Conserving connections

This week I received a lovely surprise, a book from a friend who saw it on Amazon and thought of me.

I have two earlier books by the same author, Doug Tallamy, and have seen him lecture at Jenkins Arboretum. Somehow I  had missed the fact that he had a new best-selling book: Nature's Best Hope: A New Approach to Conservation that Starts in Your Yard.

I've been working on conservation in my yard since I read his Bringing Nature Home back in 2010, and have seen some fruit from that effort. I've planted native shrubs and trees and each season see new species of birds traveling through my yard. This winter, more homebound than usual, I've been delighted with pine siskins and red-breasted nuthatch at my feeders. A hairy woodpecker has been another recent guest. 

This new book delves deeper into what Tallamy and others have been learning about how nature works, exploring connections between things like decaying logs, native bees, caterpillars, birds. I'll be reading more closely and dreaming about summer, but one theme has already set me thinking. 

In a chapter called "The Importance of Connectivity", Tallamy writes about isolation, fragmentation and the dangers when habitats are splintered and species are divided:

We live in a world in which habitat - places that provide both food and shelter for plants and animals - is so fragmented, and those fragments are so isolated from one another, that they are hemorrhaging species at an alarming rate.    

Tallamy talks about building biological corridors, natural passageways, that allow species safe travel from one wild patch to another. My own yard has become such a corridor. The local pileated woodpeckers travel through our trees, sometimes lingering a while, en route from a nearby wild ravine to the older trees around a small park across the street. A lovely red fox travels an alley behind back yards, spending time in our tiny woods. This winter, I've seen it in my front yard bird garden, sneaking up on the flock of mourning doves that gather beneath my feeders. 

Tallamy's new book suggests new ways to give safe passage to species struggling in our fragmented world: turn off lights at night, to give moths safer travel. Leave more rotting logs under trees, for native bees and other insects that burrow and breed in decaying wood. Rethink when to cut off seed-heads, so birds have more food sources through cold winters and over-wintering bugs survive. Leave wild edges where creatures can shelter and travel undetected. 

The book came just as I was thinking about connections in other ways, and what happens when those connections are fragile, or broken.

Our social connections have been shattered by the pandemic. I've been thinking about the people I talked to before and after church, the lunches our church has held for years and the conversations over soup and bread. I've been missing meeting people for coffee, casual lunches, small in-person meetings to plan and think. I've been missing the weekly bird walks I helped organize and lead. I miss hosting young families, teens who need a break, friends who want to come and talk and pray. 

But our connections have also been harmed by political division. There care conversations we avoid. Acquaintances we no longer trust. Things feel more tribal than they were, more strained. The common groundwork of what's true, what's right, what serves the common good, seems shredded beyond repair.

Connections keep us healthy and we are all showing symptoms of the strain of isolation. How do we build safe corridors of connection while we wait for vaccines and some return to normalcy? How do we encourage and support each other, despite constraints of social distancing? How do we find common ground, when even simple discussions about illness or vaccines reveal unexpected distance?

I've been busy the past two weeks speaking and organizing in opposition to a PA constitutional amendment that would damage the independence of Pennsylvania's high courts. I've found myself in contact with groups I didn't know and find myself wondering: how do we set down the labels and find our way back from "them" to "us"? How do we build conversation and connection across political divides, regional divides, demographic divides? 

I wrote last week from Philippians 1: 

And this is my prayer: that your love may about more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ - to the glory and praise of God.

I am more and more convinced that wholeness might be a good translation for righteousness, and that the mission of wholeness, God's restoration, reaches into every corner of our lives: the food we eat, the landscapes we live in, our political engagement, our interactions with people near and far. We're called to be agents of reconciliation, justice, compassion and grace when those words themselves seem to contradict each other. 

That sounds like hard work, but I've found that investment in habitat work is more fun than work, more joy than difficulty. And in odd ways, the same is true with other works of restoration. When we're doing what we're most deeply called to do, we're building connections that heal the world around us, but we're also connecting with our own deepest selves in ways that bring health and joy to us as well. 

It's a mystery.

I've mentioned the Porter's Gate work before. Their song We Labor unto Glory illuminates and deepens the mystery:

We labor unto glory
'Til heaven and earth are one;
We labor unto glory
Until God's kingdom comes. 

That your love may abound

I had an odd dream this week. I rarely dream, and even more rarely remember my dreams. But I woke Friday morning with a strange clarity: I had been sitting next to Donald Trump and he had reached out and pinched me, hard. I turned and said as calmly and clearly as I could, "That was rude, it hurt, and it was was mean and inappropriate. Don't do that again, to me or anyone else." 

That's it. That's the dream. I found myself puzzling over it as I made my coffee and dished out my morning medley of local Seven Stars yogurt and Bethlehem Inn granola. It was still on my mind as I began my reading in Philippians 1, and sparked my attention on a verse I know I've read many dozens of times before: 

And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight . . . . 

It struck me that love, genuine love, requires us to know, to really SEE, understand, consider those we say we love. 

And it struck me that my dream of Donald Trump gave me an odd insight into him, into me, into what it means to love the unloveable. 

Replaying the little snippet of dream that had traveled with me from my sleep, I heard in my own voice the calm, clear reprimand I've given countless times to children in my care. It's the work every parent, teacher, youth pastor, caregiver is called to: calm clarification of what's okay, what's not. It's an act of love, helping children prepare for life. Helping teens stay safe. Helping form the lives around us to be respectful, kind, aware of their actions. 

In replaying that dream, I was filled with sadness for Donald Trump, the child, the teen, the man: so lacking in that awareness, so deprived of that calm, clear reproof. Trained by his father to be a bully and a "killer," egged on by his own parent to abuse, dominate and betray. 

And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ. 

There is so much to process from these past historic weeks: the still unfolding fallout from the attack on our nation's capital. It took me until today to watch the chilling account compiled by the Washington Post. In Pennsylvania, there's the troubling news that a PA congressman coordinated with Donald Trump to subvert the Department of Justice, and news that over a million dollars of taxpayer money was used by PA legislators to contest the same ballots that put them back in office. 

Add the inaugural events:  beauty, sadness, potential, division. The rendition of Amazing Grace at the candle-lit memorial service for the 400,000 who have died of COVID-19.  The Republican leaders who joined the Bidens at an inaugural morning prayer service. The brilliant young poet Amanda Gorman and her incredible spoken-word performance. The mingled reports of brokenness and promise.

How do we move forward? How do we speak with truth and grace in places of deception, anger, lingering bitterness? How do we rebuild a fractured nation, a fractured state, a fractured church?

That passage in Philippians points the way: 

And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ - to the glory and praise of God.

That word righteousness has often given me pause. In English it's linked too closely to "self-righteous," exactly what we do not need at this moment in our history. 

But the word, the Greek dikoias, is expansive, inclusive: it describes "what is in conformity to God's own being." I wrote about the word in 2013, about what it means to hunger and thirst for righteousness, "hungering far past "rightness." As I reread that post, I see how far that hunger for righteousness has brought me, how it has shaped the intervening years and fuels my hope for the years ahead.  

I grew up thinking righteousness was something like “rightness.” As in: correct. The narrow tradition of my childhood church offered long lists of correct, or more often incorrect, behavior: No movies. No dances. No playing cards. No alcohol. No skirts shorter than your knees. No tank tops. No two piece bathing suits.

Righteousness was staying on the right side of the rules.

There were right opinions and wrong, on everything from baptism to women to the work of the Holy Spirit to the chronology of the end times.

“Righteousness,” to me, was a competitive activity, with a strong punitive edge.

Who would hunger and thirst after that? And what would it mean to be satisfied?

Dig a bit, and it turns out the original Greek word used in Matthew’s gospel, “dikaios,” is the same as the Hebrew word "tzedakah", a word used throughout the Old Testament to describe the character of God and God’s restorative actions: justice, truth, compassion, kindness, making right, renewing, restoring, ensuring good things for those without, restraining the powerful, lifting up the weak, repairing ruined vineyards and fields, ensuring wise governance and an equitable economy.

We have no word that comes even close.

We are in a space when the landscape is changing around us. Definitions are shaken, patterns are upended. Both pandemic and political upheaval have called into question relationships, habits, our very understanding of what normal might be, should be, could be. 

How do we navigate this space in a way that leads closer to dikaios, in a way that ensures good governance and equitable economy? How do we clarify God's concern for creation and people on the margins, while offering compassion and truth to those who live in fear?

I"ll be holding those verses close as I pray for insight, understanding and discernment. 

I pray you do the same. 

And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight, so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ - to the glory and praise of God.

Walk in Truth. Walk in Love. Walk in Light.

I’ve been grieving this week. Grieving the assault on our nation's capital after centuries of peaceful transition. Grieving the response from people I know who even yet, after more than 60 failed lawsuits, still consider Donald Trump the God-ordained president for the next four year.

The more photos and video I see of the violence in our capital on January 6, the heavier the grief becomes. Those are my people, breaking glass in the heart of our nation. I know people who were there, defiantly shouting support of Donald Trump. They weren’t – to my knowledge- inside the building, but easily could have been, acting out their allegiance to a supposed savior sent to rescue our nation from imagined threats.

From all that I can see, all evidence I can find, those rioters themselves are the threat: unwilling to accept the word of election officials. Unwilling to accept decisions of judges from both parties, some appointed by Trump himself. Certain that they know the truth, no matter what evidence is piled against them. 

My readings this week were in 2 and 3 John and Jude. In his second letter, John instructs his readers to walk in love. In the third, he tells them to walk in truth. Jude warns against a failure of both, pointing to deceivers who have slipped in among God’s people, leading them astray. 

These people are blemishes at your love feasts, eating with you without the slightest qualm—shepherds who feed only themselves. They are clouds without rain, blown along by the wind; autumn trees, without fruit and uprooted—twice dead. They are wild waves of the sea, foaming up their shame; wandering stars, for whom blackest darkness has been reserved forever. 

These people are grumblers and faultfinders; they follow their own evil desires; they boast about themselves and flatter others for their own advantage. 

But, dear friends, remember what the apostles of our Lord Jesus Christ foretold. They said to you, “In the last times there will be scoffers who will follow their own ungodly desires.” These are the people who divide you, who follow mere natural instincts and do not have the Spirit. 

The language in that first paragraph has always intrigued me: clouds without rain, uprooted trees, wild waves, foaming up their shame. I've always wished we had more from Jude. I suspect he was a poet.

To me, this week, those words feel sadly relevant, but also a reminder that there have been other times when God’s people have been divided by deceivers, pulled along by opportunist who will say and do whatever it takes to secure their own advantage. 

How do we guard against that? How do we learn to recognize deception and oppose it with both truth and love?

Ed Stetzer, dean and professor at Wheaton College and executive director of the Wheaton College Billy Graham Center, has been speaking on the failure of discernment and political discipleship within evangelical Christianity. In an NPR interview and an op ed in USA Today, he describes our sad reality:

Trump is who many of us warned other evangelicals that he was. He has burned down the Republican Party, emboldened white supremacists, mainstreamed conspiracy theorists and more. 

Yet of greater concern for me is the trail of destruction he has left within the evangelical movement. Tempted by power and trapped within a culture war theology, too many evangelicals tied their fate to a man who embodied neither their faith nor their vision of political character. … 

The result of this discipleship failure has led us to a place where not only our people but also many of our leaders were easily fooled and co-opted by a movement that ended with the storming of the U.S. Capitol…  

That we have failed and been fooled is disheartening but not surprising. The true test will be how we respond when our idols are revealed. Will we look inside and repent when needed, or will we double down? 

The seven minute interview is worth listening to as occasion for reflection and prayer. 

Also worth listening to: a discussion I heard on NPR about families torn apart by delusion. Dannagal Young, associate professor of communications at the University of Delaware, talks about her research into ways to mend torn relationships when truth and love collide: 

Do not mock. Do not use snark. . . [U}sing scientific evidence, argumentation, etc., that comes through the very institutions that they have been told not to trust, that is going to backfire because now they think that you are the dupe because you trust these institutions, etc.. . . 

Come at them with unconditional love, as hard as that is, reminding them of the preexisting bonds that you have.

She suggests we show love toward those who have been deceived and reserve accountability and anger for those who have deceived them. 

Seltzer offers a similar recommendation.

How can the evangelical movement navigate this reckoning?

In listening and praying, I've found myself coming back to Martin Luther's words: 'Toward those who have been miseld, we are to show ourselves parentally affectionate, so that they may perceive that we seek not their destruction but their salvation. "

I see that same encouragement in Jude: while he speaks out strongly against the deceivers, he is far more gentle toward those who have been deceived: 

Be merciful to those who doubt; save others by snatching them from the fire; to others show mercy, mixed with fear. 

In this time when love and truth collide, as we look with mixed emotions toward the inaugurations of a new president, maybe we can start by examining our own hearts, asking God to show us places where we ourselves are lacking in love or unable to hear the truth. 

And we can pray for protection: for our past, current, future president. Their families. All around them. For governors, judges, legislative leaders, election officials. For those who have been threatened in recent weeks. For all who are navigating this historic time with mingled hope and fear.

And we can ask that our love and love for truth be strengthened, to face the work ahead. 

I'm reminded of the poem read at the 2009 inauguration. I listened with two fellow employees in the church where I was youth pastor. We were an odd gathering in a corner youth group room, trying to find a space where the church TV would pick up adequate reception. Two members of the church custodial staff, one Hispanic, one Black, and me. We laughed, we cried, we stood silent at the actual swearing in. We hugged each other when that was done, a long dozen years ago.  

I've learned much since then. Seen much. These words still speak to me. 

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,

others by first do no harm or take no more 

than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,

love that casts a widening pool of light,

love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today's sharp sparkle, this winter air,

any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp

praise song for walking forward in that light. 

Lending Weight to Justice

What a strange, disturbing week. 

On Tuesday, the Pennsylvania Senate erupted into a shouting match as the senate majority refused to swear in a senator elected in a tight, contentious race. In effect, GOP senators refused the decision of PA courts and the constitutional leadership of the Lieutenant Governor, insisting that they, and they alone, are the final arbiters of elections and have final say in questions of process.

That was a sad foretaste of the tragic insurrection in Washington, DC the following day. We've all seen bits and pieces of that, trying to understand how the events unfolded. Stories are still emerging: laptops stolen, offices trashed, legislators on the floor for hours, afraid for their lives. The full picture may never be known: who organized and orchestrated the events, who provide rioters with information about which offices to target and best ways to enter, why the capital police was so ineffective in response.  

For me, one of the most troubling aspects was the clear discrepancy between response to this event and response to other protests. Any person of color watching would know that if those rioters had been black or brown, many would have been dead within the first hour. Commentator Joy Reid put this into words in a video shared across the globe. 

Later in the week, I sat in on a forum the organization I lead, Fair Districts PA, helped host and promote.  I listened to stories of people I know who have felt the harsh weight of unjust policing, the bitter reality of a criminal justice system that incarcerates poor people who can't afford bail, then refuses to provide adequate legal defense. 

How is it possible that so much of the white evangelical church, and so many people I know and love, have aligned more closely with the rioters who breached our capital than with the broken hearts of minority communities?

How is it possible that it's easier for some to believe elections were stolen, despite 61 court cases refuting that claim, than that minority communities, and fair-minded people, did all they could to remove a racist president?

My reading this morning was in Psalm 85, asking God to show favor and restore the nation.

Will you not revive us again, that you people may rejoice with you?
Show us your unfailing love, O Lord, and grant us your salvation.

The next verse caught my attention: 

I will listen to what God the Lord will say;

He promises peace to his people, his saints -
But let them not return to folly. 

Were the events of this week enough to make folly clear?

I find myself thinking about calls for unity, calls for restoration, questions about how to heal a nation so bitterly divided. 

Fair Districts PA had lots of press this week. We've been advocating for fair rules in our Pennsylvania legislature. We are fighting hard against a PA constitutional amendment that would undermine judicial independence.

And we were mentioned in an article encouraging engagement in democracy: Choose Democracy. That article gives lots of ideas for civic engagement in the days ahead. Not least:

Talk to each other. Take a step outside your bubble, have a conversation with someone you think might disagree with you on something. The American tent is truly big enough for all of us. Try these tips from Megan Phelps-Roper, who grew up and was social media coordinator for the hate-mongering Westboro Baptist Church until she started talking to her critics on Twitter. Meaningful conversation can make a difference. Yelling at each other gets us where we were yesterday—and never want to be again.

Healing the broken heart of democracy, and of our nation, will take work from all of us. 

I'm reminded of a poem by Bonaro Overstreet someone gave me decades ago, one I've thought of often in this turbulent week:

You say the Little efforts that I make
will do no good: they never will prevail
to tip the hovering scale
where Justice hangs in balance.

I don’t think I ever thought they would.
But I am prejudiced beyond debate
in favor of my right to choose which side
shall feel the stubborn ounces of my weight.

I DO believe the little efforts that we make can help to tip the scale.

I believe the conversations that we have can help us turn from folly.

I pray you join me in listening, talking, thinking, praying about how best to lend your weight as justice hangs in balance. 

Looking toward Light

Justice is far from us, 

 and righteousness does not reach us. 

We look for light, 

 but all is darkness; 

for brightness, 

but we walk in deep shadows. (Isaiah 5:9) 

December 21 was the shortest day of the year, but the darkest day is harder to identify. 

Christmas Eve and Day this year were dark: cold, grey weather, short days, far more solitary than usual. New Year’s Eve and Day were also grey: windy, spitting rain, most festivities cancelled. But the darkest days are likely ahead. Epiphany, January 6, will be a day of contention over election outcomes. January 20, the inauguration, will be a day of stress and division. The Presidential Inauguration Committee has announced plans to make Inauguration Eve a time of remembrance of those who have died of Covid-19, a sobering reminder of the loss and grief still unfolding around us. 

News of first vaccinations brightened the gloom, but that ray of light was quickly overcome by reports of confusion, lack of coordination and much slower progress than expected. 

We all will likely have our own darkest days ahead: days of loss, of loneliness, of discouragement, anger, doubt, confusion. Misinformation abounds. Division, even in this time of pandemic, seems to rule the day. 

Woe to those who call evil good and good evil, 

  who put darkness for light and light for darkness, 

who put bitter for sweet and sweet for bitter. (Isaiah 5:20). 

While recovering from sickness several weeks ago I found myself watching Dickins movies. I was reminded that there have always been seasons of darkness, illness, poverty, division. There have always been people who pride themselves on their certainty about what is best and right and good while sowing division and doing great harm. It’s easy to be deceived, to call evil good, to confuse bitter for sweet. Such was the case in the days of Isaiah, the days of Dickens, the days of Hitler.

I find myself wondering what Isaiah himself made of the prophecies he recorded. He lived during the reigns of both evil and righteous kings, during times of war with Assyria and Egypt, and also long seasons of peace. His wisdom and advice were accepted by some kings, ignored by others. Tradition suggests he was killed by King Manasseh, a notoriously evil, exploitative, bloodthirsty king.

Isaiah’s prophecies have been studied, celebrated, repeated, sung for over 2700 years now: 

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; 

on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned. . . . 

Every warrior’s boot used in battle and every garment rolled in blood 

will be destined for burning, will be fuel for the fire. 

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, 

 and the government will be on his shoulders. 

And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, 

Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. 

Of the greatness of his government and peace 

 there will be no end. (Isaiah 9:2-7) 

What did those words mean to Isaiah himself? To those who transcribed the words and passed them on, generation after generation? What did they mean to the people of Israel, during the years of Christ’s birth and death? What do they mean to us, now, in this season of shadows and sadness?

It’s encouraging to me to see that Isaiah’s prophecy of light takes shape and clarity through the long years of his prophetic work. Scholars raise questions about the chronology of Isaiah’s writing. If it’s seen as history, it seems to leap around. But it can also be read as seeing time from a more eternal perspective: future is present, present is past, human time is held in the light of a more lasting story:

“Here is my servant, whom I uphold,
 my chosen one in whom I delight;
I will put my Spirit on him,
 and he will bring justice to the nations.
He will not shout or cry out,
 or raise his voice in the streets.
A bruised reed he will not break,
 and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out.
In faithfulness he will bring forth justice;
he will not falter or be discouraged
till he establishes justice on earth.

 “I, the LORD, have called you in righteousness;
 I will take hold of your hand.
I will keep you and will make you
 to be a covenant for the people
 and a light for the Gentiles,
to open eyes that are blind,
 to free captives from prison
 and to release from the dungeon
those who sit in darkness. (Isaiah 42: 1-7)  

Reflecting on light and dark, past and present, hope and discouragement, I find myself wondering how we orient ourselves to the vision of light Isaiah offered. The final chapters of Isaiah invite us into the story and suggest priorities and perspective for the dark, lonely winter and more hopeful year ahead:

Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice
and untie the cords of the yoke, 

to set the oppressed free and break every yoke?
Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—

when you see the naked, to clothe them,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?
Then your light will break forth like the dawn,
 and your healing will quickly appear. (Isaiah 58:6- 8)

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. (Isaiah 61:1) 

Our challenge, always, is to apply those words wisely. 

How do we live as good news to the poor? How do we offer freedom to the oppressed? 

How will we loose chains of injustice? 

How will we share our food with the hungry? 

 I wish you light and joy in the year ahead. And for all of us, I pray we will live as light, walk in light, find our hope and rest in the Light Isaiah so fervently proclaimed.