine who was a Catholic priest, and Thomas Merton, a vaguely familiar name due to Bruce’s many references to him, 2 pastors, 2 interims, and 30 odd years ago. Soon after his arrival, Adam and I came to discuss books and writing styles frequently. He eagerly shared a few of his vast (he’s 29?) book collection. I enjoyed Rob Bell’s Drops Like Stars and bought my own copy, but the first Merton book I attempted to read left me more than a little confused and uncertain. I saw disappointment in Adam’s eyes when I returned it saying, “I’m not sure I ‘get’ his ideas on contemplation.”

Thankfully, Adam didn’t give up there, and neither did I. Slowly, with help from Adam’s sermons and books by Barbara Brown Taylor, Anne Lamott, and others, Merton’s words began to open my eyes to a new way of exploring and expanding my faith.  I began to envy Merton’s unmatched ability to describe deepening his relationship with God. And I became very curious about the place Merton chose to live for over 27 years and where he is buried, and why this area in central Kentucky became so special to a man who had lived in and traveled to many other countries.

In preparation for this mental and physical journey, I made a list of terms I saw as central to the trip:

·      silence—The condition or quality of being or keeping still and silent. 2. The absence of sound; stillness. 3. A period of time without speech or noise.

·      Contemplation—Deep reflective thought. 2. concentration on spiritual things as form of private devotion.

·      Retreat—The act of giving up and withdrawing or a time away in a quiet and secluded place where you can relax.

I then explored many websites seeking further information on the Abbey. Its history is remarkable and impressive. Amid 2,200 acres in the hills of Nelson County, Kentucky, the 166-year-old Abbey of Gethsemani is known for its peace and tranquility. It is a part of the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, better known as the Trappists. Founded on December 21, 1848 and raised to an abbey in 1851, Gethsemani is considered to the motherhouse of all Trappist and Trappistine monasteries in the United States and is the oldest monastery in the United States that is still operating. Currently 42 Monks are in residence there.

The night before the trip, I felt well prepared.  Our group planned on having blocks of time for our own use. Reading was a priority for me.  I also wanted to keep a written record of what I saw and experienced. I added a few tasty provisions to stave off starvation.

My former “teacher bag” was adequately filled with appropriate items for the weekend ahead:

1). 2 books, Acts of Faith ( Book Nook selection, about half read), An Invitation to the Contemplative Life, by Thomas Merton, appropriate because he and his writings were the focal point for the trip,

2). an issue of Martha Stewart’s magazine, Living in case I had done enough serious contemplation for the day.

3). a travel journal

4). 3 pens and 2 pencils

5). my Daily Prayer Book, on which I’ve come to depend

6). snacks, for a different kind of sustenance

Sufficiently equipped to make the most of every moment of the trip, boredom would not be an issue. I had plenty of worthy reading material, and my journal contained many blank pages that waited for my weighty words.

The drive was filled with enjoyable conversation which allowed all of the travelers to get to know each other better. Periodically, Adam, appropriately sympathetic, provided a near photographic description of the many animals which met their untimely deaths along the road.

It was dark when we drove by the Abbey and arrived at the Bethany Spring Retreat House. Our curiosity would have to wait until morning. We were greeted by the owner and shown to the various bedrooms. After getting settled and exploring the large old farm house, we began to gather in the living room for an enjoyable and wide ranging conversation. Plans for the next day were determined by the Abbey’s schedule of prayer services, the liturgy of the hours:

3:15 am – Vigils; 5:45 am - Lauds; 7:30 am –; 12:15 pm – Sext; 2:15 pm – None; 5:30 pm – Vespers; 7:30 pm – Compline. 7:30 am seemed like a reasonable starting point for the next morning.

Night 1 – no reading, no writing.

We woke to an overcast and foggy day, and soon traveled about a mile down a narrow, winding, black topped lane. Our first glimpse captured the Abbey and its surrounding hills shrouded in wisps of fog and mist. It was captivating in a truly timeless way. The stark white of the Abbey walls sat in simple contrast to the muted colors of the trees and harvest ready fields of corn. The sacredness was perceptible even before the stillness and tranquility made themselves known.

Gethsemani was a very special place indeed.

There were signs that guided our way and requested silence as we entered the walkway.

When we entered the Abbey, the lighting was fittingly dim, the reverence almost tangible as we joined approximately 20 other worshipers. Soon doors began to open as men in long white robes with black scapula entered quickly, quietly, and with familiarity. Two or three yawned. The chanting began, and there were points in the liturgy for responses, but I was satisfied to simply take it all in. After 15 minutes the service was over, as simply as it began, and the Monks silently filed out.

At this time we were fortunate enough to meet and spend a few minutes with one of the Monks, Brother Paul Quenon, OCSO, who Adam had met while he was a student at Bellarmine University. Brother Paul is an established poet (excellent haiku) and a photographer. His easy smile and wise guidance touched us all. Our gifts of the books Billie Dyer, by William Maxwell, and Links, by Rev. Bruce Allison, and an excellent bottle of red wine were warmly received. As he turned Bruce’s book over and looked at his picture, he commented, “Ah, I like his face!” I imagine Bruce would have liked his too.

The rest of the day saw many of us attending five more prayer services, each one different, but their pattern soon became reassuringly familiar. We broke up in smaller groups and read or wrote or explored on our own. Later Adam led us on a pathway through the woods that passed several stunning sculptures, looking perfectly at home among the growth of the forest.

The more I observed and sensed, the clearer Merton’s attraction to this place became. The quiet, reverent, stillness became addictive as I considered all that I had heard and experienced. 

Compline was the final service of the evening, and it was quite special.  Conducted in complete darkness save for one candle, their prayers and hymns were especially comforting.  The power of the simple service was surprising and sustaining.

Before the ending of the day

creator of the world we pray

that with thy gracious favor thou

wouldst be our guard and keeper now

From fears and terrors of the night

defend us Lord by thy great might

and when we close our eyes in sleep

let hearts with Christ their vigil keep.

O Father, this we ask be done

through Jesus Christ thine only Son

who with the Paraclete and thee

now lives and reigns eternally.

Amen.

“Every day, seven times a day, day by day, week by week, year by year, beginning the day after they first arrived from France in 1848, and continuing until the end.  In a wild, sordid, noisy, violent world, we sing, we sing ancient songs, rich in history, graced by God, for our healing and the healing of the world.”

Night 2 –totally inadequate descriptions were added to the travel journal.

The next day, as we prepared to drive home, I laughed as I lifted my bulky teacher bag.  Two days before, I had smugly arrived certain that my bag held all that I would need, but in reality it held nothing I needed.  As I left, the bag was overflowing with lessons learned, practices begun, and a heartfelt appreciation for what is alive in the quiet of time.

The how and why I became involved in this journey had been made clear. “God is always there for us,” to quote a wise Monk. It is the intentional and unguarded listening that makes us aware and receptive. Thomas Merton described the Abbey as a place apart “to entertain silence in the heart and listen for the voice of God—to pray for your own discovery.” Thank you Gethsemani, you are a special place indeed!

Through Stained Glass: A Mid-Week Reflection--Sidewalks

Sidewalks

The first one came just a little after 5pm. It was one of those Frozen characters, a tiny Elsa or Anna. I get them confused.

She was barely old enough to walk. This Elsa’s cheeks were round and red from the chilly October air. Mom held her hand while dad stood on the sidewalk grinning and taking pictures with his cell phone. It was obvious by the parents’ enthusiasm and the blank stare on Elsa’s face that this was her first time trick or treating.

While I’m almost certain she didn’t have the necessary chomping strength to chew up the starburst and tootsie rolls I placed in her bag, it didn’t stop me from giving her a handful of them. She was cute. Her parents were excited. The joy of a new tradition had started for this young family.

“Oh wow, look how pretty you are!” I said to the young princess. “Who are you dressed up as?” I proceeded to ask this tiny tot.

With a glazed look in her eyes and dried snot under her nose, she responded by simply raising her bag. No rhyming words or clever catch phrases. Just an innocent gesture that indicated her knowledge of this classic cultural custom we call Halloween.

She would be the first of many.

All sorts of unusual but also predictable characters came to my door. Vampires and witches; more Elsa’s and Anna’s, as well as Jasmine and Cinderella; zombies and sport stars; something that appeared to be Bigfoot, and Sherlock Holmes. Some of the costumes were quite clever. Others were less thoughtful. But all were endearing.

I enjoy Halloween. For some it may be a difficult day depending on our religious or cultural perspectives. Some of us might have a sour taste because of those 16 year olds who come to the door and want the same candy little Elsa wanted on what was her first Halloween outing. Many might find it hard to justify spending money on candy, the very items dentist and health teachers preach against eating. Dog owners may despise the night knowing that every time the doorbell rings, our faithful four legged friends will spaz out, barking and putting on their best Cujo impersonation.

But my appreciation for the traditions of Halloween runs deep.

For one night a year we give our communities permission to get outside and visit their neighbors. Families are with their kids, who we complain spend too much time inside. Here, they are reclaiming the ancient practice of walking.

For one night a year we get to gift strangers and neighbors, ghosts and little goblins, treats for their tricks.

For one night a year we get to imitate the grace of God to the children in our communities. We don’t know you. We don’t know how hard you worked, or didn’t work, on your costume. You didn’t have to come to our house or this neighborhood. But you did. And we are glad you did, because grace means something like: Here is your life. You might never have been, but you are because the party wouldn't have been complete without you.

For one night a year our children get to dress up as their heroes and imitate their dreams!

For one night a year the city streets are a buzz with different people of different generations from different parts of town!

While I celebrate the way Halloween pulls a community together, I also lament the very practice that draws us out into these streets, because I long for the day when we don’t have to dress up as something else to visit our neighbors. I long for the day when the wisest in the community and the youngest are brought together without the needed premise of trick or treating. I long for the day when we no longer have to wear masks in order to go door to door to gain but a glimpse of the lives of those we call neighbors.

Every year I find myself gushing with joy as I hand outlandish amounts of candy to all people who come to my door. No matter how old or how young; no matter how detailed their costumes are, because at the end of the day, when the candy bowl is bare, I hope that the community’s hospitality, the kindness that comes from handing out 2 Kit-Kat bars instead of 1, the brief interaction with strangers on our porch steps, and the vulnerability of a child to trust their tricks will result in a treat.

My greatest hope is that these gestures brought on by a holy day of story telling and community making will lead to a season of authentic relationships. Halloween reminds us that we may be our true selves or false selves. God leaves us free to be whatever we like.

But we cannot make these choices with impunity.

If we have chosen the way of falsity we must not be surprised that truth eludes us when we finally come to need it and that confusion reigns.

I can either be Olaf.

Or I can be Adam.