Dismissals

At the bus stop, bitter cold, a line of riders waiting for the No. 3, they peer down the street, holding lunch pails and briefcases … the No. 3’s airbrakes hiss … the line pushes forward for the open door … “Hey, you!” … a man cuts into the line, mounts the steps … “Someone call the cops!” … these good people have waited patiently for the bus to carry them to their factory, office, or school … now this! … of all the nerve! … but the intruder quits the bus and says for all to hear, “Sally forgot her lunchbox!” … and the line moves quietly forward. 

I worked at a lumberyard. It was winter. The foreman drove the truck, I rode shotgun. Miles from town, a man walked the berm, hands deep in his pockets, only a shirt against the cold. The foreman pulled over, dismounted, spoke a few words. The foreman took off his coat, handed it to the man and climbed back in the truck. He said to me, “There’s a sweatshirt under your seat. Hold it so he can see. He wouldn’t take my coat if I didn’t have another to get me through the day.” The man waved and we drove off. 

Going through long-forgotten boxes, I came to a shoebox tied with string, marked in my mother’s hand, “Photographs and Camera.” In the box, dozens of old photos I had taken as a boy … birthday parties, vacations, summer camp and Christmas. There were family photos … mom, dad, sister and others long gone. My old Agfa Clack camera, vintage 1956, was in the box. I thought to toss it away but I held it and fiddled with it. The shutter still works and the film’s still sold. I bought a roll and I am ready. It won’t be long until Christmas!

Sunday’s sermon began: “Let the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my strength and my redeemer.”* That’s the last stanza of the 19th Psalm, sometimes heard at the beginning of a sermon. I took a notion to read the entire psalm and was wonderstruck by the first stanza: “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.”* Those words I took to heart. Then, Monday morning, this same stanza appeared as the last words in an editorial in the Times.** Just a coincidence, surely. *The Book of Common Prayer, page 606 ** New York Times, November 8, 2021, Opinion Page, “Faith and Science Are…

An uncle by marriage, Uncle Joe was an established clockmaker, well regarded in that arcane trade. After school, I’d ride my bike to his shop just to watch him work. He was deft and able but, on his two hands, Uncle Joe had only five fingers. He told me he lost them as a boy playing with fireworks and that I must never do that. My father told me it was an “industrial accident” when Uncle Joe was an apprentice clockmaker. Uncle Joe, five fingers or ten, he was a Master Clockmaker. I still believe that most anything is possible.

I asked Sister Mary about her ministry to homeless women, a ministry well known to me and to the world. I always liked to hear her tell about the goings-on at the women’s shelter but she said, “Oh! That’s ancient history!” Well, hardly, but the women’s shelter was written in the sands of time as far as Sister was concerned. Then she told me of her latest “stirrings” … Sister’s word for what the Spirit had told her and where the Spirit was sending her … tutoring … reading … second grade … inner city … that nun won’t let God have a moment’s rest. 

There was a time when I believed that a better world would come about through systemic effort. If we just fix the system, the lowly will be lifted, mercy will prevail. Some of that’s true, but I never really saw it. I finally tired myself out and sat on the sideline. Then Sr. Kathleen, an Ursuline nun, introduced me to a young man in the sixth grade. He could barely read and his arithmetic was shaky. I remembered my multiplication tables, seven times six and so on, and I was a fair reader. A new world. I never looked back.

Leonard Cohen’s thoughts on Jesus, from a blog post 15 or more years ago:  “As I understand it, into the heart of every Christian, Christ comes, and Christ goes. When, by his Grace, the landscape of the heart becomes vast and deep and limitless, then Christ makes His abode in that grateful heart, and His Will prevails. The experience is recognized as Peace. In the absence of this experience much activity arises, divisions of every sort. Outside of the organizational enterprise, which some applaud and some mistrust, stands the figure of Jesus, nailed to a human predicament, summoning the heart to comprehend its own suffering by dissolving itself in a radical confession of hospitality.”

I’d been curious who lived in the little house with the windows and doors duct-taped, tin foil covering the mail slot. One day I spoke to him as he picked up scattered mail. From time to time, I stopped by to see how he was getting on. He never invited me in, too many germs and allergens, so we sat the steps and watched cars go by. One day the next-door neighbor saw us sitting. He waved. It took some time before he came over to sit, but such is often the pace of God’s work among us. 

I’ve been writing and visiting prisoners, men under sentence of death, for twenty years now. It does seem a strange thing to do. I started by visiting one man. Next thing I knew, there were five. I seldom encourage others to visit prisoners. Every call to a ministry is a singular gift to the one who is called. It takes time and prayer to understand where one’s strengths might be. It requires courage and trust in God to answer a call that may seem wholly unsuitable … yet we go … “We have been blessed so that we can be a blessing.”* *Paraphrase, Gen12:2  

In 1977, Sam was a Mennonite, I was unchurched. Friends, we went our separate ways. Sam wrote to me 44 years later. He is a biomechanical engineer, no longer a Mennonite, still a man of faith. Sam sent me the words of Isaiah 61:1, saying they struck him so deeply they became his life’s calling: “The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the Lord has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners…” 

A priest and I spoke about a possible parish ministry that might address gun violence. I mentioned reading an article in the New Yorker about people in the city who intervene when gun violence might erupt. She replied, “Our congregation? In the streets? With armed, angry people all around? That’s not where I would send the people of this church!” I had misspoken. I took another tack, that there’s no harm in asking these brave men and women who intercede in the streets, “What can we do for you? What do we have that might help and support you?”