Montclair Presbyterian Church

Friends,
As Christmas draws nigh, I thought I’d use my Contact space to share one of my favorite Christmas songs with you. The song is called “Cry of a Tiny Babe” and it was written by the Canadian singer-songwriter Bruce Cockburn (who you may remember from earlier in Advent when I shared his song “Last Night of the World” with you). The lyrics for the song are copied below, and if you want to listen to the song online you can surf over to YouTube.

Anyway, don’t forget that Christmas Eve service will be at 5:30 and 9pm; the earlier service is intentionally child-friendly and the later one is more traditional (though, of course, everyone is welcome at both services).

Merry Christmas!
Ben

“Cry of a Tiny Babe”
By Bruce Cockburn.

Mary grows a child without the help of a man
Joseph get upset because he doesn’t understand
Angel comes to Joseph in a powerful dream
Says “God did this and you’re part of his scheme”
Joseph comes to Mary with his hat in his hand
Says “forgive me I thought you’d been with some other man”
She says “what if I had been – but I wasn’t anyway and guess what
I felt the baby kick today”

Refrain:
Like a stone on the surface of a still river
Driving the ripples on forever
Redemption rips through the surface of time
In the cry of a tiny babe

The child is born in the fullness of time
Three wise astrologers take note of the signs
Come to pay their respects to the fragile little king
Get pretty close to wrecking everything
‘Cause the governing body of the whole [Holy] land
Is that of Herod, a paranoid man
Who when he hears there’s a baby born King of the Jews
Sends death squads to kill all male children under two
But that same bright angel warns the parents in a dream
And they head out for the border and get away clean

(Refrain)

There are others who know about this miracle birth
The humblest of people catch a glimpse of their worth
For it isn’t to the palace that the Christ child comes
But to shepherds and street people, hookers and bums
And the message is clear if you’ve got [you have] ears to hear
That forgiveness is given for your guilt and your fear
It’s a Christmas gift [that] you don’t have to buy
There’s a future shining in a baby’s eyes

On Tuesday, a tweet washed up over the digital transom of the slow and somewhat unevenly-keeled rowboat that is my presence on social media–a platform where (it seems to me) everyone else is tooling around on the electronic equivalent of speedboats while I pull on oars that would be happier in an era of print media.

But at any rate, here’s what the tweet said:

@revbennyd: How to free #Islam from #extremism?

Attached to the tweet was a link to a series of articles that gave a few suggestions for how to free Islam from Extremism, most of which seemed sort of unrealistic. It is, however, a fair question and I tweeted back a few of my ideas, but the problem with Twitter is that it’s hard to have a coherent conversation at 140 keystrokes a pop. How convenient, then, that I was trying to figure out what to write for Contact when the question popped up on my iPad’s screen. So here–in more than 140 keystrokes–is how I’d like to answer the question of how Islam can be freed from extremism:

Islam doesn’t need to be freed from extremism; non-Muslims in the West need to be freed from our fear of Islam.

The numbers on this are clear. If we assume that the only extremists of immediate concern are actively violent extremists, then we’re really only talking about fewer than one hundredth of one percent of Muslims worldwide. Now, violent Muslims have the capacity to wreak great havoc, and so we probably should be worried about them, but just because they are dangerous doesn’t mean they define the rest of Islam or that Islam needs to be rid of them. Their tiny numbers relative to the rest of Islam suggest that they are such an anomaly that Islam is already rid of them.

If non-Muslims are going to be freed from our fear of Islam, then we need to listen more to the voices of non-violent, non-extremist Muslims, which is to say that we need to start listening to a subset of Muslims that is so large it is pretty much the entire population of Islam.

If non-Muslims are going to be freed from our fear of Muslims, we also need to demand a measure of accountability from our media and from Media-savvy politicians who distort Islam and misconstrue Muslims, with the willing compliance of the American public. We, who are the public, need to care and need to demand peaceable accuracy rather than fearful deception from the heads that talk at us from the glowing screens that capture our attention and speak to our souls.

Now you may be asking what any of this has to do with Advent or Christmas (’tis the season, after all), and while this really is more of a year-round, all-weather kind of message, still this is the time of year when we wait hopefully for a light that shines in the darkness, a light which no darkness can overcome. This is the light of Christ, which illuminates many things, including (we may hope), our prejudices and fears.

My the light of the Christ Child come to us and so fill our lives with hope that we will have courage to be freed from our fears and live in peace with all God’s children, including those who pray with their eyes and ears inclined toward Mecca.

Peace,
Ben

Friends,
As I was fighting writer’s block, looking for inspiration for this week’s contact piece, I came across the news that a certain prominent American politician had called for laws banning all Muslims from immigrating to the United States.

Now, because this is a church publication I am not allowed to name said politician, lest by my criticism of him, we lose our tax-exempt status, so I’ll just say this is a politician whose likes to employ superlative adjectives, a man who claims expertise in building beautiful walls, and whose name—though I cannot say or write it—rhymes with “dump.” This Mr. Dump has claimed on a couple of occasions that he is a Presbyterian, and while I am not in any position to judge the man’s fidelity to Presbyterian doctrine, I will point out the following:

1. Immigrant bullying is not something you’d expect out of a good Presbyterian, especially in a season dedicated to the anticipation of the birth of a Child who, early in life, was a refugee;
2. A Presbyterian familiar with the denomination will know that Presbyterians—from Donadina Cameron a century ago to Primera Iglesia Hispana in Oakland today—long have supported immigrants, especially immigrant refugees; and
3. If Mr. Dump really wants to know what Presbyterians think of welcoming Muslim refugees, I suggest he take a look at the following photo, which I found on the Presbyterian Church (USA)’s official Twitter feed.

This photo was taken in response to the Governor of Maryland’s decision to add his name to the list of Governors seeking a ban on Syrian refugees, and I believe it reflects a true Presbyterian spirit, especially in the season of Advent, when the Christ comes first (at least in Matthew’s telling of the story) to foreigners.

If you run into Mr. Dump, please teach him what it means to be a good Presbyterian.

Meanwhile, I pray you may have a blessed Advent.
Salaam, Ben

Now it’s my turn to say something about the “War on Christmas,” and by this I’m not referencing the use of spiritually-neutral seasonal greetings such as “Happy Holidays” (I’m content anytime anyone says anything nice to me), and this isn’t a rant against the commercialization of the season (now that Thanksgiving has come and gone I’m thrilled to see shops and streets decked with boughs of holly; besides I love getting and giving gifts as much as the next guy). Nor is this a complaint about all the ways Santa has replaced Jesus (every society needs its mythical beings, its saints and avatars and, for better or for worse, we’re stuck with Santa; besides I’m kind of glad our society has trivialized Saint Nicholas and spared Jesus); and with one exception I’m not going to protest secular popular songs, but that one musical exception will be the focus of my rhetorical wrath for the next few paragraphs.

I am pained every time I hear the commonly-used lyric modification of the holiday classic, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” When the song first appeared in the 1944 movie “Meet Me In Saint Louis,” it was a song of hope sung in a moment of sadness. A family was leaving their community and circle of friends St. Louis to move to New York, and the sadness of that parting resonated with the millions of Americans who had experienced separations–both temporary and permanent–that had been caused by World War II.

But after World War II, the lyrics seemed too dark. Frank Sinatra insisted on a new set of verses for his 1957 album “A Jolly Christmas” and so the song that once longed for a better tomorrow, became a celebration of a happy now.

For example, in the movie, Judy Garland sings:
Someday soon we all will be together if the fates allow
Until then we’ll just have to muddle through somehow

And then Frank Sinatra insisted on:
From now on we all will be together if the fates allow
Hang a shining star upon the highest bough

And Sinatra’s version has dominated recordings of the song ever since, which is a shame. The joy of Christmas is a great gift of grace, and part of what makes the happiness of this season so wonderful is that it is complex. It doesn’t just celebrate today (after all today isn’t always so great), it hopes for a better tomorrow. Light shines in the darkness of the night, but we cannot appreciate the light if we do not also become acquainted with the night.

The change of lyrics in “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” is typical of an American tendency to pretend everything is good and everyone is happy. This reflects a heartfelt and even healthy longing for things to be good, but that desire cannot ignore the reality that for many people and in many places, life is hard and sad. Light and comfort and hope are needed.

It is essential that churches be communities where people don’t have to pretend they are happy or that everything is going swimmingly. Advent is a season when we prepare for Christmas and anticipate the joy of Jesus’ arrival, but we do so as people waiting in darkness, acquainted with all of the ways we need to find healing, and all of the obstacles we yet shall overcome.

So dearly beloved, muddle through Advent and then have yourself a merry little Christmas. And here’s a link to the scene where Judy Garland sings the original version in Meet Me In St. Louis.

Peace,
Ben

This coming Sunday marks the beginning of Advent, the season when we prepare our hearts and souls for the celebration of Jesus’ birth. This will be my 22nd Advent as a pastor and in all of those years, I doubt a December has ever come and gone without someone asking why we, in the Church, cannot get along with the early celebration of Christmas. Everywhere else you look, the Christmas season is well underway, the halls are decked, the bells are ringing, the mistletoe is hanging and chestnuts are roasting over open fires. So why aren’t we signing Christmas carols in church? Why are we bedecked in purple when the rest of the world is festooned in colors as white as Frosty’s cheeks and as red as Rudolph’s nose?

There are at least two reasons we observe Advent. First, we want church to be a place of refuge from the pressures and expectations of the secular celebration. For many people, the cultural celebrations of Christmas—already well underway—are a source of comfort and joy, but for a lot of folks, this is a challenging and difficult time of year, fraught with emotional burdens that must be carried though a dark night of the soul over rough spiritual ground.

An observation of Advent acknowledges that a significant portion of our population walk in darkness this time of year, and while the Advent promise is that “the people walking in darkness have seen a great light” it is important to remember the darkness and to create safe spiritual spaces for those waiting to know the warmth of light.

Second, the observation of Advent is an exercise in delayed gratification that ends up being an act of resistance against the market forces that forever are trying to commodify the joy of Christmas. Advent is not for sale. It’s hard to put a price on the practice of spiritual patience. This makes Advent something everyone can afford. The angels of Advent turn no one away.

So I bid you a happy Advent, and I look forward to anticipating the joy of Christmas in your company.

Peace,
Ben

Ben will return next week.

Friends,

I hope you will forgive me if, in my Contact space this week, I take another celebratory rhetorical victory lap in response to the music we had in celebration last Sunday. It was amazing. We are blessed.

After church on Sunday, I got to thinking about the connection between social justice and the use of beautiful music in worship, and it seems to me that there are at least two important reasons for progressive, social justice oriented, faith communities like ours to make beautiful music in celebration.

The use of wonderful music in church democratizes that music. It is a fact that tickets for most quality musical performances are priced beyond the means of many people who live in Oakland, especially for elderly folks on fixed incomes and for families with children who survive on low-to-moderate paychecks. By performing Bach for free in the welcoming space of worship, we made beauty available across socioeconomic strata. And that, to me, is really important, and it leads to the second reason music in worship is an important implement in the tool chest of social justice.

When we are exposed to beauty, we grow impatient with all in the world that is ugly. If, for example we hear the deep, rich tones of a 350-year old double bass, or the soaring blend of a well-rehearsed chorus (as we did on Sunday) then, perhaps, we will be increasingly dissatisfied with the ugliness of racism or economic inequality or the violence of war.

I am pleased to be part of the MPC family, a community of faith so dedicated to the practice of beauty. May that beauty lead us into a world of goodness, peace, and joy.

May God’s beauty and peace be forever yours,

Ben

It’s been a long drought, but deep in the repository of my memories there is archived a recollection that during wet years, which is to say those years when the rainfall was normal or better than average, the winter’s first precipitation comes on Halloween or thereabout. This may be more of a superstition than a precise record of actual fact — like predicting a winter’s rainfall by observing the acorn harvest instead of using scientific instruments to track El Niño — but still, I’m of the opinion that rain on Halloween is an auspicious and happy occurrence.

This year, we didn’t have rain on Halloween, but a nice dousing spanned the hours that connect All Saints Day to All Souls, and that’s close enough to keep me hoping and praying for the kind of winter that will saturate our aquifers, fill our reservoirs, and blanket the Sierra with a counterpane of snow.

As a way of expressing my prayerful anticipation of a winter that is properly and soulfully damp, keeping us indoors and in pursuit of the loveliness particular to long nights and cold days, I’d like to share a poem written by the great Polish poet Adam Zagajewski and translated by Clare Cavanagh:

“A Flame”

God, give us a long winter
and quiet music, and patient mouths,
and a little pride – before
our age ends.
Give us astonishment
and a flame, high, bright.

Peace,
Ben

Last week I spent the better part of four days in Knoxville, Tennessee, at a national gathering of Presbyterians on the campus of the University of Tennessee. We held meetings in university classrooms, we ate in one of the university’s dining halls and we worshiped in the shadow of Neyland Stadium, home of the UT Volunteers football team, a structure impressive for its size (it’s the fourth largest stadium in the United States) if not, perhaps, for its architectural beauty.

As large institutions of higher learning go, the University of Tennessee is lovely enough, but I confess I got a little bit bored with the college and especially with its food, so I asked one of the University’s maintenance workers for suggestions about good places to eat in Knoxville, and armed with this local knowledge, I set out on foot along the banks of the Tennessee river to Market Square and Gay St. in Downtown Knoxville.

Here’s what I found: downtown Knoxville is vibrant. Gay street, the main thoroughfare in the entertainment district (almost certainly named without irony in a pre-stonewall era by rather straight-laced denizens of a Dixie defined by riverboats and hoop-skirts) boasts a lovely collection of restaurants, pubs, music venues and theaters; one block south there is market square, a car-less open space surrounded on four sides by retail and places for food and/or libation. I walked down to Knoxville’s Market Square twice, and both times a troupe of actors was performing Shakespeare to a multigenerational crowd of at least 250 folks sitting on lawn chairs. Competing for attention on the square were crazy evangelists and buskers playing bluegrass and blues; one guy was playing “I left my heart in San Francisco” on a sawblade. As far as I could tell, every shop had customers, every bar was crowded, and every restaurant had a line of people waiting for tables.

And here’s why I think Knoxville’s entertainment district is vibrant: it uses concepts of urban design that have made cities vibrant for thousands of years: streets with business that open to pedestrian traffic and open spaces where people can gather, do business and entertain one another in the heart of a city. At some point Californian city planners decided to organize cities and town around automobiles instead of people. As a result we ended up with strip malls and cities like Sunnyvale and Cupertino, which have excellent schools but about which no one (and you can quote me on this) ever will write great poetry.

I cannot help but think there is some religious analogy to the urban planning that brings us downtown Knoxville (on the one hand) and the Californian suburb (on the other). We live in an era during which there is a rush to do away with ancient religious forms. Many Evangelical Christians are doing away with ancient liturgies that have sustained the Church for centuries; Progressive Christians tend to do something similar with theological propositions, and certainly a measure of ecclesiastical house-cleaning is in order (and sometimes the need is urgent), but it’s also worth asking what ideas and forms and practices should be preserved among us so that our congregations remain vibrant and welcoming and full of life not the church version of a car-centric suburb.

I hope you’ll join me in thinking about these things.

Ben

I’ve spent most of the last three weeks on vacation, eight days of which I was in Hawaii. My family stayed on Maui, just north of Lahaina where life centers around and caters to the needs of tourists, but one day I slipped out of vacation mode, and took a day of study leave. I caught an early-morning ferry to the Island of Molokai, where I rented a rusty Schwinn and rode across the Island, from south to north, to where I could walk out onto the edge of a thousand-foot sea cliff and look down on the Kalaupapa peninsula where, in the nineteenth century, the Kingdom of Hawaii established a colony within which to quarantine those stricken with Hanson’s disease, a condition more commonly known as leprosy.

The leper colony on Molokai is important historically because while the original settlement was established in 1865 without much in the way of proper medical care or administrative organization, in 1873, a young Flemish Roman Catholic priest named Damien arrived on the peninsula to work among the patients. Damien organized the colony, built suitable houses and a church, and acted as a nurse for those suffering from the disease. His ministry on the Kalaupapa peninsula cost Damien his life. The priest contracted Leprosy and died at the age of 49.

After Damien’s death, a Presbyterian missionary by the name of Charles McEwan Hyde, who was stationed in Honolulu, wrote a letter to a friend in which he criticized Damien, suggesting that the priest caught the disease through carelessness, unhygienic practices, and sexual impropriety with the patients under his care. In response, another Presbyterian, Robert Louis Stevenson, then living in Hawaii, penned a defense of Damien that is masterful in its rhetoric, terrifying in its ferocity, beautiful in its use of language and profound in its spiritual insight. I went to Molokai because I wanted to read Stevenson’s defense of Damien while sitting in the church Damien built on the Kapaupapa peninsula.

I didn’t make it. As much as life on Maui tends to cater to the whims of visitors to the Island, on Molokai, things are quite a bit less tourist-oriented. My original plan was to rent a motor scooter and ride to a trailhead where I could hike down into the colony, but the last motor scooter rental place on Molokai went out of business five years ago. Then I decided to rent a car, but I couldn’t find an available rental car on the island, and besides, I discovered that in order to go down to the Kapaupapa peninsula a visitor must ride a mule, and the mule train that day left an hour before my ferry arrived from Maui. So I had to rent a bike and settle for reading Stevenson’s essay while perched up on the cliff, which was just fine.

I rode up the Mauna Loa highway west out of Kaunakakai, Molokai’s largest town (which isn’t saying much), and then turned right and headed north past the mountain village of Kualapuu, where I stopped to drink a cup of coffee on the coffee shop’s lanai (what, in California we call a veranda), while a group of men played guitars and ukuleles, switching back and forth between traditional Hawaiian songs and the delta blues. I got back on my bike and continued uphill, past a place where cars are so rare that grass grows in the road’s pavement, to the lookout point where I sat and read Robert Louis Stevenson’s defense of the man the world eventually would know as Saint Damien of Molokai.

I believe every Presbyterian should read Stevenson’s defense of St. Damien, because in the essay, Stevenson presents and contrasts two ways to be a Presbyterian. One is insular, self-satisfied, and prudish while the other is open-minded, worldly, and humble. Stevenson’s pen makes the latter form of Presbyterianism seem appealing, and he does so with both righteousness and grace.

As I made my way down from the overlook to return my bike and catch the ferry home, I stopped to buy presents for my family at what appeared to be Molokai’s only touristy gift shop, where besides pooka shells and coral earrings they also sold used books. In a discount bin in front of the store I found a 2006 edition of the PCUSA Book of Order. Turns out it’s hard to escape Presbyterianism. This, in my estimation, is a good reason to try to be the right kind of Presbyterian, and because I want to be the right kind of Presbyterian I am grateful for guides like Robert, who, though a Catholic, still had a lot to teach Presbyterians, which is why I went to Molokai in the first place.
Ben

P.S. If you are interested in reading Stevenson’s essay on Father Damien, it can be found here.