“Laughing With” by Regina Spektor

I am currently sitting at Macon University helping lead a youth service trip. In continuing the weekly routine started last week—that each Monday post will be an article, poem, song, story, etc that stimulates conversation—the post today is a song titled “Laughing With.” It is the opening single from Regina Spektor’s fifth album Far released on May 18. I would love to hear any thoughts or impressions. Enjoy.

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one’s laughing at God
When they’re starving or freezing or so very poor

No one laughs at God when the doctor calls
After some routine tests
No one’s laughing at God when it’s gotten real late
And their kid’s not back from that party yet

No one laughs at God when their airplane
Starts to uncontrollably shake
No one’s laughing at God
When they see the one they love hand in hand
with someone else and they hope that they’re mistaken
No one laughs at God when the cops knock on their door
And they say “We’ve got some bad new, sir,”
No one’s laughing at God
When there’s a famine, fire or flood

But God can be funny
At a cocktail party while listening to a good God-themed joke or
When the crazies say he hates us
and they get so red in the head
You think that they’re about to choke
God can be funny
When told he’ll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie
Who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus

God can be so hilarious
Ha ha, ha ha

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one’s laughing at God
when they’ve lost all they got
And they don’t know what for

No one laughs at God on the day they realize
that the last sight they’ll ever see is a pair of hateful eyes
No one’s laughing at God
When they’re saying their goodbyes

But God can be funny
At a cocktail party while listening to a good God-themed joke or
When the crazies say he hates us
and they get so red in the head
You think that they’re about to choke
God can be funny
When told he’ll give you money if you just pray the right way
And when presented like a genie
Who does magic like Houdini
Or grants wishes like Jiminy Cricket and Santa Claus

No one laughs at God in a hospital
No one laughs at God in a war
No one’s laughing at God in a hospital
No one’s laughing at God in a war

A Challenging Letter

I struggle with an idea I learned at church—actually I struggle with a number of church-ideas, but one in particular gives me unending trouble: the integration of love and justice. In religious circles, the notion of divine love almost always denotes unconditional love. Justice means that people are held responsible for their choices and serve consequences appropriately. So how exactly does one balance between absolute love and absolute justice? Is it possible to truly fuse the two into one? How can a God be all-loving (unconditionally) and all-just simultaneously? It seems like most Christians (whether we admit it or not) tend to emphasize one over the other in how they view God and/or in their approach to everyday circumstances. Or at least we will use justice in some cases, while embracing love in another cases, still keeping them separate.

In light of this personal conversation, I received a letter the other day from an unusual character. In this letter, all of the names and locations have been changed, and any information that would break confidence has been left out.

To: The church family,

I hope and pray that this letter finds you all in the best of spirit and health, as for me I am dong and feeling great. My name is Jay and I am an inmate at a regional prison for charges of murder in the first degree. I am a born again Christian and am presently looking for a outside Christian family who can help me further my Christian understanding and identity. I am from this area, born and raised, although I am no longer a member of any church. I no longer write family members because I guess they disowned me. I used to write all the time, but I stopped because they did not write in return and I just could not afford to keep writing. That is one of the reasons I write this letter.

I show Christ’s love for mankind, and I myself as a Christian only walk out on faith with my dealings with fellow inmates. I started to think that Christians on the outside world forget about Christians who are incarcerated or locked up. So I have prayed and asked God to bless me with a Christian family on the outside, and somehow someway I found your address. I decided to move out on faith being as though we are all apart of the body of Christ. No matter what I love Jesus, and this letter is not about how much money you can send me. It’s about whether you and the church are willing to accept a fellow Christian in your hearts as your own. Sometimes besides my Lord’s love, I don’t even remember how it feels to be loved or wanted.

Everyday inside is a battle for survival. I live and die for Christ alone. So no matter what I must endure for my Lord, I am willing. The beginning of 2012 is my first parole hearing—if it is the Lord’s will I will be released. By the end of next year I will be receiving a degree in theology and biblical studies. I will close for now, with all my love.

Love,

Jay

I find this letter intriguing for a number of reasons, but primarily because I am left to my own judgment to answer the questions that the letter failed to address. Hence, the possibilities are endless. Jay could be innocent or guilty, truthful or deceptive, genuine or phony, spirit-craving or money-craving, changed or unchanged, remorseful or indifferent, Christian or non-Christian, well-intentioned or ill-intentioned. I simply don’t know—I would like to give him the benefit of the doubt, but I still don’t know. It’s absolutely necessary to show compassion and generosity in following Christ, but it is not realistic or right to knowingly allow yourself to be taken advantage of—leading to wastefulness and a perpetuation of a harmful lifestyle—or to put yourself in a position of danger.

It’s a tough call.

I am not going to pretend to have the answer to my questions by any means, nor will I try to explain how love and justice are reconciled in the Divine Reality—such talk is futile. But I will offer a personal thought: that humility is essential. For instance, what happens if I read the letter above and come to the conclusion that Jay’s innocence or guilt simply doesn’t matter—assuming neither—and instead coming to the determination that the guilty and the innocent, you, me, and Jay all need progress? What would that mean? This humility requires that I say to myself: “At our inner cores, Jay and I need exactly the same thing—to find restoration, to find the ability to choose the good within our nature over the bad within our nature.” So often in dealing with people like Jay or a homeless person, for instance, we treat ourselves as the ones who have our lives together and everything figured out—we see ourselves as superior to them. Instead, if we believe that the need for personal progress is the common link binding all humanity, then we can begin melting together unconditional love and its components—grace, forgiveness, mercy—with absolute justice and all its components—responsibility, accountability, order.

All to say: perhaps instead of spending our time determining who gets what dose of love and what dose of justice, we can rather devote our lives toward the simple betterment of all persons, including Jay and including ourselves.

Too Tough for Me

Today was an unexpectedly busy day. As many of you know, there was a horrific Metro train accident a little after 5:00 yesterday during rush hour—nine were killed and dozens wounded. All morning I worked with the church staff preparing an afternoon prayer and meditation service in the Sanctuary, in which people could come and go as they please. The event was advertised online and outside the church, letting all know that the church would be open to everyone for several hours in the afternoon.

As I scratch these words on a legal pad, I am sitting in the Sanctuary—alone. Perhaps a couple people have stopped by, but most—I imagine—saw the signs, notices, and announcements and went on their way. People are busy and afternoons are inconvenient. We weren’t expecting much of a turn-out anyway.

But as I sit here listening to the organ’s echo I cannot help but ask myself a troubling question: Why exactly would people come to church today?

What does the church have to offer to people in shock, in fear, in grief, in despair?

If an institution is dedicated solely to the goal of making people feel happy and secure—in Christ, no less—throughout their normal routine, what happens when the bottom falls out and the shit hits the fan? What happens when said security crumbles? What happens when Jesus songs and sermons and devotions can’t stand the weight of grief and death? Because it doesn’t take much experience to recognize that the weight of losing a loved one hits you like a ton of bricks—regardless of your church attendance.

I ask because in many churches—not all churches—but in many, this is what I often hear:

“Jesus is here for you no matter what.”

“God is in control.”

“Don’t worry—she is in a better place.”

“You’ve always got a friend with Jesus.”

“It will all work out in the end.”

“This is all part of God’s plan for your life.”

It seems like sometimes we try so hard to make people comfortable and satisfied with nifty answers to unanswerable questions. And in this hollow quest for a better night’s sleep we often fail to acknowledge the obvious: bad things happen and no one—yes, no one—knows why. Not the Baptists. Not the Catholics. Not the Pentecostals. Not the Episcopalians. Not the Conservatives. Not the Liberals. Not the Christians. Not the Muslims. Not the Atheists. Not Jerry Falwell. Not Richard Dawkins. Not us. Ouch.

Maybe sometimes—like today—having an adequate explanation is secondary. I think sometimes—like today—it is impossible.

Perhaps, to answer the question—What does the church have to offer to grieving people?—we should be more concerned with empathy instead of answers, compassion instead of explanations, and undaunted love instead of unachievable security.

“Pro-choice Perspective”

Due to an increased workload at the office, I’ve decided that once a week I will share a brief article, story, or poem that might stimulate some conversation in regard to life and faith. These pieces won’t be selected because I necessarily agree with them or want to push their agendas—rather, my purpose is simply to provoke thought and dialogue.

This week I’ve submitted an article from the familiar publication The Christian Century written by its publisher and editor, Dr. John M. Buchanan, pastor at Fourth Presbyterian Church in Chicago—the article title is “A Pro-Choice Perspective” (http://www.christiancentury.org/article.lasso?id=7229).

__________________________

Pro-choice Perspective
by John M. Buchanan

The murder of abortion provider George Tiller prompts me to do something I do not like to do—venture into the issue of abortion. My hesitation is not because I do not have a position. I do. I believe that matters of reproductive rights and responsibilities are most appropriately left to the woman who is pregnant, her religious and moral conscience and her physician. I believe that the father of the child has a role in the conversation and that the state has a stake in the issue. I do not want abortion to be totally unregulated. But the primary place for difficult decisions in this area is with the woman, her God and her physician. I support Roe v. Wade and I contribute to Planned Parenthood, which provides desperately needed reproductive health services, including abortion, to women who otherwise would not receive them. I do not hide my convictions; nor do I parade them. People I know and respect do not share my convictions, and they oppose abortion with the same moral passion with which I defend freedom of choice.

I have had experiences, certainly not unique to me, that have been instructive. I have counseled couples for whom the wife’s pregnancy included a seriously impaired fetus with virtually no possibility of survival, let alone a meaningful life. I am the proud grandfather of a magnificent granddaughter with Down syndrome who blesses her parents and grandparents, her congregation and friends simply by being who she is. I have never had a conversation about abortion that was not exquisitely painful for the pregnant woman, nor one in which moral conscience was not very much at the heart.

When I heard the news of Tiller’s murder I made two telephone calls. The first was to my brother Bill, who is county manager in Sedgwick, Kansas, whose jail is holding Tiller’s accused killer. Bill’s pastor was organizing an interfaith service of reconciliation—for which she is being denounced by abortion opponents who regard Tiller’s murder as justifiable homicide. Bill said he thinks the extreme hate speech used regularly by some abortion opponents is an important part of a movement that sometimes expresses itself in violent acts.

My second call was to an old friend, a former president of the American College of Obstetrics and Gynecologists and a longtime advocate of reproductive choice. A friend of Tiller, he explained how Tiller was inspired by his own father, a physician who performed illegal abortions after having seen many patients who had been victims of botched abortions, some of them self-inflicted. The senior Tiller concluded that it was morally better to provide safe abortions than to do nothing and watch women die or undergo grave damge to their health.

I asked my physician friend about the procedure often called late-term abortion, meaning abortion after 20 weeks of gestation. He told me that there aren’t very many such abortions—about a thousand per year in the entire nation. He also told me that they are done because the mother’s health is truly at risk or the child to be born will be profoundly impaired and perhaps unable to live more than a few hours. And he added that Tiller never performed the procedure except for these reasons—certainly never for reasons of convenience.

Is it naive to hope for a civil conversation on the subject? Can we cease using language that allows for no diversity of opinion? Calling abortion “baby killing” and abortion providers “mass murderers” leaves no room for conversation.

There is nothing good about this appalling killing in Kansas. But could it possibly lead people of good will on both sides to show more civility and respect as we continue to talk about the issue?

A Peace of Dads

I believe this is the third or fourth year in a row that I have been away from home on Father’s Day—perhaps at my house the occasion could be renamed  #@$%! Son’s Day, or something to that effect. But in spite of the distance, on Father’s Day I always try to take a moment to reflect on a father’s relationship with his child, in general, and my relationship with my dad, in particular. The experiences that illustrate the personhood of my dad are endless and they range from light-hearted to heavy-hearted, funny to sad, easy to difficult. I suppose that the depth and complexity of a father-child bond is unique for every one of us and no single story could do justice to the true meaning of fatherhood.

But nonetheless, in my reflection today I have come up with single childhood experience that exemplifies what fatherhood means to me as a son:

A whole ten years ago I was about to enter the fifth grade and for this period of time—altogether spanning about one year—I had terrible problems sleeping at night. There was no sickness, no nightmares, no pain—I just could never fall asleep at night. And I would lie in my bed, hour after hour, glancing at the clock every fifteen minutes and with every glance become more anxious that I was losing sleep. Looking back, I know I felt pressure to do well in sports and especially in school—so maybe it was nervousness surrounding tests and tryouts.

I just know that once 1:00 a.m. rolled around my frustration would mount and I would begin to cry. I would walk downstairs with a sleeping bag and sometimes try to sleep on the couch or the floor, only to be bothered by the ticking of the clock or the streetlights shining through the windows. Other times I would try reading or drinking water or milk. Even in spite of these desperate attempts at sleep 3:00 a.m. would inevitably come along and a deeper anxiety would build up—“I’m not going to get one minute of sleep tonight!” “I have a test at school tomorrow!” “I’m not going to be able to stay awake in class!”

It seemed that nothing could bring me peace.

About that time I would hear footsteps and a quiet voice: “Hey, buddy, how are you doin’?”

“Not so good,” I would say.

“Let’s go back upstairs, okay?”

“Alright.”

We would go back into my room and he would stretch out on my bed—no doubt exhausted, himself—and I would wipe away my tears and lie down next to him.

“Do you have a test tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“You know something about those things? I’m guessing that in a hundred years no one will know what grade you get on that test tomorrow.”

[pause]

“Yeah, I guess so.”

It usually didn’t take more than that. I could hear his breathing and was comforted by only his presence—and lo and behold, in a few seconds be sound asleep.

And perhaps that is a God-given responsibility of all fathers: to bring peace in times of fear.

Happy Father’s Day

The Wake-Up Call

The following is a brother-to-brother experience from my not-so-distant past that has been kept from my parents for good reason. I figure if I tell the story on a website while sitting in a church 1,000 miles away from Missouri and 6 blocks away from presidential Secret Service I will most likely be safe.

Back in my earlier high school days my siblings and I attended a small private school that only held school on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, while loads of independent study work was assigned for Tuesdays and Thursdays at home. On one Tuesday morning my mother and sister had left the house, leaving me and my brother, Jake, home alone with the task of waking up promptly at 8:00 a.m. to get dressed, eat breakfast, and start working on school assignments.

About 9:30 a.m. I rolled out of bed, rubbed my eyes, and walked into my brother’s room where he was still sleeping and snoring, of course. Being the responsible big brother I am, I started yelling at him to get out of bed. Being the younger brother he is, he didn’t listen and groggily told me to go away.

I suppose that I was in a funny mood that morning. I walked back into my room, opened the bottom drawer of my desk, and pulled out a box of water dynamite with a lighter from the secret stash of fireworks. With both items in hand I returned to my brother’s doorway and (with a smile) showed my brother a piece of water dynamite (roughly the size of a single firecracker) and the lighter.

“Jakee, Jakee, you better get out of bed.” [said softly while still smiling]

“Ger owf heer, Aam!” [retorted lazily into his covers after eyeing the firework]

For some stupid reason, as Jake was watching me, I lit the piece of water dynamite. And threw it onto his bed.

“SAAAM!” [To this day, no person has ever witnessed Jake move so fast]

We both stood in the doorway covering our ears when the firecracker exploded with a loud gunshot-like bang. A smoky haze filled the room. We both stood there silent for about 15 seconds watching the bed. Then we burst into laughter.

It’s amazing what will bring two quarreling brothers together. All it takes is a simple wake-up call.

A different type of wake up call ensues each time I leave my hometown for an extended period of time: I often take my brother and sister for granted. It’s so easy to get frustrated with the day to day friction of living together—of his snoring, her music, and my insistence on silence—that I fail to kick back, appreciate our memories, embrace our friendship, and laugh a little. Unfortunately, such a wake-up call only rings when I’m spending weeks away at college or in Washington.

The truth is, now that I am away, when I think of my siblings I can only smile and laugh to myself—which is ironic, I know. I just can’t help but think about the spontaneity and craziness that those two untamed adolescents bring into my life.

And so my suggestion for all young brothers and sisters everywhere: wake up and embrace your friendship with your sibling(s) before life’s Journey creates distance between you. And also, don’t use fireworks in the house. Sorry, Mom.