When I was in graduate school, I was the volunteer music leader for a little church on the north side of Waco, Texas. One morning I received a call from Robert, the minister, asking me if I was available the following morning. He had been notified by an official at McLennan County that an elderly woman who resided in one of the housing projects had been found dead. She didn’t have any money to pay for her own arrangements, so she was to be buried in the County Paupers’ Cemetery. Robert had been invited to come say a few words over her grave and he wanted to know if I would come and sing. Now I come from a long line of Baptist preachers, so it’s born and bred in me how to respond in such situations. When you are asked to come help with a funeral, it’s your duty. “I’ll be there,” I replied.
A dear friend of mine who was also a musician was visiting me that week, and I asked her if she would help me out. We quickly practiced a duet to sing at the service.
The next day the weather was cold and blustery. My coat, Robert’s suit and the sky – all gray. When we arrived at the cemetery, the county official shook our hands and led us over to the small plot where the woman was to be buried. It soon appeared that we would be the only members of the funeral party. No family members were present – not a single one. No friends or neighbors had shown up to pay their respects.
As the implications of this startling turn of events crept up on me, I was provoked to wonder what kind of life this woman must have lived for it all to have ended this way. Was she the sole survivor, having outlived her family and friends as well as her savings account? Was she alone because she had alienated herself from others? What did this woman have to show for her fourscore and ten on this earth? By all appearances – absolutely nothing.
Robert outdid himself, using his gentle voice to commemorate the life of this unknown woman as if she were a treasured member of his own flock. My friend and I sang our hearts out, hoping our voices would coax some sunshine out of the gray skies. When we were finished, the county official thanked us for coming. As I walked back to the car, it struck me that there were no gravestones – not in a Pauper’s Cemetery.
Over 25 years have passed since I participated in that memorial service. I had tucked the memory away in a back corner, but recently had occasion to call it back to the surface. Or perhaps it called me, requesting my attention.
I had been contemplating a question – why did I believe in God? And when did I realize that I believed in God? I didn’t mean when I first naively believed, the result of my upbringing. I meant the points in my life when I realized that I truly believed because of my own experiences. This story was the first to come to mind.
So I brought the memory out of storage and played it over again in my mind like a movie – but in slow motion. I pictured again the gray skies and the bleak landscape. When the county official came into view, I saw that he wore a suit that didn’t fit really well. I recalled his demeanor as he stood across from me at the gravesite -- his head bowed and his gangly hands folded in front of him with great reverence. An ordinary man, a county bureaucrat – yet he had shown greatness in his kindness towards a destitute woman.
Had he merely picked up the body from the morgue and placed the order for interment, no one would have been the wiser. His job description did not require that he plan a funeral. Without any family or friends as witnesses, why did he choose to go the extra mile? In my recollection, his was a simple but profound act of human decency.
As I continued my review, I was puzzled. I had previously remembered only 4 of us around the grave – Robert, the county official, my friend and me. But tears came to my eyes as I finally brought back to conscious memory the 5th person – the man with the shovel. When our portion of the service was done, his job was to entrust this woman’s body back into the ground from whence she had come.
When we had arrived at the cemetery, he had been standing over near his pickup truck. But just before we began the service, he had quietly edged up to join us. Dressed in old work clothes and thick boots, his face marked with grief, he held that shovel as if he were staking a claim -- that despite the circumstances, this woman deserved burial in holy ground. And following his lead, the five of us determined that it would be so. We stood in a circle around a stranger and together willed that that barren place be transformed into sacramental space – bearing witness that this woman’s life was of value simply because she existed.
And in that moment, the Spirit blew through and touched me, imprinting on my soul an experience of God that has shaped my own fragile existence.
The legacy of that experience continues to inform my own attitudes about the meaning of work. Because of a county bureaucrat and a man with a shovel, I believe in God every time I see ordinary people who view their jobs not merely as a paycheck but also as a calling. Who sometimes ignore the rules of efficiency and expedience to perform acts of simple human decency. Who stake a claim that in the middle of the barren spaces within their workplaces, there will be moments of holiness. Who remember that human beings are NOT capital – but precious souls who are of great value simply because they exist.
Questions for Reflection:
Today’s NY Times (Sunday, October 11, 2009) reports that officials around the nation are seeing an increase in indigent burials. In Oregon, for example, unclaimed bodies have increased by 50% because families cannot afford to pay for burial or cremation. The cost of “disposition” of the bodies is usually paid for by state, city or county governments.
How can we support through our prayers and actions the persons who make the decisions about how the bodies of poor people are interred? How must it feel for a family to turn over to the government the burial of a loved one because they cannot afford to pay? How can we be advocates for respectful rituals to mark the passing of our fellow human beings, no matter what their financial or social status?
What is your own vocational calling? How can you demonstrate the existence of God in the way you conduct yourself in the workplace? Where are the barren places that are calling you to stake a claim for the value of human life?
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Lessons from the Arcade
When my nephews Andrew and Matthew were 10 and 8 years old, I took them down to the Jersey shore for a day of sun and fun. They were especially interested to visit the arcade on the Boardwalk, so that was our first stop. Miles and miles of games were laid out in rows -- pinball machines, simulated racing cars, one-armed bandits and hundreds of others -- enough to keep two boys entertained for several hours.
When they saw all of the prizes they could win by earning tickets on the games, they decided to pool their winnings so they could get something better than either could win alone. They were undecided about what prize to strive for. The shelves were full of everything two young boys could ever want -- from motorized model cars to rock star memorabilia. Their debate and negotiation process continued for about 10 minutes, until they spied a locked cabinet that contained porcelain figurines. Both of them pointed at once to a finely crafted glass elephant about 8 inches tall, and their eyes lit up. Their mother collected elephants and they thought this would be a great addition to her menagerie. The price tag said 20,000 tickets. Proud that they were such good-hearted boys, I handed them each a roll of quarters and off they went. Let the games begin.
I checked up on them every few minutes, gathering up the tickets they had won into a plastic bag. We were keeping a running total so we'd know when they had enough to buy the elephant. On one check-in, I found them at a game I had never seen before. It was not electronic like the others -- it was like a miniature skee-ball alley, except that it was up on legs. Matthew was putting the wooden ball into play, rolling it into the alley; Andrew was capturing it with a hooked stick and guiding it into the 100-point hole. The machine was shooting out volumes of tickets with clocklike regularity. I called a halt to the action and asked the boys what they were doing.
They explained that they had found this cool stick behind the machine and since they had begun to use it, they had only had to put one quarter into the machine. Every time they won the game, it gave them new balls to use without paying. I told them that I was pretty sure the stick wasn't part of the game -- that it was there for the attendant to use when balls got stuck in the alley way. I encouraged them to continue without it, saying I thought they were talented enough to win their tickets fair and square. They looked only a little sheepish as they put the stick back behind the machine. They hadn't thought of it as cheating -- just as being opportunistic. I felt a sense of satisfaction that in a very small way, I'd helped to shape the character of their young lives.
About an hour later, we were pretty sure we had enough tickets to turn in to get that elephant. But just to make sure, we divided our rolls of tickets into groups of 10 and counted them again. Sure enough, we were well over the 20,000 mark. I handed the plastic bag to the boys to take up to the counter.
They returned to me a few minutes later with downcast faces. "The lady said we were still short 4,000 tickets," Andrew told me. I approached the lady -- actually a teenaged girl trying to do a good job on her first summer job. I asked for an explanation, assuring her that we had double-checked our ticket total. "Oh," she said. "We don't actually count the tickets. We weigh them on a scale in the back." I told her to go weigh them again. When she returned, she said we were still short 2,000 tickets. I asked her to go get her manager. She said he wasn't expected back for several hours. Just to make sure, I asked her for a confirmation. "What you are telling me," I said "is that despite the fact that we know we have more than enough tickets, because of the way your scales are set, you will not give us the elephant until we produce 2,000 more tickets." I don't think she liked the way I had worded it, so she said, "I'm not allowed to give you the prize until the scales say so."
I motioned to the boys to follow me, trying not to look too conspicuous. As soon as we were out of the line of sight of the counter, I shifted directions and moved over to the skee-ball machine on legs. I handed Matthew a quarter. I retrieved the hooked stick from behind the machine and handed it to Andrew. "Gentlemen," I said (I always call them that when I want to get their attention.) "Let's see how quickly you can generate another 2,000 tickets. I'm going to stand guard here to make sure you aren't interrupted."
It took them only a few tries to get back into their rhythm. Tickets were shooting out so fast, I couldn't get them gathered up before they fell to the floor. When we had another 2,000, we went another couple of rounds to make up for any additional "correction" to the scales the attendant might have made in our absence. Fully satisfied that we had enough to tip the scales over the top this time, we made our way back to the counter and laid out that new bunch of tickets. A few minutes later, we exited the arcade with that glass elephant in the beach bag, carefully wrapped in tissue paper and packed in a little box.
Now I'm not sure what lesson those boys learned from their experience. You'd have to ask them. (They are now 30 and 28 years of age.) They may well tell you that they attained their excellent characters by doing exactly the opposite of what their Aunt Margaret has tried to tell them over the years.
I only know that I was bound and determined there was one lesson they were NOT going to learn that summer day -- that if some unprincipled person or corrupt system is trying to take advantage of you, you are powerless to do anything about it.
When they saw all of the prizes they could win by earning tickets on the games, they decided to pool their winnings so they could get something better than either could win alone. They were undecided about what prize to strive for. The shelves were full of everything two young boys could ever want -- from motorized model cars to rock star memorabilia. Their debate and negotiation process continued for about 10 minutes, until they spied a locked cabinet that contained porcelain figurines. Both of them pointed at once to a finely crafted glass elephant about 8 inches tall, and their eyes lit up. Their mother collected elephants and they thought this would be a great addition to her menagerie. The price tag said 20,000 tickets. Proud that they were such good-hearted boys, I handed them each a roll of quarters and off they went. Let the games begin.
I checked up on them every few minutes, gathering up the tickets they had won into a plastic bag. We were keeping a running total so we'd know when they had enough to buy the elephant. On one check-in, I found them at a game I had never seen before. It was not electronic like the others -- it was like a miniature skee-ball alley, except that it was up on legs. Matthew was putting the wooden ball into play, rolling it into the alley; Andrew was capturing it with a hooked stick and guiding it into the 100-point hole. The machine was shooting out volumes of tickets with clocklike regularity. I called a halt to the action and asked the boys what they were doing.
They explained that they had found this cool stick behind the machine and since they had begun to use it, they had only had to put one quarter into the machine. Every time they won the game, it gave them new balls to use without paying. I told them that I was pretty sure the stick wasn't part of the game -- that it was there for the attendant to use when balls got stuck in the alley way. I encouraged them to continue without it, saying I thought they were talented enough to win their tickets fair and square. They looked only a little sheepish as they put the stick back behind the machine. They hadn't thought of it as cheating -- just as being opportunistic. I felt a sense of satisfaction that in a very small way, I'd helped to shape the character of their young lives.
About an hour later, we were pretty sure we had enough tickets to turn in to get that elephant. But just to make sure, we divided our rolls of tickets into groups of 10 and counted them again. Sure enough, we were well over the 20,000 mark. I handed the plastic bag to the boys to take up to the counter.
They returned to me a few minutes later with downcast faces. "The lady said we were still short 4,000 tickets," Andrew told me. I approached the lady -- actually a teenaged girl trying to do a good job on her first summer job. I asked for an explanation, assuring her that we had double-checked our ticket total. "Oh," she said. "We don't actually count the tickets. We weigh them on a scale in the back." I told her to go weigh them again. When she returned, she said we were still short 2,000 tickets. I asked her to go get her manager. She said he wasn't expected back for several hours. Just to make sure, I asked her for a confirmation. "What you are telling me," I said "is that despite the fact that we know we have more than enough tickets, because of the way your scales are set, you will not give us the elephant until we produce 2,000 more tickets." I don't think she liked the way I had worded it, so she said, "I'm not allowed to give you the prize until the scales say so."
I motioned to the boys to follow me, trying not to look too conspicuous. As soon as we were out of the line of sight of the counter, I shifted directions and moved over to the skee-ball machine on legs. I handed Matthew a quarter. I retrieved the hooked stick from behind the machine and handed it to Andrew. "Gentlemen," I said (I always call them that when I want to get their attention.) "Let's see how quickly you can generate another 2,000 tickets. I'm going to stand guard here to make sure you aren't interrupted."
It took them only a few tries to get back into their rhythm. Tickets were shooting out so fast, I couldn't get them gathered up before they fell to the floor. When we had another 2,000, we went another couple of rounds to make up for any additional "correction" to the scales the attendant might have made in our absence. Fully satisfied that we had enough to tip the scales over the top this time, we made our way back to the counter and laid out that new bunch of tickets. A few minutes later, we exited the arcade with that glass elephant in the beach bag, carefully wrapped in tissue paper and packed in a little box.
Now I'm not sure what lesson those boys learned from their experience. You'd have to ask them. (They are now 30 and 28 years of age.) They may well tell you that they attained their excellent characters by doing exactly the opposite of what their Aunt Margaret has tried to tell them over the years.
I only know that I was bound and determined there was one lesson they were NOT going to learn that summer day -- that if some unprincipled person or corrupt system is trying to take advantage of you, you are powerless to do anything about it.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
It's Not Easy Being Winston Churchill
When Hitler first began to acquire power in Germany in the 1930’s, most of the leaders in the British government were not inclined to oppose him. The British citizens were tired of war, having sacrificed thousands of sons and brothers in the trenches during the Great War. Furthermore, there were those in Britain who agreed with the rhetoric Hitler expressed during his rousing speeches. Many feared Communism much more than Fascism.
But Winston Churchill recognized early on the threat the Hitler posed. His foresight was proven correct when Germany invaded Poland in 1939, leading to a declaration of war by the United Kingdom and eventually, the resignation of Neville Chamberlain, the prime minister. Churchill was named as Chamberlain’s successor in 1940 and led his nation through some very dark days until Hitler was finally defeated.
We think of Churchill today as a great leader and orator, the only British prime minister to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature. But it was not easy being Winston Churchill.
Churchill was considered a failure in school. His father berated him continuously for offences both real and imagined. He had a speech impediment. His mother, whom Churchill adored, engaged in extramarital affairs and rarely visited her son at boarding school, despite his frequent letters begging her to do so. Had it not been for Churchill’s beloved nanny, he might have entered adulthood without the assurance that his life was of value.
Churchill’s adult life is a case study in cycles of stunning successes and bitter disappointments. He was a popular military leader known for his bravery in battle. His news articles on his battlefield experience in Cuba and the Sudan were a big hit back home. His escape from a prison camp in South Africa gave him minor hero status, leading eventually to a career in government. But he was also made the scapegoat for a bitter defeat in Turkey during World War I and passed over for an important Cabinet position during what should have been the peak of his career. And though he had a very happy marriage and family life, he experienced a terrible loss when his daughter Marigold died at age 3.
No, it was not easy being Winston Churchill. We sometimes forget that the pathway to greatness often takes us through the wilderness of despair and confusion.
If you feel discouraged by your life circumstances, remember Winston Churchill. His courage, inspirational speeches and strategic insight saved a nation and a civilization from a dictator bent on destruction. It’s not easy being green, but if we can claim our stories, we too can thrive, even when all seems lost.
To view a video of one of Churchill’s most famous speeches, click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LsKDGM5KTBY&feature=related
But Winston Churchill recognized early on the threat the Hitler posed. His foresight was proven correct when Germany invaded Poland in 1939, leading to a declaration of war by the United Kingdom and eventually, the resignation of Neville Chamberlain, the prime minister. Churchill was named as Chamberlain’s successor in 1940 and led his nation through some very dark days until Hitler was finally defeated.
We think of Churchill today as a great leader and orator, the only British prime minister to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature. But it was not easy being Winston Churchill.
Churchill was considered a failure in school. His father berated him continuously for offences both real and imagined. He had a speech impediment. His mother, whom Churchill adored, engaged in extramarital affairs and rarely visited her son at boarding school, despite his frequent letters begging her to do so. Had it not been for Churchill’s beloved nanny, he might have entered adulthood without the assurance that his life was of value.
Churchill’s adult life is a case study in cycles of stunning successes and bitter disappointments. He was a popular military leader known for his bravery in battle. His news articles on his battlefield experience in Cuba and the Sudan were a big hit back home. His escape from a prison camp in South Africa gave him minor hero status, leading eventually to a career in government. But he was also made the scapegoat for a bitter defeat in Turkey during World War I and passed over for an important Cabinet position during what should have been the peak of his career. And though he had a very happy marriage and family life, he experienced a terrible loss when his daughter Marigold died at age 3.
No, it was not easy being Winston Churchill. We sometimes forget that the pathway to greatness often takes us through the wilderness of despair and confusion.
If you feel discouraged by your life circumstances, remember Winston Churchill. His courage, inspirational speeches and strategic insight saved a nation and a civilization from a dictator bent on destruction. It’s not easy being green, but if we can claim our stories, we too can thrive, even when all seems lost.
To view a video of one of Churchill’s most famous speeches, click here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LsKDGM5KTBY&feature=related
Saturday, September 05, 2009
It's Not Easy Being Green
Click here to view and listen to the incomparable Ray Charles singing Kermit the Frog’s soliloquy on the difficulties of being Kermit the Frog: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NZJxL3PrrLM (When you finish, click the back arrow to return to the blog.)
What feelings occur for you when you listen to this song? Have you ever felt like Kermit, aware that there is something a little bit different about you? Do you ever feel like you are slightly out of step with the beat the rest of the world marches to? How easy is it to be you?
Maybe there is something about your physical appearance that makes you stand out. A nose you don’t like or a disability that keeps you off the cheerleading squad or football team. Maybe you are from a different ethnic background than the "in crowd."
Maybe you’ve had some life experiences that have left deep scars -- your parents’ divorce, the visit to bankruptcy court, the layoff notice, the sexual trauma, the phone call in the night that was the worst possible news for a parent to hear? Maybe you are from the wrong side of town.
Maybe you are too smart or too loud or too big or too short. Too much. Too little. Too something you can’t quite put your finger on.
Click on the link and listen to Ray’s performance again. As the video plays, say to Ray, to Kermit and to all the people in the world who are just a little bit different, including you – "Green is my favorite color."
What feelings occur for you when you listen to this song? Have you ever felt like Kermit, aware that there is something a little bit different about you? Do you ever feel like you are slightly out of step with the beat the rest of the world marches to? How easy is it to be you?
Maybe there is something about your physical appearance that makes you stand out. A nose you don’t like or a disability that keeps you off the cheerleading squad or football team. Maybe you are from a different ethnic background than the "in crowd."
Maybe you’ve had some life experiences that have left deep scars -- your parents’ divorce, the visit to bankruptcy court, the layoff notice, the sexual trauma, the phone call in the night that was the worst possible news for a parent to hear? Maybe you are from the wrong side of town.
Maybe you are too smart or too loud or too big or too short. Too much. Too little. Too something you can’t quite put your finger on.
Click on the link and listen to Ray’s performance again. As the video plays, say to Ray, to Kermit and to all the people in the world who are just a little bit different, including you – "Green is my favorite color."
