Exploring faith – Page 2

Two Strangers, Two Christmases

I’ve written more than once about how the power of storytelling, especially through film in my own case, can open our eyes to truths we somehow just didn’t see before. Certainly, I’m a firm believer in the importance of sharing our own true life experiences – honestly, openly in the hopes that others might find encouragement as they pursue their own unique journeys. But, works of fiction, whether in literature, film or other art forms also can bring inspiration – and have done that for me many times in life. As this will be posted in time for Christmas 2020 – a year without peer, I dare say – my thoughts drift towards two such tales that have very different origins, yet whose primary characters perhaps more in common than one might expect at first glance.

Charles Dickens created many great works, but for many his most loved is “A Christmas Carol” first published in 1843. In 2017, a lovely film (not of course entirely factual) gave some insight into how it was created – “The Man who Invented Christmas”, with Christopher Plummer as the Scrooge of Dicken’s creative process. Endless versions and variations have and will continue to be enjoyed long after this year; the most vivid in my own memory was a one man performance by Patrick Stewart at Cal Tech decades ago complete with multiple characterizations, sound effects and a sense of energy and discovery that he brought to new life. (The full audio performance is available on iTunes, I believe).

**I will never forget seeing this incredible one man performance by Patrick Stewart!**

In film, for me, 1970’s “Scrooge” which I first saw in the little Corona theater at age 12 is still a part of my annual celebrations. The musical starring Albert Finney was in many ways a triumph of casting, art, and song – yet it did not initially register with audiences who were more interested in the new cinema of MASH and five easy pieces than a dancing Ebenezer.

I bought the soundtrack LP long before VHS made home viewing possible – listening to the songs by Leslie Bricusse, including my personal favorite over the opening credits – a chorus of joy and encouragement.

Look around about you and see what a world of wonder this world can be!

It was probably a few years later, in my teens, when (thanks to a gift from my Dad and stepmother of a small black and white tv) that I began to see older films at home, after school. The ABC affiliate had a 90 minute afternoon movie time slot at 330 – and one day I turned on a black and white film that was spread over two days. Later, I would see it first “screened” in its entirety at college – then, eventually in theaters in California, and even one December matinee in London, for it’s 50^thanniversary. At first I was mystified why the audience there didn’t seem to love it as much – but, it is a distinctly “American” narrative, made by a director and star who had worked together previously, won Oscars, and both served in World War 2, one as a pilot, the other making films that still are highly regarded for their honest portrayal of that epic struggle. When they returned home to eventual peacetime, the director wanted to finance his own production – based on a very short story the original author, Philip Van Doren Stern, had included in a 1943 Christmas card to friends – “The Greatest Gift”. He expanded on the concept and pooled together some of the best talents in Hollywood, including his prior star actor, and built a small town for the location filming. Perhaps surprisingly it wasn’t a big hit, from an independent production company; and in time, without the licensing and copyright being maintained, the film fell into “public domain”, like the chopped up airing I saw in the 70’s on that little tv. That circumstance led in time to it being aired so many times, more people saw it, and came to love it – becoming the classic it is today.

“It’s a Wonderful life” portrayed an America that endured through the Spanish Flu, depression, and World War 2, through the life of its protagonist, George Bailey, in the small town of Bedford Falls. In the years since then, I cannot say how many times, or with how many friends, I have “visited” the Bailey’s and that little town; last year, my husband and I enjoyed a live performance of the score with the film by the San Francisco Symphony and Chorus, which was unforgettable.

The film “finale” as performed by the Kansas City Symphony and Chorus

I’ve had the chance to meet Karolyn Grimes, who played “Zuzu”, the little girl in the film; collected memorabilia (and given it away!), and decorated my tree and now our home with reminders of that story. It is such a perfectly detailed story, of a time, a place, a family and a set of circumstances – challenges, failures, love, disappointment, loss and hope. But, mostly to me, the message was – your life matters. Even if you cannot achieve your dreams; even if you never become what you hoped, or others expected – you can make a difference in this world, one that is uniquely yours – one that is irreplaceable. In my lonely teens, escaping to a world where the promise of redemption was realized at Christmas was one way to hope for a better future. And there was one that I could not then see, but was waiting for me.

***In 2006, I gifted Karolyn Grimes (“Zuzu”) this British 50th anniversary poster!***

Much has changed in my life in the now 50 years since I sat in that little local cinema for Scrooge; and the decades since I first watched George Bailey jump off a bridge to end his life on that little black and white screen. Of course, both stories have happy endings – life doesn’t always offer those, or at least at times the possibility of happy endings seems very difficult to imagine. Perhaps Christmas 2020 is one of those times for many more than usual, in a most unusual year, bleakness dimming the lights on our homes and in our hearts.

So as our TV plays the familiar voice of Clarence, George, Mary (and, my special friend Bert the Cop) on Amazon Prime while write; and tomorrow, as I join my husband to again enjoy the dancing, singing cast of Scrooge (with Alec Guinness as Marley!), I have a lot of feelings come up. If you’ve read anything I have blogged about this year, you KNOW I share my feelings – because I hope that reaches others, and does some good, perhaps – a little George Bailey in me trying to get out. And I realize – Old Ebenezer and George have a lot in common.

For my bunny lover friends (and I know at least one!) – here is a special treat!

History – not just fiction – tells us that most cultures have representatives of that part of life which we cannot understand, whether we consider it the afterlife, some representative of eternity, or other spiritual beings that exist outside our ability to measure, but – somehow, we sense, or want to sense, their existence. Perhaps as some suggest this is just our desire to understand what is beyond our comprehension; for others, these beliefs become deeper truths, very personal truths. Centuries of faiths with various representatives of such spirits have uncounted stories which most of us will never read or otherwise enter our thinking. The 3 spirits of Christmas that visit Ebenezer, and the angel hoping to “earn his wings” that answers the prayers reaching heaven as George considers ending his life in despair, are such beings. Outside forces that enter the lives of two very different men, both on Christmas eve, in very different times and places.

If you ever wanted to visit “Bedford Falls” – here is one option …… I hope to one day!

Ebenezer, of course, was a selfish, bitter man, hated by many; Dickens suggests that the spirits visit him because Marley hopes that will save his only friend in life from a similar, doomed fate. George, a beloved husband, father and citizen who, through his character as much as through his deeds, touched the lives of so many in his small town, had reached a place of hopelessness; through an act of selfishness by Mr. Potter, a “modern day” Ebenezer of post war America, he stumbles onto a bridge hoping to end the life he sees as wasted as the only way to escape his own, undeserved fate. The spirits help Scrooge, and Clarence helps George, see his life (and the lives of others around them) from a new perspective – and to realize that they want to embrace life anew.

Many of us know what despair feels like. Right now, many of our friends and family may be suffering through it, perhaps not with our awareness; trying to find hope. In other posts, I have talked about some of those periods in my life; thinking back about those who helped me, who either reached out in love or responded to my own seeking of a new way to move ahead, they were the “spirits” helping me to see there was a promise of a better life, perhaps not obvious or easy, but possible. I remember a counselor sharing with me about the concept of “liminality” – not something I am qualified to explain, but I feel applies in some way to the experience of both our Christmas Eve characters, and perhaps you and I as well.

The ending you always wanted to see, but Frank Capra left out!

If you look online, where of course there are MANY interpretations of just about any philosophical concept, you can explore perspectives (here is one) on liminality. I recall that from a purely anthropological sense, the “liminal” state is that “in between” – the middle stage of a “rite of passage”, or a period of growth and becoming. In religious traditions, similar concepts exist – a stage from separation, between beginnings and the future. For our two (eventual) heroes, Eb and George – Christmas Eve became a liminal space, in a way – a place between what was, and what could be. Where spirits could speak to them, and minds, hearts and souls could be open to new understanding.

I wish I was learned enough, and literate enough, to bring home some insight, awareness to share from these musings with you; all I find I am able to do is to open the door, or perhaps a small window. To say – or ask – what are the lessons that I learn, that you can learn (or share with someone you love who needs that more than ever at this very instant) – to be open to this moment, now. To know there is a possible waiting for discovery; a Christmas morn where the presents are not wrapped in paper, but in a renewed spirit that awakens and cries, just like a child at birth, and embraces the future, in faith. These are OUR unexpected turning points.

***To my “Angels” and guiding spirits – THANK YOU for lifting my heart!!***

For now, I can only, as always, share what little I have to offer – the thought comes, “to play my drum” for you, perhaps, on this Christmas. To remember the words of fictional characters that still represent real truths – from George Bailey, his prayer of despair –

Answers to prayer may not come in the form we expect ……

And from Tiny Tim – not at the triumphant end of the tale, but during the “Christmas Present” where his family struggles with little food, and he is living what the Spirit shows Scrooge is his final Christmas – despite all their travails, faith –

Wherever you are today – know, there is hope. For you – and for you to share. Until next time – Merry Christmas, and wishes that the New Year brings new joys, discoveries – and renewal, for us all.

**Christmas 2019 – SF Symphony Hall – God Bless us, Everyone!**

**Thank YOU for reading my blog, as I finish 2020 – see you NEXT YEAR!!!**

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No thanks – but thanks – in 2020

Yes, it’s been nearly half a month since Thanksgiving, I know! Why am I so “late” in writing? Well, I prefer to think that I needed to get to the right place and time to express something worth offering to you – and, perhaps, to discover for myself. As I go through my reflective/creative process for sharing here, which (like me) is evolving, I often achieve some realizations, awareness, about the issues that are “troubling the waters” of my soul. There seems to be more troubling of the water, these days. Some of my friends might be surprised at how much I struggle, daily, and have for many years, with inner conflicts, doubts, depression and uncertainty. Whether online – here, Facebook – or in person (or zoom!), it’s not that the words I share, or the photos, are not from my heart – they are deeply sincere – but my day to day existence does not always match my aspirations.

But I have been thinking about thankfulness, gratitude, where it fits in my life – how easy it is to set aside or pretend and just go through the motions. In reality, choosing to be and express thankfulness is HARD WORK! But also, a very powerful, even life changing force. At last, for now, here are my own small reconsiderations, and reflections on that subject. Or, as an alternate title – “A heaping plate of regrets and a side of disappointment does not make for a pleasant dinner”.

*This is not the Thanksgiving you want to have … but it would be memorable!*

Even though I am sure anyone reading this has enough weighing on their hearts and is not seeking to focus on my challenges, I am convinced anything I have of value to share are the lessons for which I paid dearly, whether in blood, sweat or tears – that our mistakes offer more room for growth to lead to hopefully our triumphs. And I know others are like me – struggling to focus on having a positive attitude, expectations and hopes after so many months of, well, everything. But in that struggle, somehow, the beacon of grabbing onto gratitude in the midst of disappointment still calls out to me.

I wonder, in my early morning sleep deprived ruminations, what role does the giving of thanks play in our lives today? What meaning does it have? If we do not personally believe in what is generically termed a “higher power”, however we frame or conceptualize that – does giving thanks and prayer have any substantive value in our lives? Are we just begging for help out of desperation, hoping there is someone, something “out there” that will “deliver us from evil”, eliminate COVID, wipe out our political enemies who so clearly wrong about whatever we are what so clearly right on, and bring back everything we loved about our lives while somehow vanishing the problematic social, economic and other nasty realities we just want to exclude from our awareness? Or do we just want our “old lives” back – and in the case of far too many, the lives of our loved ones taken from us, struggling to reconcile our grief with our faith.

Oh, sure, I can put on the “attitude of gratitude” for a while, to fool myself, or maybe appear to for others. It is so very, very easy to mouth the platitudes that I was taught from an early age, whether they be prayers, or songs, or sayings – being thankful for family, food, shelter. I am very aware that in the larger reality of population I am among the most fortunate of humans, in terms of basic needs, care, and more. But just saying words is not enough – it is not from the heart. Perhaps anger and frustration from the heart are more powerful, more real than the practiced pleasant statements that we feel we are expected to include in our traditional gatherings. Soaking our hearts daily in anger and frustration is like a poison that seeps into every aspect of life. Our hearts began to be choked into silence by the thorns of despair.

*I have felt like this too much lately … but as I am discovering, there is another way.*

So if I was to describe my Thanksgiving – we (my husband and I, and our two cats) followed our local guidelines, and spent the day without in person contact with family or friends, with a low key meal (we are not the chefs that some of our friends exemplify), zooming instead, and enjoying some entertainment. In many ways, it was a lovely day. But underneath the traditions, I am dealing with the same frustrations, anger, fears and uncertainties that swirl around us all, daily. And in that, in the quiet moments when my heart puts all the chaos briefly on pause, somehow, the thought of gratitude keeps bubbling up, saying – “remember me”.

And I have been trying to do just that. To remember what it is like to be truly grateful; to think about what that means, when there is so much going on that seems to be coming from someone else’s nightmare, day after day after day. I try to turn off the news but find myself obsessively checking websites for the latest edict, the latest data, and the latest projections of doom and death. I juggle that with planning when to go to the store, when to manage our limited time outside the house, and, oh yes, Christmas! Because I am not going to lose Christmas, dammit! (Try to picture me saying that with a smile, at least in part!)

*2020 has been the year of unwanted presents – but also unexpected gifts*

Yet I sense that the way ahead – whether it is “through”, or “out of”, this current state of frustration is not changing the situation – not getting the reality I want – but accepting, embracing the reality I have. It’s sort of like reaching for something but you can’t because you are too burdened with what you are throttling, trying to choke the life out of, or dragging along with you – you haven’t released it. If this sounds similar to an entry a few months ago – you are probably right. I may be circling the same water because I never stopped to taste it.

I was raised in the traditional Christian church of the 60’s. I didn’t stay in it; I questioned what I was taught versus what I could see in people’s lives; I couldn’t conform to what I felt was expected of me. I don’t have a background in world religions, but I sense that whatever truths about human nature, the way we are built, the way we learn and grow, are central to many faiths. After all, in many ways, we are a single race, mixed in innumerous cultures and subcultures, families, neighborhoods, classes. But all of us, in some way, are trying to reach for something we sense but cannot name. The answers may be unknowable, for us, today. But the broader truth may be that we must embrace what we have now, make peace with it, yes, even love it and give thanks for it, to be free to move on.

It’s as though we are trapped in a room and cannot see the door because we are so desperately trying to break through the walls. Think of yourself as a battery – you have energy stored in you; it goes away; but it can also be replenished. That energy has a focus, where you are centralizing your attention. If it is on all the things you are frustrated with, it goes into that and produces – probably next to nothing, other than perhaps more frustration for you and those in your life. Acknowledging our inability to change something is not what my culture taught me.

Yet, however contradictory it may seem, I sense that it is in a deeper, daily acceptance of our current reality – through giving thanks, gratitude, whatever you want to call it (and to whomever or whatever you wish to express it) – which allows us to eventually be freed from the expectations, demands, fantasies and dreams that we cannot achieve. They have been so deeply woven into our focus, priorities and purpose that they become a cocoon, eve a prison perhaps. Focusing on our disappointment prevents us from seeing that the path we wanted to take is not the path before us. We have fixated on the walls of our cell that we want to escape so firmly that we are blind to the doorways which were there all along.

*If the way ahead is not apparent, we must be open to the unexpected and undiscovered*

To put it another way – Accepting, truly and completely making peace with the reality we would like to change (and our expectation that we cannot be otherwise whole) allows us to see choices we that were once invisible. We cannot fully see the possible while we cling to the wished for or expected. Creating an equilibrium of peace in our current state opens our eyes, and hearts, to new possibilities.

I am sure those familiar with the history of philosophy can identify the origins of just about any perspective we might take today – I don’t pretend to know those facts. I just am trying to listen to my heart, and to something outside of myself speaking to me there. Surely many are familiar with the 12 step programs, initially formalized with AA, and the Serenity prayer in all it’s iterations – “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference”. I have learned that we do not always share the same challenges, or purpose, or destiny, or understanding – and we cannot let someone else tell us what ours must be. We have to find our own way, as individuals, and yet – together. But we are all facing a lot of what we cannot change today, and we all need serenity, equilibrium – stilling the waters of our souls.

If you google “gratitude quotes” you’ll find an endless listing of helpful websites. Two rang true with me today, as I work to bring these thoughts to a close. First, Charles Dickens, whose own life was far from problem free (here is an excellent profile ), but whose words still bring hope to readers around the globe in so many cultures –

And, author Melody Beattie, whose work is not familiar to me but who has written on addiction related issues and provided helpful insights to many – there is no “one size fits all”, of course –

Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. It turns problems into gifts, failures into successes, the unexpected into perfect timing, and mistakes into important events. It can turn an existence into a real life, and disconnected situations into important and beneficial lessons. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow.
Melody Beattie (follow this link for more) on gratitude

In the process of trying to understand what I cannot know … I discover, anew

Thanks for sitting with me for a while, and for reading my little thoughts. I hope something here may ring true for you – give you some “food for thought” as a post-Thanksgiving feast for the soul (well, maybe a snack, then). As challenging as times are, the process of focusing on gratitude gives me hope – and that’s something we all need to find, and share, everyday more than ever.

Until next time – be safe, and find hope – for yourself, and to share. It’s out there!

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An attorney asks a question

This week, in the events happening in Portland Oregon, among others – a man was brutally beaten senseless in the street; his head viciously kicked after he lay helpless, some cheering, followed by others trying to help. A suspect is arrested, blame is being placed – but it won’t be the last. Perhaps we have reached a place where this is not as newsworthy as other stories – certainly, there is a lot of chaos poured into our eyes and ears daily, along with promises and blame and threats. It seems to never end.

That news footage brought to my memory a story, initially from my childhood, and later … much later .. arising from other events in my life. Perhaps you know it, or at least the major elements of it, from Sunday school lessons about “how to be good”. It has more meaning to it than usually is shared, lost simply because the historical context is less familiar to us. It’s always interested me, and so .. let us revisit that possibly familiar tale. You may recognize it, but I suggest there are some aspects that a little more background can add to its meaning.

First, though … a memory from my own past whose connection will become apparent later. In 1984, early in my quest to somehow find freedom from my “personal defects” according to church teachings, I took a trip to Israel – not just a routine trip, but an archeological study tour. Here are two pics from that trip – the first, a very young and thin me at the Sea of Galilee; and, a shot of me with the trip leader, on the “dig” at Tel Qasile in Tel Aviv, where I did actually uncover the small jug you see (no, I did not get to keep it, it was centuries old, and intact!) I will admit, after seeing “Raiders of the Lost Ark”, I was praying to uncover that relic, but did not.

The Sea of Galilee at Dawn, and, Tel Qasile (with my California Bean Growers Assn. hat!)

It was a wonderful trip – and it included stops at sites associated with all aspects of the region’s history, not just Christian. Among them, what is known as “Jacob’s well” in Samaria, where according to New Testament writings in the Gospel of John, Jesus spoke to the “woman at the well”, promising her that if she knew to whom she was speaking, she would ask for and receive from him “living water”, “welling up to eternal life”. We did not stay long – this was the early 80’s, and there was what was described as “rock attacks” in the area. But we did make another stop, because the children of that area, due to inbreeding, were known for their susceptibility to genetic defects, and the tour organizer would always stop along the way to greet them.

A photo of “Jacob’s Well”G about 100 years ago

The tale that comes to mind originates in this region. As in most faith traditions, there are people who like to point to their own “good housekeeping seal of approval” – they follow the rules, they “do the right thing”, and are generally pretty pleased with themselves. Another common feature in many faith traditions is pointing to compliance with specific rules, policies, traditions and doing one’s utmost to always be strictly obedient. In this story, one described as a “lawyer” – an educated man, familiar with religious laws, intellectual and respected in the community – asked a spiritual teacher what he could do to be guaranteed entry into eternal life. The teacher responded not with an answer, but a question – what does the law say? After the lawyer faithfully quoted scripture – to love God with all your heart, soul and strength – and your neighbor as yourself. The teacher acknowledged that the lawyer was correct – but the lawyer, perhaps not unlike some we know today centuries later, wanted to be sure he knew all the angles. And so, he asked again – who is my neighbor?

The teacher responded not with an answer, but with a story. A man, on a specific road that those from the area knew well – a steep, treacherous, winding road in the wilderness, where dangers were known to be common – fell victim to those laying in wait, who robbed, stripped and beat him, and left him for dead. That passage is still in use today – in fact, in his “Mountaintop” speech the day before his death, Martin Luther King Jr. described travelling down that very road – knowing it’s relevance to church teachings – and seeing how dangerous it was still, centuries later.

It’s a winding, meandering road. It’s really conducive for ambushing….. That’s a dangerous road”.
Martin Luther King Jr.

As the story continues, there is a sign of hope! A priest is coming and surely sees the beaten body by the side of the road – broken – abandoned – helpless. But no … the priest crosses to the other side – seeing, but avoiding, perhaps thinking he is dead but – not getting close enough to see if maybe, he might have survived. Sometime later – another respected, public man of faith, one especially trained in the details of its intricate laws and traditions, so much so that his judgment was sought in matters of “right” and “wrong” – approaches … but he, too, crosses to the other side of the road, moving along his way – the body again, alone. But, a 3^rd passerby stops, sees the body, and chooses to help – described only as the Samaritan.

Now you probably recognize this as the story of the “good Samaritan”. The teacher, Jesus, or in the original Hebrew more properly Yeshua or Joshua, was an itinerant preacher whose growing crowds and reputation for miracles was growing, becoming a threat to established practice, and a symbol of resistance to his people, occupied by the invading Roman forces. He (or more properly, Luke) never described the Samaritan as “good”, only by his tribe. Because – the idea of a Samaritan being of good character was completely alien to his audience. You see, Samaritans were viewed as “outsiders” by traditional Jewish culture – a rebellious sect who had abandoned the revered practices of their ancestral faith, who had attacked the symbols and were ridiculed and treated as dirt by the majority population of that region. Samaritans were, for many, the lowest of the low – worthless. Without value.

What the road between Jerusalem and Jericho looks like in this century.

Samaritans, like the “woman at the well”, were descendants of ancient Hebrews who had not been taken into captivity during an earlier occupation, who in time developed different sacred beliefs. There are minimal other references to Samaritans in the Christian New Testament we know; in another Jesus healed 10 lepers, but only one came back to give thanks – the Samaritan. With both examples, Jesus – a Jew – was interacting with someone who, according to Jewish traditions, was to be avoided at all costs, unholy, unworthy. He defied expectation.

As Jesus finishes his parable, despite their ancestral traditions of mutual hatred – it was this man, who bandaged his wounds; carried him on his own beast to an inn, and paid for his care, until he returned again to pay the remainder owed. We do not know what the wounded traveler learned of his rescue; or if he ever met his benefactor. In finishing his example, Jesus did not answer the lawyer’s question of “who is my neighbor” – instead, responding only with a question in return.

Who was a neighbor to the man lying on that wilderness road,

left for dead, beaten and alone?

For a Jewish teacher to suggest that a Samaritan – members of two very different yet related tribes and traditions – would respond to the need when the victims more direct brethren ignored it, for reasons unspoken and unknown – was a radical challenge to the questioner for self-examination. Would he have responded to the need of someone who not only had he been taught, all of his life, to hate – and, by all expectations, would have hated him as well? Could he had even known that this man lying in the road was a member of that larger group who treated his people as dirt – was it obvious somehow from his appearance, his dress, his skin, his features? We do not know. It is, after all, a parable – an allegory.

Yet, the seed within the story is one of hope – that individuals can choose to set aside what they have been taught; how they have been treated; to show mercy and love, instead of shutting doors, and leaving those in need, behind. That choice is present for us, today. Perhaps it is needed most for us to offer to the people that we would ordinarily despise, reject, condemn, “cancel” and write out of our lives – for their sakes, and for ours as well.

I have not always been a good neighbor; I don’t have the purest of hearts nor do I do all that I can to help those in need around me. Few of us make the choice to fully commit to a life of service, such as Mother Theresa. I certainly don’t expect anyone to consider me a saint or even a good example of tolerance. But that Samaritan, defying his culture and the expectations of those around him, gives us all a reminder to ask ourselves – how can we, even in just a little way, be part of the answer to the needs of those discard broken, rejected and alone? Are we embracing hate, labeling, casting aside “others” – for whatever reasons we consider perfectly justifiable in our own reasoning – instead of simply, reaching out? Especially in these times – where daily we see chaos, if not in our neighborhood, on our screens – and need, if not in our homes, well within our ability to impact, somehow.

We don’t know, fully, what the attorney who asked how to be guaranteed eternal life interpreted the story. Luke, in his account, merely gives his response to Jesus’ question – who was the neighbor – as “The one who showed him mercy”. Did his life change after that encounter? Perhaps what we should ask ourselves is – does ours need to? Whether you believe in a divine force in whatever form – I think it is worth considering. But, I will leave the final word, to the final words attributed to Jesus in the account.

“Go and do likewise”.

“The Quality of Mercy is not strained” – Shakespeare, Merchant of Venice

Note -Today, the small Samaritan community still survives and is more open to learning how to use science to reduce the risk of genetic defects in future generations. I found an interesting entry about the genealogical and DNA factors for this small group, here –

https://blog.23andme.com/ancestry-reports/more-than-just-a-parable-the-genetic-history-of-the-samaritans/

Beyond measure

On Tv this week, we saw a 60’s engineer use a slide rule, and I wondered how many viewers might not have any idea what it was. I never learned to use one myself – but I sure remember how expensive those Texas instrument calculators were before they became more commonplace in the 70s. So much of life seems to be about measurement – starting with learning our numbers in elementary school, or maybe standing in the hallway or garage to have our growth commemorated and celebrated.

I loved storytelling and the library from my earliest years, and music – and eventually the old musicals on TV, like Danny Kaye in “ Hans Christian Anderson”. The great Frank Loesser wrote several original songs for that picture, all lovely – but today, the one still performed by artists as diverse as Paul McCartney, the Muppets, and John Coltrane. Apparently, unlike “The Ugly Duckling” or “Thumbelina”, “Inchworm” was not derived from one of Hans’ stories, but it resonates for many through the contrast of school children sadly singing “two and two are four, four and four are eight” while Danny Kaye sings his suggestion the inchworm stop measuring the marigolds, and consider instead their beauty.

Danny Kaye, “Inch Worm” by Frank Loesser, from “Hans Christian Anderson”

Of course measuring is very important to life – my career was based on it. I chose accounting as a career path, learning to categorize, measure, trend and forecast – almost like a psychic with a calculator instead of a crystal ball. Two of the greatest 20^th century minds of business management both emphasized the critical nature of measurement to success. W. Edwards Deming used statistics to reinvigorate production models- but also acknowledged the limits of measurement.

W. Edwards Deming, a 20th century measurement and statistical manager pioneer

I had the wonderful opportunity to study under another great mind of management theory – Peter Drucker, famous for declaring “what gets measured gets managed”. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of history, and was known for his ability to accurately read trends and their implications. But I vividly recall his words that his secret was simple – he simply would look out at what was happening in the world around him as it passed by, and consider the implications. His principles of leadership are still studied, taught and practiced today, not only in business. In fact, at one of his annual Claremont graduate university alumni events, evangelist Rick Warren, author of the bestselling “Purpose driven life” paid tribute to Peter as a mentor and friend whose teachings helped him in his own ministry. Drucker’s principles of leadership are still studied, taught and practiced today, not only in business.

Often we seek to treat everything as reducible to a numeric value – our grades, our weight and blood pressure, our income and budget. But we also measure, compare and in other ways – “measuring up”, “fitting in”, conformity, meeting expectations of our social circles, our parents, and even using our children as somehow indicative of our comparative value. Yet every milestone we have achieved eventually leads not to a place of rest, but a quest for the next goal. It can become a constant cycle of trying to prove our worth – that we “made it”. But what is – “it”?

It’s interesting to me that my writings occasionally lead to comments from friends that there are elements of Buddhist perspective in my writing. I am unfamiliar with Eastern or Buddhist traditions or thinking; my child and early adult religious traditions varied from standard denominational Christianity to evangelical, and beyond. But for me, and many others, unfortunately the emphasis in those lessons and standards was heavily weighted towards measurement, striving, achieving, conforming. I have come to believe and accept that striving to be something we are not yet needs to be balanced with accepting and sharing honestly who we are right now. And, a hand in hand – learning to offer that same acceptance to others.

Our desire to measure ourselves against one another can lead to more than just faulty reporting. This week, in a zoom meeting of a few dozen LGBT individuals trying to work together towards meeting needs in our community, we were abruptly and viciously “bombed” by intruders. Loud music, shouted curses, ugly expletives and hateful labeling made speech for a moment impossible. It was shocking. But what struck most deeply was the power of 3 words – an old and deep lie – God hates faggots. The stain remained after they were disconnected. It remains in their hearts.

I don’t consider God to be a four letter word. But I know and respect that many – including myself – have been scarred, abused and rejected by those who claim to speak in the name of what they consider to be the ultimate authority, by whatever name they think of it. Yet I feel sad for anyone, for all of us, who have put any hope of a loving creative force aside in a box and labeled it as poison, or something destructive to be not embraced but avoided. In our pain, anger, or fear – we limit the ability of a greater spirit to what we have experienced and seen, closing it off from our hearts, or like the voices of hate on that zoom call, using a twisted version of it to tear down those different from ourselves. Their limited vision is not the truth. Simply put – their God is too small. Do we, with our desire to measure, to limit, to contain and define and control – do the same?

Humanity and societies across our globe throughout centuries have looked beyond what we “know” for a framework to understand that which is perhaps unknowable – the truths outside of our intellects, that we sometimes sense in a way words cannot express and numbers cannot define. Might it be true that that which is eternal is beyond measure in the senses which our culture and society have hammered into our ways of thinking? That the forces we cannot see or understand are inherently bigger than any box or structure, paradigms or writings might try to reduce it to? Could it be that someone in BCE 400 might experience that eternal Power in a way different than someone on the other side of the globe in CE 1200, or than you do where you are in 2020, and how I do today? Is it that hard to stop trying to put God in a box where we control Him/Her/Them, and instead – just try to listen? It’s hard to hear much when you’re doing all the talking.

Perhaps what we consider to be irrational is based in a different kind of knowledge – not scientific is the traditional sense, but an understanding that cultures and generations have reached towards without ever truly fully grasping – because it is beyond our ability to encompass with our intellects, beyond being able to capture it in words or images. In my youth choir and years of seeking my own sense of peace for the questions that have both limited and freed me, my traditions have included many of the old hymns that were common more than a century ago. One such hymn was written by a Frederick M. Lehman, who as I discovered as I researched for this article, was surprisingly born in the same small region in Germany where my great great grandfather William Granzow emigrated from in the 19^th century – Mecklinburg, Schwerin. That hymn, “The love of God”, is most famous for its final, third stanza. By his own account, more than 100 years ago Lehman heard an evangelist quote those words, as found on the walls of an asylum cell. To me, this simple analogy captures the futility of measuring, and the immense beauty of that unknown infinite –

Could we with ink the ocean fill, and were the sky of parchment made; were every stalk on earth a quill, and every man a scribe by trade; to write the love of God above would drain the ocean dry; nor could the scroll contain the whole though stretched from sky to sky.
Frederick M. Lehman, “The Love of God”

Interestingly, other background articles on this verse show striking similarities to Hebrew sacred texts dating back to the 11^thcentury, and also to a passage in the Quran dating to the 7^th century. Perhaps beyond the limits of our precepts there are commonalities in the yearnings of our souls.

https://hymnstudiesblog.wordpress.com/2017/11/20/the-love-of-god-is-greater-far/

Whoever wrote these words, and however they knew them, scrawled on the walls of an asylum, found meaning, and hope from them. For all, our quest to make sense of life – in essence, to obtain what may be only an illusion of control through knowledge – we inevitably reach a juncture where answers fail but questions remain. One of my favorite obscure films is “They might be giants” with George C. Scott and Joanne Woodward from 1971. Scott is a brilliant judge who has retreated after his wife’s death into seeing himself as Sherlock Holmes; his therapist is, perhaps coincidentally, a Dr. Emily Watson. “They might be giants” of course refers to Don Quixote, fighting his windmills who he sees as threats in a quest to become the hero. Holmes tells Watson that only by looking at the things we think we “know” and considering the possibility that they might be something else, do we find the opportunity for new discoveries, new truths. Watson tries to “cure” him as they seek Moriarty in 70’s NYC, featuring an exquisite score by John Barry.

Photos and John Barry soundtrack theme from 1971’s “They Might Be Giants”

Do they defeat Moriarty, or does he even exist? The film in some ways asks the same questions we all face – or avoid facing. The final words on the screen always struck me as simple, yet profound-

The human heart can see what is hidden to the eyes, and the heart knows things that the mind does not begin to understand.
“They might be giants” screenwriter William Goldman, who also wrote “The Lion in Winter”, “Robin and Marion” and “Nicholas and Alexandra”

Joanne Woodward as Watson and George C. Scott as “Holmes” in They Might be Giants

There are elements in all our lives that may defy measurement or understanding, yet have for more significance than all the seemingly pressing demands that scream for our attention. I’ve reached a place where questions without answers are ok. Where measuring still plagues me at times, but is balanced with an awareness that a greater love reaches out to me, and all of us, not limited by the words that demand more from us, but instead offer grace to us. This passing era – when all we have taken for granted seems uncertain, when there are no answers – brings a hidden gift. For a moment – we can choose to pause, cease seeking to know – and to listen. Not perhaps for answers – but for new questions. And like the inchworm, to stop measuring, and see the beauty that shimmers around us, in awe – listening, silently.

Surprisingly, or perhaps not – you can enjoy this film on YouTube – for now.

Tattered pages, echoes of faith

Robert Titus Pence and Elizabeth Conger … their names written in faded ink on a colorful page, along with their children. Nearly 175 years have passed since they wed in 1847 – but it still speaks. I hear the whispers as I carefully explore the pages, images, and scraps inserted by those long gone.

Robert’s grandfather, Johann Heinrich Bentz, changed his name to Henry Pence when he emigrated to the colonies in 1749, arriving in Philadelphia with his family at age 9 – hard to imagine a journey like that for a little boy. Henry married at age 25 and had at least 16 children, raising them in the colony of Virginia, including Robert’s father, “Judge” John Pence. Born there is 1774, John really was a judge, and eventually settled in Oquawka, IL on the western border, married 3 times and fathered 16 children as well. Just think of how many grandchildren Henry must have had! Robert was born in 1817. After his first wife and infant daughter passed, Robert married Elizabeth Conger in June 0f 1847, and raised their family of 11 children in Oquawka.

“RT Pence 1876” is written on an otherwise blank front page of the leather bound bible, making it nearly 150 years old. It is huge and heavy, worn – perhaps from use, but probably mostly from age. It is difficult to imagine someone reading this by candlelight, carrying it across the continent over generations. The “family record” page is in color, and legible – but the binding is collapsed, pages missing and torn. Like many of the items that have found their way to my files, library and stacks of paper – it is irreplaceable. A reminder of people mostly forgotten except through a few preserved stories and photos with forgotten faces. They speak to me through these once lost treasures – and their unspoken testimony.

After their first child, son Harry, was born, Robert captained a wagon train to Hangtown, California, during the gold rush – now, Placerville. The account of that journey was shared with the readers of the Oquawka “Spectator”, departing in March 1850 and arriving in July. I had always thought that was how his family came to be here in California, spreading west – but I was wrong. He returned home, safely but not richer, and remained for nearly 20 more years – their last child, my great grandfather Arthur Sherman Pence, was born there in 1847. In 1870, Robert and family lived in Kansas, but eventually he bought ranch property in Parkfield, California.

I have always thought it providential that so many pieces of my family history have somehow found their way into the stacks of paper I now sort through, gaining and understanding of how challenging it was for my ancestors to come from other continents here, hoping for a brighter future. It was not easy for any of them, from Germany, Portugal, Scotland and Britain, nor from the family members they married from Spain, Mexico, and other areas of Europe – building new lives, surviving, sacrificing and struggling. Their lives are woven through time into a tapestry whose colors I am just beginning to see – a living legacy across the west and beyond.

The Sutro library here in San Francisco has a copy of a book written by another son of Robert’s, Kingsley Adolphus Pence – who, although married, died childless, but lived a fascinating life. Like me, he developed an interest in writing about his family heritage, and published his book in 1912, now available online as well as in many genealogical libraries, including many photos and anecdotes. Another distant relative, Richard “Dick” Pence, was a pioneer as well, an early advocate of computer based genealogy. He maintained a website about the extended Pence family which I found online, and corresponded with before he passed in 2009. He provided me with the transcription of my great great grandfather’s journey west. It is intriguing to me that two generations at least before me were drawn to understanding their family’s past.

As I turn through the pages of the Bible, I realize I am probably the first in decades to do so. How it came into my Uncle Morley’s hands I am not certain, but I am grateful to have it now. There is a letter from Robert Titus written from Parkfield in 1886 – mostly illegible, to one of his sons. I know that my great grandfather, Robert and Elizabeth’s youngest child Richard, eventually worked for the railroad in California and Oregon, where he met his wife Nellie, one of the pioneer Applegate family. As was the case with many families, unlike his parents, they had only one child – my grandfather, whose two children were my uncle and Mother. There are letters from Arthur to his brother, thankfully typed – and from them I learn that he needed his brother to provide a notarized statement of the Bible as proof of Arthur’s birthdate and citizenship. This would make him eligible for the Railroad Retirement act of 1934, in the depths of the depression – he had remarried and was reaching out for help, and the Bible record of his birth gave him the proof he needed to receive it.

There are also clues to the heritage of Richard Titus Pence wife, Elizabeth Conger, who was little more than a name to me. I find inserted among the pages a copy of the Oquawka Spectator from August, 1902 … describing her passing and burial. There are also two handwritten brochures from her brother, an O. T. Conger, who is mentioned in the newspaper. One appears to be a treatise on “Foreign Missions” that he presented in Lincoln, Omaha, Malvern and New Albany on occasions ranging from 1874 to 1885; another, in very tiny detailed script, is titled “A quiver of arrows” and includes thoughts and stories – apparently a reference for him in developing sermons, as a little digging shows him to have been a respected Baptist minister. I find online his obituary showing he left behind a widow and 3 children – I hope one day to find a descendant who would see these as treasures to preserve of their own heritage.

But it is the remembrance article from 1902 that tells me the most about Elizabeth, her family, and the impact of faith on at least some of her children. Robert had passed in 1889 and she spent her final years with a daughter’s family in Colorado; at the time of her passing, five sons remained alive, and one, Robert Lincoln Pence, accompanied his mother’s body back by train from Colorado to Illinois, to be buried where her husband family had been laid to rest at Rozetta cemetery. As I read the words, the depth of feeling is conveyed in a way that still holds power over 100 years later ..

“And now, in the old grave yard, where are laid her father and mother, where he sisters are laid, where he husband and our father, where her daughters and our sisters are sleeping, in the presence of old associates, the casket, borne by the arms of old friends, is our mother laid. Perhaps we, her sons, may never be permitted to see the graves of those near to us again, but in this old haven of rest, the old burial ground at Rozetta, it seems meet to leave her”.
^{Oquawka Spectator notice of passing of Elizabeth Conger Pence, August 1902}

**Memorial Card for Robert Titus Pence, in my grandfather’s papers**

I do not know fully the history of how my ancestor’s viewed faith – many families then, and some now, simply had bibles given to them. So, it is impossible to know what meaning faith had to these souls long gone; whether the Bible was simply a volume to record births, or a source of hope and encouragement. For now, it is time to put it away again, until such time comes as another follows after my quest ends. It and other documents of faith for families over centuries has served many different purposes, and for many today they are of lesser relevance – but the impact of faith itself on their voyages, their quest, reaches into our own even if only buried deep in our DNA. Whatever answers they sought, and found, are not unlike those that many of us have today, in very different times. They too, perhaps even more so, faced an uncertain future, with hopes and dreams, fears and obstacles. The faith of our fathers and mothers may be one we do not share, or even know – but its seeds brought forth our own lives as well. I find comfort in these letters, and these tattered pages, knowing that as they sought strength and guidance to make their way through the challenge of an emerging world, so shall I. So shall, hopefully, we all.

Walking in the darkness

Being trained as an accountant had many, many advantages. For one, it kept me employed, and I am grateful for that. I was drawn math from an early age in school, because I wanted to be able to “get the right answer” – in class, on papers, for grades … and then, in life. Being “right” was just SOOOO important, I am sure I tried the patience of many people over my life with that so called “need”. A lonely child, I didn’t have many close friends in school – so I got some sense of worth by getting grades.

However, life is not a math problem you can solve. Insisting on being “right” didn’t lead me to the life I wanted in my heart. The older I get, the more I begin to see that wisdom is not having knowledge, not having answers, not knowing what is right – but wisdom is rather knowing, even celebrating, that you cannot have the answers all the time. Then, finding a way to live without them, or at least all of them. And in that fundamental ignorance, that powerlessness to know absolutely – to not be able to be “right” – to find contentment. To be at peace with the limitations of your ability to understand.

This week, nearly a month into “shelter in place”, many around the world find they cannot hold their traditional commemorations of traditions of faith together – in particular, Passover and Easter. As a child, I have many memories of Easter morning excitement, egg coloring and hunts, church services, dinners and stories about bunnies and about Christ. And, as was true for many in that time and our society, I was told these things were very, very certain and absolute. In my teens, down the street, I became friends with someone from my junior high whose heritage was Jewish, and came to realize they had very different celebrations. Over the years, through relationships, travel, reading and a lot of personal reflection, I realized that there were a lot of questions about truths that I had been taught – questions I could not answer. Reasonable questions, that for some, could not be discussed or considered.

So today is Easter 2020, one quite different than most of us have known in our lifetimes. Last year we attended a beautiful service at Grace Cathedral, a San Francisco landmark and refuge for decades, with traditional music, ceremony, and readings. This year, Grace and other houses of worship and reflection lie empty. I awoke and made a short trip to our local park with a hillside view to watch the sunrise – trudging along the dark path alone, only the birdsong to greet the dawn. But the dark only turned into a dreary gray, clouds and fog making no space for sun to burst through in glory. Still, I knew it was there, and found comfort in that quiet hour, watching our city awaken.

When we “hold certain truths to be self evident”, or grab tightly on to some belief system because it is so central to our identity that we cannot bear to open our mind to the possibility that it has never been true – we burrow into a cave, close our eyes, and die. Our spirits die, hiding in the dark, afraid to be found out, to be discovered as somehow being “wrong”. But it is in admitting my own flawed character and my ignorance that I begin to see light – a love that transcends the rules and limitations of the past. Our world needs that love. I have many, many friends who have extreme bitterness about their treatment at the hands of people of faith – many faiths – because they did not conform. That works both ways – there is plenty of finger pointing to go around, plenty of blame, plenty of “practice what you preach” and “you didn’t live up to what you expect of me”. Maybe we need to let go of some of the things we grasp and take hold of one another hands instead.

People of faith, many faiths – the world religions but also the smaller, less traditional or more personal belief systems – have done much to reach out with love, to build our world, to support understanding and peace. Great damage has been done as well in the name of religion – power, conquest, dominion, riches at the expense of others. Many have been so hurt by actions done in the name of deity that even the concept of a loving creator is unthinkable. Perhaps they are right, but I have reached a place where I can understand that the actions of individuals or groups don’t necessarily support or refute deeper truths – but also that ultimately I won’t probably ever have the answers to my questions. Being at peace about my lack of answers allows me to acknowledge my own fallibility, and embrace that others imperfections, and move beyond those limits to share with those around me what we have to offer in love and acceptance.

In my friends and family there are many ways of thinking embraced, but every one of those people in my life demonstrate love, and I treasure them all. I still hold many beliefs – some that continue to grow and evolve. I don’t try to explain them or make them fit every situation, because – they don’t. So, at Easter, and Passover, and other times of memories and celebration, in part because my knowledge of them both has increased over the years, I respect the needs of all around me to reach out and be in touch with something Eternal outside themselves. Whether through ritual cleansing, special prayers, songs or moments of reflection – or perhaps outreach and community gatherings – I see the value of holding on and expressing faith in a greater Power.

At last, I am a least a little closer to be able to accept a love that comes from beyond my understanding, walk in it, and try to share it – without understanding it, or labeling it, or trying to put it in a box with a bow for others to accept. Without trying to prove it or convince someone, but … trying to live it a little better. And I feel a kind of peace, at least, in no longer needing to have the answers. For me, the answers are in the hearts, and the loving smiles and acts, of those who turn their eyes upward and seek deliverance, seek forgiveness, even though we sense that on their own, we are undeserving, but the source of that Love they feel offers it freely. Perhaps that is a kind of wisdom, but even if foolish, I will gladly be a fool for the gift of giving and receiving grace. And love. Love, always.