On September 11th, 2001, my wife Judith was in New York City, where we lived, and I was in San Francisco, staying with our dear friend Whitney, who came down the stairs to wake me to what was happening back home.  After Judith had walked home from the point where the subway stopped running, she watched, and smelled, the smoke from the destroyed Towers from the roof of our apartment building, in a city strangely quiet and under lockdown.  I watched the footage of the attacks over and over on television, like most people; it took me five days to get home.



A month or so after that day, I found myself in a gathering to discuss the import of what had occurred.  “This changes everything,” many participants said.  I said, “Well, no, nothing has really changed, except that the United States has joined all of the many nations in which terrorist attacks have taken place.”

For the families and friends of the dead, of course, everything had in fact changed.  It was, I thought then, a much needed dose of reality to read the brief stories about those who were lost that appeared day after day in the New York Times.  For the dead included women and men of all ethnicities, religions, sexual orientations, and citizenships.

For me, those vignettes were a reminder of whom we had lost, but also a hint of the kind of strength that might still emerge out of all our differences through such a trauma, if we came together.  Others, it was clear, read each story as one more reason not to come together, but to bring all of our resources to identify and fight back against the enemy.

Many thoughtful religious leaders, writing in the days immediately following, called us to think carefully about what had happened, its perpetrators and victims, its causes and, most of all, how we wanted to respond as people, and as a country.  What did we want to put into minds and hearts, and into the world, after this?  As we know, those voices were not heeded, and instead, national leaders honed and widely retailed the now familiar narrative of an innocent America attacked and required to respond with violence against the violent.  This understanding of 9/11, and the fears on which it is built, have continued to shape much of the behavior of the United States (and other actors) since.

Much has indeed changed:  the level of violence in the world since 9/11/2001 has much increased; the fragile stability of many areas of the world has been undermined; life becomes hardly livable in more and more places, and the displacement of persons is a mounting crisis; fear and changed conditions have fed a new growth of nativism and extremism in many places.  The world-wide web has changed the reach, and even the nature of our economic and political realities, for better and for worse.

And much has remained the same:  the production and sale of armaments; the growth of an extractive and uncaring capitalism; the unrestrained and unexamined increase of our populations.  The miracle of mangoes, greens and olives.  The good will, creativity and humor of people, and the amazing resilience of human beings.  The need to make sense of it all, and find, or create, frameworks for hope, religious or otherwise.


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I am appalled by the horrifying spectacle of violence and political ruthlessness that is unfolding here in the United States:   With it, crudeness, lack of concern for truth, pathological self-centeredness, and willingness to denigrate and demean others are ablaze.  These things, far from being limited to the political scene, have become a  regular, and rewarded, part of everyday behavior.

What disturbs me most deeply, is the extent and nature of the web of lies enveloping our time.  I have been silenced by this, not wanting to add to the noise and reactivity that makes things all the worse.  It is so easy, these days, to stray into outrage, or to contribute yet another piece to the great wash of constant information of all kinds.

Is it possible to keep the truth alive amid all the lies?

The most fundamental thing I can find to say, at this point, is to remind us of what Martin Buber called a “generation of the lie.”  Now, as in the time of the writer of Psalm 12 (the basis for Buber’s reflections in his book Good and Evil), we are no longer suffering “merely from liars,” but from lying which “has reached the highest level of perfection as an ingeniously controlled means of supremacy.”

The generation of the lie “spin illusions” for their hearers, introducing false material regarding the world and life. “In order that the lie may bear the stamp of truth, the liars as it were manufacture a special heart, an apparatus which functions with the greatest appearance of naturalness, from which lies well up… like spontaneous utterances of experience and insight.” “All of this is the work of the mighty, in order to render tractable by their deceits those whom they have oppressed.”  In taking the place of human truth, the lie, Buber says, erases the good will and mutual reliability that are the basis of our common life.

On any given day it is easy to watch the generation of the lie encourage a rhetoric of bias and hate, and give a not so subtle support to violent attacks of all kinds. Even worse, we see lies being used as the basis for the making of laws that are detrimental to large groups—perhaps even the majority—of our citizens. Lies are used to rationalize the defunding of our educational and health systems , and to undermine our long-standing, systematic concern for human flourishing. Lies serve as the basis for a foreign policy that seems to be aimed ever more narrowly at securing the interests of certain sectors of U.S. society, and for gutting environmental protections of all kinds.  Lies erode hopes for justice and peace.

I think often now of what Walter Brueggemann described as “the prophetic tasks of the church”: “to tell the truth in a society that lives in illusion, grieve in a society that practices denial, and express hope in a society that lives in despair.”

Unfortunately, the current situation encourages many to tune into easier, more superficial paths–now it’s shopping and the “coziness” of the Hanukkah/Christmas season (thank you, Ted C!).  Or to try to find some very personal haven of comfort, religious or otherwise, in the midst of what is going on. But disengagement with the troubling reality of our situation, while necessary at times in order to keep one’s balance, even to stay sane, is not, in the end, a way that is life-giving.

We who are Christians are waiting, in this Advent season, for the coming of God’s word into human life.  We are expecting the arrival of the truth in human form.  I think we are readying ourselves not only to celebrate what we understand as an historical event and reality, but that we are also preparing ourselves to seek and embrace the truth as it comes into our human lives in small ways, day by day.  At its most challenging, this means embracing the truth of God’s presence in the line up, and putting that truth about God’s reign of justice into our thinking and action, as Jesus did.

Jews are celebrating the festival of Hanukkah, which commemorates a small community fending off an oppressive rule, and the lights of the menorah in the rededicated Temple, that did not go out.  Somehow, the oil lasted.  Somehow, the truth was not and is not extinguished.  Hope in God’s justice continues.

It is still  possible to keep track of what is true if one is willing to do the work, and exercise the suspicion, required.  I fight against a sense of being trapped in darkness every day.  May we share light and truth with one another now more than ever.

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This last Sunday, the day on which Mother Teresa was canonized as a saint, Nicholas Kristof wrote an opinion piece for the New York Times entitled “What Religion Would Jesus Belong To?”.  (The title is, I suppose, an attempt to be provocative in a cute, bumper-sticker sort of way.)  His argument is that followers of the world’s religions too often take stands that are the very opposite of those of the religious “founders,” and/or become tangled up in being right about beliefs and ideas, rather than being dedicated to the practice of compassion and the pursuit of justice.

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Kristof writes, “I’m not a particularly religious Christian. But I do see religious faith as one of the most important forces, for good and ill, and I am inspired by the efforts of the faithful who run soup kitchens and homeless shelters.  Perhaps unfairly, the pompous hypocrites get the headlines and often shape public attitudes about religion, but there’s more to the picture. … It is not the bureaucracy that inspires me, or doctrine, or ancient rituals, or even the most glorious cathedral, temple or mosque, but rather a Catholic missionary doctor in Sudan treating bomb victims, an evangelical physician achieving the impossible in rural Angola, a rabbi battling for Palestinians’ human rights — they fill me with an almost holy sense of awe. Now, that’s religion.”

Well, no, Mr. Kristof, that is not “religion.”  That is the fruit of religion.  But in order to have the fruit, you have to tend the tree or plant that produces it.

What inspires “the faithful” to run those kitchens and shelters?  What gives those doctors the motivation and perseverance to do what they do, or provides the strength to the rabbi to keep on fighting for Palestinian human rights?  Why did Mother Teresa do what she did?  Where did Martin Luther King, or Abraham Joshua Heschel, or Dorothy Day find the support and inspiration for their actions?

I am aware that some scientists posit altruistic behavior as something that is “hardwired” in the human brain, and others argue that it is rather a dimension of behavior that owes more to the evolutionary process.  But it is just not the case that people are compassionate and committed to the establishment of justice in human society without a structure that encourages and supports them.

The “doctrine” and “bureaucracy” of religious traditions, which are certainly capable of ensnaring people in grim and self-referential bogs, have come to be intellectually dismissed and widely discarded.  It is fashionable to walk away from religions these days.  But, when not made captive to extremisms or rigid certainties of various kinds, doctrine, “ancient rituals” and religious institutions are the sources or storehouses of inspiration and of ethical discernment,  and the systems of support by which religions plant and nurture acts of goodness, and leadership for justice.

Mr. Kristof,  like so many others,  seems to approach good and just works much like many of us in the U.S. approach food: just go to the store and get the good stuff–never mind about where it comes from, who tends to it, and how it is raised.   But just as we cannot have good food without caring and responsible growers, so we cannot have the acts of goodness we admire and need without loving cultivation.

The cultivation of this human crop involves ideas (even doctrines!), ethical reasoning, teaching, and the life of a community that can and will support compassionate and just action.  Religious traditions, when they are working, have been created to do this cultivation.  Let’s not cut out, or detach ourselves from,  the thinking and support they provide; or, if we do, let’s not wonder that the way of life that results is less loving, and less just.

Here we are in December, the last dance of 2015, with the 8 days of Hanukkah and the 4 weeks of Advent taking to the floor, orchids in bloom in the oak tree, snow coming to the north country;  and the band playing on.


Thor c. 1000 Reykjavik

Frankly, I find December difficult.  The banality of the global culture of consumption and display comes out in full force, especially here in the U.S.  At the same time, our most profound celebrations of light in the darkness arrive. And all of the violence of our time seems just that much more visible.

The inevitable car sporting antlers and a red “nose” jars loose so many questions in my mind that I miss the humor in it.  Is this person genuinely happy about, and eager to add to, all of the terrible Christmas music and wreaths and candy canes and tinsel that seem to be everywhere?  Or is she poking fun at all of that?  Is he embracing the bog of distraction of the season? Or is she thumbing her nose in a gesture of defiance?  And why am I upset by it all?

Part of my reaction is certainly personal.  I’ll spare you the psychological details, except to say that I am particularly susceptible to distraction, and struggle to stay focused.   Paying attention to the ordinary, actual life we are given is not easy–especially in December– when there are so many ways to divert oneself and get lost in the promises and sparkle, in the rants and emotional rides, in the coveting and comfort-seeking all around us.

“We are none of us very good at attention,” says Fr. Laurence Freeman, “because our minds wander and we live in probably the most distracted culture that has ever existed in history.  Distraction has always been a problem for human beings, but we’ve mastered the art of distraction.  Our TV, our internet, our phones, our constant snacking, our constant running around, our constant mental and visual stimulation…. So, you either give up and run away, or you decide you are going to start developing [the] quality of attention.” (From “Street Wise,” a talk given at Camillus House in Miami, 2/7/2014)

What I need in December, and year-round for that matter, is to defy the usual in order to pay attention to the ordinary-

Sainte Foy a Conques

Sainte Foy a Conques

-to life as it really is.  I need to inure myself to the beckonings and busyness that surround us, in order to rest in the presence.

Isn’t it always in the mess and poverty and darkness, in the confusion of unsolved problems, in doing the laundry or the dishes or tending to babies or puppies, that we find light and new life?  Can the extraordinary–the light, the presence of God, hope, awareness–take shape anywhere else than in the ordinary?

In his introduction to The Wisdom of the Desert, Thomas Merton writes:

The [monks] had come into the desert to be themselves, their ordinary selves, and to forget a world that divided them from themselves….  The Coptic hermits who left the world as though escaping from a wreck, did not merely intend to save themselves.  They knew that they were helpless to do any good for others as long as they floundered about in the wreckage….

We must liberate ourselves, in our own way, from involvement in a world that is plunging to disaster.  But our world is different from theirs.  Our involvement in it is more complete.  Our danger is far more desperate….  We cannot do exactly what they did.  But we must be as thorough and as ruthless in our determination to break all spiritual chains, and cast off the domination of alien compulsions, to find our true selves, to discover and develop our inalienable spiritual liberty and use it to build, on earth, the Kingdom of God…. we need to learn from these men [and women] of the fourth century how to ignore prejudice, defy compulsion and strike out fearlessly into the unknown. (pp. 23-24)

So, amid the oh-so familiar, but deeply alien, compulsions of this December, I send you love.  I’m here working at paying attention so that I don’t miss this ordinary life, or its transformation–or any other miracles!


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I’ve been clearing space and making time here in Sarasota, Florida, on the western coast of the Gulf of Mexico, the Caribbean’s northerly extension.  You could use Google maps or a GPS “app” to try to locate us here, but you will not quite find us that way.  Like the man in the kayak, asking the way to the mangrove tunnel from which we had just come, and looking helplessly and repeatedly at his iphone, you may find it disorienting, or hardly believable, but neither the actual place, nor the route to it, show up on such gadgets.

This is my first post-Facebook blog.  Yes, I know that this means of communication is also dependent on the internet, but I hope that it can be a more meaningful and personal way to stay in contact with many of you, and to allow a more thoughtful, more fully developed, less shallow way of sharing ideas and questions  that interest me.  Let’s make our ways together!

Some of you know that Judith and I have also recently returned from a 6-week pilgrimage of sorts– a 70th year journey with very few goals other than to enjoy some new places and events, to have time with each other, and to discover what there is now to discover.  I’ll be sharing some of that in blogs to come.  It was a very good, unhurried and peaceful trip, without any email, cell phones, television, or regular news.  We had time to meet some people, to talk with one another, to have cream teas, visit with beech trees and walk in the procession celebrating Sainte Foy.

Here we are.  Caught up with ourselves. Doing our best to inhabit our true locations.

I hope you are all well. Let’s stay connected!


“It is in the shelter of each other that the people live.”  I’ve heard that this is an Irish proverb, but whatever its source, it gives voice to the attitude that made an interfaith project succeed.

Thinking Together was the name given to a project of the World Council of Churches brought into being by Hans Ucko, Anant Rambachan and a few others.  The idea was to bring together a group of 15-20 scholar/practitioners from 5 of the world’s religious traditions, and from different parts of the globe, for sustained conversation on matters of common concern.  I was honored to be included.

This could have been a recipe for more dry-as-dust academic trading of papers and responses, etc., but it was not.

One of the reasons this effort worked was that the people chosen as participants were 1) deeply knowledgeable regarding their own traditions; 2) knew at least one other tradition other than their own; 3) practiced as faithful members of their own tradition; and 4) had experience in interreligious dialogue.  In addition, each of the participants was able to be critical of their own tradition, as well as comfortable in it.  All were attuned to, and appreciative of, the cultural diversities within their own religious family, and able to navigate cultural differences in engagement with one another.

While this may sound like enough, there were a few participants in the course of the 10 or 12 years of this project who did not work out, and were not invited to return, because they brought conversation to a standstill, or into a knot.

We learned –again– that what was and is needed for thinking together to actually take place is the attitude of the Irish proverb:  We need each other.  In order to live.

This is a basic affirmation, that the Thinking Together group made, even though I’m not sure we ever talked about it directly.  It is the affirmation expressed so clearly in the title of a book by Wesley Ariarajah, one of our number: Not Without My Neighbor.   Each of us believed that our traditions have to have room for our neighbors.  More, we were convinced that unless our traditions can honor and appreciate our neighbors, they are inadequate, not truly realized or rightly understood.

It is only in the shelter of each other that religious people, too, can live and flourish.

One product of our time together has finally been published.  It’s called Religious Conversion: Religion Scholars Thinking Together, edited by Shanta Premawardhana, and  published this year  by Wiley.  See http://www.wiley.com/WileyCDA/WileyTitle/productCd-1118972376.html

It was non-stop work.

Once they woke up, as it got light, they began to wrestle and scrum with one another, trying out their growls and barks, and pushing the food dish around the kitchen.  So, I was up to feed them, and let them out into the courtyard, where they were learning important skills such as how to tear apart ferns (fun!), how to dig holes (more fun!!), and how to chase each other around and weave in an out among the various obstacles (!!!).Puppies etc 013Puppies etc 010

I made myself a pot of tea each of those puppy mornings, and sat out with them as they learned and grew.  Then cleaned and mopped the kitchen/puppy den, and put them back in for their morning naps, after which I cleaned up the courtyard.  Etc.  etc.  All to be repeated multiple times throughout the days.

The local Humane Society needed foster parents for half a litter of puppies not yet old enough to get their inoculations or to be spayed and made available for adoption.  And so these three pups were with us for 10 days.  Now they all have permanent homes.

We fell in love with them, of course, especially with one of them (of course).  Wasn’t it wonderful, we sobbed to each other, that they now had homes!Puppies etc 008Puppies etc 004

We watched them register birdsong as a relevant sound for the first time; discover grass, and a pond; gather around our feet at the sound of the voices of other “packs” passing near.  A great highlight took place one morning, when they figured out how to climb over my make-shift fence, and I chased them around the neighborhood as they delighted in all of the new sights and smells enveloping them.

It has taken us days to recover from the aches and pains and assorted little wounds of the adventure.  We’ve restored the courtyard plants.  And now we are planning to do it all again!

My friend Roger is dying in Chicago.  I am dying, but much, much more slowly, here in Sarasota, Florida.  I have years to go, and things to say and do; Roger has much to say, but very little time, and less energy, to do so.

Roger asked me to come to see him recently.  I went, with fear clouding my mind and heart.  I have long feared death, and dying even more; so I was not sure what I could offer him that could be of any benefit– of any use, really–to him.

Actually, it was all very simple and straightforward:  He wanted to see me, and we spent time together, talking, listening to music, holding each other’s hands, eating meals and popsicles and drinking cranberry tea.

There we were, two friends, very much alive, though at different points in our lives.  We had met in High School, when we were both 15 or so, and his musicality and humor drew me to him, even as his truthfulness made him a safe companion for me.  His living is every bit as intense and complex and beautiful now as it has ever been; and my life is not diminished by his going, but called forth.

Early morning moon

Early morning moon

Roger was at Stonewall, and acted up well before the organization of that name got going.  He was also a concert harpsichordist, who brought the music of the Baroque French repertoire, and of Scarlatti, to life.  He found his way out of addiction into sobriety, and told those of us at a 12-step meeting in his home one night during my visit about his own fears of, and readiness for, his onward journey into death and beyond.  Ahead he sees beauty and starlight and joy.  He is giving us the gift of sharing this part of his journey.

“Get up, Stand up, Don’t give up the fight!” says the Bob Marley song;  Roger stood up long ago, and only his body is lying down now.  He is not, and has not, been overcome by fear.

All of this leads me to rise up with him, and to renew my work of teaching and seeing and truth-telling as I am able.  To move out of my self-imposed silence.   “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter,” said Martin Luther King, Jr.  There are so many things that matter going on now that it is tempting to stay silent, not to add to the cacophony and floods of information and opinion that swirl around us.  There are many things that are not worth sharing.  But…but, maybe, communicating one true thing, one beautiful thing, as one sees it, can make some difference to someone, as well as to myself.





???????????????????????????????Does the very idea of a “new year” give you just a little taste of hope?  We draw a totally artificial and arbitrary line in time, then celebrate a totally made-up passage from the old to the new, and, in the process, remind ourselves that something different is always possible.

New Year celebration is almost embarrassingly obvious and trite–or so it usually seems to me.  But I think the truth is that I need to be embarrassed about this.

I mean, it is actually true that each day is a brand new day.  And that the only moment that we have is this moment.  And so on.  And on.  And on.  The triteness of the sentiments–or maybe it is the triteness of how they are presented?–so often blinds me to the truth that is there in the very ordinariness of these things.

The universe is endlessly cyclical.  It seems to contain a relentless entropy.  Human error and the ravenous appetite of the powers and principalities are real.  And there is no exit from all of this but the one common exit of death.

And yet, this whole reality is also shot through with countless moments of newness.   I can see new cells growing and healing the cut I inflicted on myself in the kitchen the other day.  The orchids quietly flower.  Clouds come and go.  Thoughts and perceptions assemble themselves in new ways, even perhaps with new ingredients.

I am finding hope in the tiny possibilities of newness.  And just now I find that I am ready to be renewed. I am ready to pay attention to the possibilities, and to nurture some of the tiny seeds that are –suddenly– here.  I am ready for some newness, and allowing hope some room.

In 2013, many things came to completion and/or an end in my life.  For me, the year was largely devoted to allowing the old to come to an end, and to lying fallow.  The one big exception has been beginning to paint in watercolor and acrylic.  You may have noticed my cointinuing absence; I know that it surprised some.

Now I am ready to cross over into newness — slowly, if possible!

045  “Modern Western culture is largely shorn of attentiveness to both habitat and habitus [way or habit of living].  Where we live–to what we are rooted–no longer defines who we are.  We have learned to distrust all disciplines of formative spiritual tradition, with their communal ways of perceiving the world.  We have realized, in the end, the ‘free individual’ at the expense of a network of interrelated meanings.”  – B.C. Lane, The Solace of Fierce Landscapes

Among the reasons for choosing to live in a tiny village in France, such as Limeuil, from which we returned recently,  might be to reside in a place that still pays attention to where it is, as well as the long-woven patterns of a way of life.  But you don’t have to go to France, or to a quiet medieval village–or to a village in Indonesia or Cameroon– to live in this way (though elsewhere the food, and especially the fruits and vegetables,  may not be as good!)  We all can live in relation to the habitats in which we find ourselves, and with the ways of living we have received and with which we wrestle.

I’m thinking about this in part because we are surrounded by so many people who are living un-rooted lives, with no care for our environment, with no sense of obligation to the communities on which they in fact depend, with disdain for history and little or no concern for the future.  We are tempted to do the same.  And we all live–at least here in the United States–in a media environment that promotes sensation, the latest trend, and variations on the idea that you can reach out and get for yourself everything you need without the hassles of dealing with other people, governments, laws, seasons, etc.  Even our National Public Radio station trumpets the claim that “every story begins with you.”   To my mind this avid embrace of self as all-sufficient, and the discarding of our need for rooting ourselves, are dangerous and profoundly unrealistic.

But I am also struck by how much is to be gained if we were to practice this sort of attentiveness with one another.  Understanding begins when I am invited to enter into your life, and allow myself to spend time in your environment and context, and take time to experience your habitus –your ways of thinking, your community, your practices of living.  When you ask me to cross over for a time into your habitat and habitus, and I do, I enter a little way into your world, your vision, your life.  When I invite you in, the same is true.  As long as we enter with respect, and without crashing around in each other’s “house”, we are both enlarged and blessed.

We can abide with one another, formed by and forming our traditions, taking up our places on the earth.