Category: The Comma

Last week it would have been different.  Last week I would have said that I believed that this was a great opportunity for us to do it differently.  This week, I know, it’s true.  Doing differently works.

Last week the challenge was clear.  Here’s the backstory:

My clergy colleague Catherine was leaving for a few weeks of well planned for vacation and to lead a church trip to Iona.

My clergy colleague Amy was beginning family leave as she welcomes a new foster daughter into her family.

My colleague Rebecca was finishing her position here as our beloved Children’s Ministry Coordinator for the past seven years.  Our interim coordinator, Leslie would begin next week.

Oh yes, and next week was September, the beginning of a season of newness here at church.

Sometimes when things change and when challenges are clear it can feel like a perfect storm and a time to buckle the hatches and head for shore.  Sometimes, yes, there is a time for just that.

But sometimes, such a time is instead a time to imagine doing things differently.

Sometimes it’s clear that we will fail if with try to keep doing things the way we have always done them.  We know clearly what will happen then: stress and burnout, overload and anxiety.

So what if we did it differently?

How might it be if we embraced this time – a time in all of our lives full of challenge and change in so many ways – and saw this time as gift and opportunity for us to think about doing things differently?

Like so many churches our own congregation is living into a new church structure. Like many church’s we have found that some of the familiar ways of being church with a dozen 12 member boards that meet monthly just doesn’t meet the realities of our lives today and doesn’t help us move forward the ministries we are called to today.

We’ve needed to figure out new ways to try on doing ministry together. We’ve had to embrace that some ways we try will fail.  We’ve had to embrace the truth that failing is a gift and one of the best ways to learn what can work.   We’ve had to embrace the gift of experimenting.

This fall, I look forward to exploring in my own life and in our life together as church new ways we might carry out our responsibilities for and with each other.  I am excited about what we might learn.

I’ve learned already…

When we are clear about our purpose, our imaginations can soar about how we might carry that out.

When we recognize that we really can’t do it all alone, we can risk letting go of control and asking others to join us knowing they will bring in new ideas and new ways of doing things.

When we recognize that the skills of thinking differently are something we all can cultivate, we can become creative people ourselves and not leave the creative thinking to others.

As Adam Grant writes in his book Originals:  How Non-Conformists Move the World, all of us can learn to spot opportunities for change, recognize a good idea, overcome anxiety and ambivalence and make suggestions that can be heard and embraced for doing it differently.   He’s given me such courage and encouragement to think and do differently.

So, it’s September.  And what a great time to begin.  To think different, be different, imagine different about the ways we have always done things.   To live our faith and be part of the ongoing newness and creativity that is God and that God is bringing to life with us in the world.

So what about it?  I’d love to hear your stories of how this month you tried on doing something familiar in a new way.  What worked?  What didn’t?  What wondrous failures did you have?  What did you learn along the way?  Send me your stories and I’ll collect them and share a blog post on what we learned!

Blessed September experimenting!

Our Church Council voted in August to support a multi-year effort to understand race, racism and white privilege in our congregation and broader community through sacred study, conversation, community building and worship.  It’s an effort that reminds me of our church’s effort 25 years ago to understand sexual orientation and become an open and affirming congregation.  That work changed our congregation and it changed lives including my own. 

Although looking honestly with care at my own prejudices, assumptions and fears is challenging and at times overwhelming, I am also grateful to be invited into work with others that helps me look more deeply at myself so that I can be more fully present with  others.  Together, I hope and pray that in these conversations to come we all may open our hearts, risk sharing our stories and show a way of life where none of us need be afraid. 

 

On the Night that Philandro Was Killed

On the night that Philandro was killed

and the night after Alton was killed

in a terrible, terrible week of so many such weeks and months and years,

 

On the night that Philandro was killed

after being pulled over by the police when his tail light was out,

she tells me about the time two weeks ago when she was pulled over.

 

She tells me she didn’t know why, what she had done wrong.

Tells me it is scary to be a black woman alone in a car with two white officers approaching.

Tells me she texted her friend and told her where she was and what was going on so someone could tell her mom in case something happened.

She tells me she was shaking.

 

She tells me as they approached the car one of the officers had his hand by his gun.

Tells me the officers asked for her registration and she said it is in my glove compartment and I need to reach across to the glove compartment and take it out is that alright, can I do that?

Tells me that the officers asked for her driver’s license and she said it is in the backpack in the back seat and I need to reach for it.  She asked if that would be alright to do that, to reach for her bag.

She tells me she kept one hand on the wheel so that they could see her hands at all times.

 

She tells me she moved slowly, very slowly.

Tells me she tried to keep breathing.

Tells me she was so afraid.

She tells me she shakes still remembering that day.

She tells me about being afraid of things I have never been afraid of, worries about things I never worry about, thinks about things I have never thought about.

Tells me she crosses the sidewalk when people that look like me come walking down the street, afraid of what they might do to her.

Tells me her mom calls and texts and calls her again if she is not home when she was supposed to get home.

She tells me that her mom asks if she is safe and tells her to be careful – to be careful of people that look like me.

 

She tells me she is afraid.

Tells me she is afraid to go out at night.

Tells me she is afraid that her outspoken ways may get her in trouble.

She tells me she has learned to keep herself in check – her Spirt, her forthrightness, her anger, her truth, her Spirit.

I have known her since she was a little girl.

Loved her spunk and drive, her forthrightness and Spirit.

Feel sad and angry thinking of her alone and afraid, tired and worn out, locked in her home because she is afraid to go out – afraid of people that look like me.

 

I try to understand.  I tell her that I want to.

I throw her words like Courage and Hope, Love and Understanding but they all fall flat,

fall down like birds that cannot fly, cannot catch wind and help her to soar beyond this fear, this despair, this weariness and aloneness.

 

I don’t know what to do.

I ask her what I can do.

I tell her I will check in with her again soon.

 

Today, this new morning, I remember our call.

I wonder how my life in ways I have not reflected on and have not wanted to see are keeping her down.

I wonder if I cannot give Hope until my life shows Hope,

Cannot speak of change until my life shows change,

Cannot run to console until I seek to understand.

Cannot praise a future opening into joy, into light and delight, into freedom and blessing and gift until I do the work that ensures she can be safe and walk again, unafraid.

Cannot find a way until I pick up the phone, check in, begin the conversation again.

 

 

10 Minutes

At the top of the hill by the traffic signal she waves me down,

A little woman with a large plastic box waving her arms,

Help.  Help me.  I need you help me. 10 minutes, 10 minutes.

I look over at her, the expectant, hopeful look in her eyes.

I look at the plastic box there by her feet, a jumble of cloth and small pieces of wood, a red ceramic bowl and shiny porcelain figurines.

The light changes to green, the traffic begins to roll forward.

She looks at my bike rack, sees my hesitation as an invitation.

She’ll make do with what she’s got.  Today, a confused man with a bike rack, he’ll do.

She starts to lift up her box.

Here, I’ll help you, I say, and help her place the box gently on the rack.

10 minutes, 10 minutes, she says, waving her hands down the long street of trees ahead.

The light changes.  We walk across the intersection, she walking behind,

Balancing the box with her small hands, black hair bobbing up and down.

I’m Peter, I say.

Mai, she says.

I wonder how she got to this corner with this big plastic box.

I wonder where’s she’s been.

I wonder who she is.

So many questions, so many different worlds.

And now, this:  a man, a bike and a black haired woman with a plastic box.

Down the street she waves me

Down past the burnt black remains of what was once a house.

Down past the fancy pink house with a red car trunk open in the drive and a woman taking out her grocery bags.

Down the street she clammers on, 10 minutes.  10 minutes. 

Down and around the corner where a small black haired woman steps out of a house,

Sees us coming and throws her hands in the air.

The women cry out in exclamation and delight.

Everywhere, everywhere, there is laughter.

 

Peter Ilgenfritz

I Met Muhammad Ali

I met Muhammad Ali.

Or rather, I had breakfast with him.

Or actually, he was in the same restaurant

where we were having breakfast

that muggy summer morning in 1991

at the Holiday Inn in Chicago next to the Lake,

the great Black man with the twinkling eyes.

 

I remember my Dad said,

I think that it’s him.

 

Sure looks like it him, 

Could possibly be him, I said.

 

I remember watching him.

I remember how long it took for him to take a spoonful of cereal and bring it up to his mouth.

How a little blond boy came up to his side and asked him for his autograph.

How long it took him to take out his pen and write out his name.

I remember feeling sad for him and sad for me,

of what had become of Muhammad Ali.

I remember when I was 9.

When he came back to the ring.

How he’d had it all and lost it all – the title, the trophies, the power,

the respect so many years ago.

I remember wondering how you keep on going after so much losing.

I remember how he gave it all up for things people I knew didn’t like and didn’t understand –

A Conscientious Objector and a Muslim.

A Man who spoke his mind.

A Black Man who didn’t care about making anybody comfortable.

I remember knowing that we came from different worlds.

I remember recognizing that people that looked like him, behaved like him, could not live in my world.

I remember watching him with my Dad.

Cheering him on.

Wanting him to win.

Hoping that after losing the best years of his fight and his life in the game

that he could get at,

get back at,

that he could be the Champion again.

I remember when I was 13.

When he took on Frazier again.

The Thrilla in Manila that was no thrilla.

I remember it went on and on.  Hours it seemed.

It hurt to watch.

I kept on watching.

I just wanted it to be over.

Watching him get pummeled.

I remember how tired he looked.

I remember watching it on the couch with my Dad.

I remember, the 13th round, Frazier’s coach leaning in close, keeping him down,

telling him to wait for the bell and not get up.

I remember hoping with my Dad.

I remember longing with my Dad that at last it could be over.

I remember yelling at the television, yelling at Frazier, please, please don’t get up.

I remember my Mom coming in to see what all the fuss was about.

I remember telling her to wait, we couldn’t explain now.

I remember waiting a long time.

I remember how tense I felt.

I remember at last the bell rang.

I remember the two embraced, collapsed into each other, barely able to stand.

I remember thinking this is a terrible sport, an awful sport.

I remember Ali’s weariness, no sputter or fight but the weariness in him.

I remember thinking his time is running out.

I remember Dad said he can’t keep going on forever.

Can’t keep fighting,

Can’t keep at it,

Can’t keep rising more,

I remember this as well.

I had to stop watching him box.

I couldn’t stand the tension, couldn’t stand to see him lose.

I just wanted everyone to get out of the way and just let him be,

be the Champion forever,

that he deserved that.

 

I wanted him to quit, while he was on top.

I remember how he kept on going.

I remember wondering why.

I remember all this, I remember it all.

That’s why early this Sunday morning

I’m here at the Safeway

Standing in line to buy the Sunday Times.

$6, she says, Wow that’s a lot.

Can you imagine, the man behind me says, shaking his head,

Spending all that when money’s so tight.

 

I tell them about Muhammad Ali.

How I met him once.

What he taught me.

I tell them I saw in him what I wanted to be.

I tell them he showed me that there can be more to life than the ring and the fight,

that there are convictions and truth

and the giving it all up for something worth so much more.

 

I tell them he showed me there can be a time for the fight and a time to get back in the game.

A time to keep on going past what they said you could do or your body can bear.

 

I tell them he showed me that the greatest fights are those we never planned.

The daily fights of rising and striving, despite discrimination and disease,

despite disability and despair.

I tell them he showed me that life can take away your smile

but that we must never let it take away the twinkle in our eyes.

 

I tell them about watching him with my Dad.

 

I tell them I want to hold the paper that holds his name,

who helps me live into my own.

This amazing man who came out of the pit and back into the game.

This fighter in the ring and this war resister.

This uncontainable and outspoken man, this real and imperfect man.

This daring to be different and his own and no one else’s man.

I tell them when life hits me flat,

I get up,

I keep on,

I remember.

 

I remember Ali.

 

Peter Ilgenfritz

July 9, 2016

 

 

 

 

Instead of going to the gym or out for a run like I always do at noon on Mondays with my friend Larry who works at the Y, today I decide I will instead use this time to be efficient. I will use this time well to get some chores done and besides, I got my exercise in today, I biked into work this morning.  So I stand at my fancy new computer desk and open my email and am ready to start efficiently scanning, responding and deleting email messages from the past two day when I see an email about pictures that are being shared with me from a recent event.  I think that is a very nice thing that someone wants to do.  I wonder if someone took pictures of the worship service yesterday.  I am thinking about writing a blog about that service.  Perhaps, I could use some of the pictures in my blog.  I click on the blue Shutterfly link and suddenly my computer screen is flashing and my speakers are blaring:

“WARNING!  WARNING! YOUR COMUTER HAS BEEN HACKED BY SPYWARE AND NOW IS DOWNLOADING YOUR CREDIT CARD, FACEBOOK, PICTURES AND OTHER PERSONAL INFORMATION!  WARNING!  WARNING!  DO NOT TURN OFF YOUR COMPUTER!  CALL THE NUMBER ON THE SCREEN WITHIN 5 MINUTES OR WE WILL AUTOMATICALLY SHUT DOWN YOUR COMPUTER TO PREVENT FURTHER DAMAGE!  WARNING!  WARNING!  YOUR COMPUTER HAS BEEN HACKED!”

I know at this very moment that my credit card numbers are being downloaded by men in purple facemasks with gold trim who are running to the bank and emptying my accounts.  I know my car at this very moment is being broken into and my house ransacked.

“WARNING! WARNING!” my computer screams.

I think about my trip coming up in two days.  I think about having no credit cards or plane tickets. I wonder how I can take care of all this in the day before I leave.  I wonder what “personal information” means.  I wonder why someone would want to download my pictures.  I think about how I have no time to deal with all this.

“WARNING!  WARNING! YOUR COMPUTER HAS BEEN HACKED!  CALL THE NUMBER ON YOUR SCREEN IMMEDIATELY!”

The screen is flashing.  I can’t see any number to call.

“ARGH!  WHAT CAN I DO!”  I yell back at the computer.

“WARNING!  WARNING!” It shouts back.

“ARGH! I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS! WHAT DID I DO!”

My colleague Rebecca rushes to the door, “WHAT!  WHO! WHO DIED!”

“ARGH!,”  I cry! “I CAN’T BELIEVE THIS!”

“WHAT?  WHAT?  WHO DIED?” she asks again.

“OH, I’M SORRY, NO ONE DIED” I yell over the blaring speakers.

“WARNING!  WARNING!  YOUR COMPUTER HAS BEEN HACKED!” My computer yells back.

“MY COMPUTER HAS BEEN HACKED AND IS STEALING ALL OF MY CREDIT CARDS AND PICTURES AND PERSONAL INFORMATION!  I CAN’T GET IT TO STOP!” I shout over the speakers.

“I hate when that happens”, Rebecca says, “You should call David.”

I try calling the office.  One, two, three extensions.  No one is answering.

“WARNING!  WARNING! YOUR COMPUTER HAS BEEN HACKED!”

Perhaps our whole computer system is shutting down.  Perhaps men in purple facemasks with gold trim are rushing into the church office at this very moment.  Years ago I shut down our entire computer system by opening a little odd message that said “I LOVE YOU”.  I thought it was a bit odd, wondering who loved me.  I sent the “I love you” virus on to our entire data base.  I think, I can’t believe I did this again.

One more “ARGH! WHAT HAVE I DONE!” before I turn and walk down to the office.  David, our Church Administrator, is in his office. I apologize for opening some link that is now making my computer yell at me and is stealing all of my credit cards, pictures, personal information and perhaps infecting our whole computer system.  He walks with me upstairs to my office.  He turns off the speakers.  He says he will call the computer techs.  He doesn’t seem too concerned.  He offers a laptop so I can keep on working on my project.  I can’t imagine working on another computer at a time like this.  I tell him that I will take the break I should have taken earlier instead.

Instead of going for the run I planned, I drive to the running store.  I choose a new pair of running shoes exactly like the last pair I bought and the ones before that and the ones before that.  They are the kind I always buy.  The kind where there are no surprises. I am relieved that my credit card still works. I wonder if I will get a call asking if this is a legitimate purchase. I think of George W. telling us we all needed to go shopping in response to 9/11.  I think, sometimes shopping helps.  No, I think it is getting outside and out of the office that helps.  Getting away from a computer that is yelling helps.  Anything helps to make me forget what has happened.

I return to the office.  The computer techs have been called and say, alas, that nothing dire has occurred.  I opened what was just a particularly loud and scary spam message.  Yes, I think, it did its trick.  And somewhere someone is laughing for getting me to jump.  I think about who would do something like this.  I think about forgiveness. I think how forgiveness is no easy matter.

And yes, I am relieved.  For thankfully, no one died today. And as far as I know no one is running around showing off my sailing pictures.

I wonder.  I wonder what I’ll do the next time the screen starts flashing and the speakers start blaring, “WARNING!  WARNING!”  Will I panic?  Will I turn off the speakers and go to get help?  Will I call the number on the flashing screen and rattle off all my passwords and credit card numbers and personal information in the hopes of doing something, doing anything to make the shouting stop?

Or maybe, hopefully, before all this, I’ll remember that efficiency has its limits.  That sometimes the most efficient thing to do is to get out of the office and go for that run, to come back in an hour, clearer, collected, not nearly as likely to open strange sounding links, yell ARGH and make me and my colleagues jump.

Yes, maybe, I’ll go and try out those new shoes now.

June 29 – St. Peter’s Episcopal Parish and Refugee Resettlement Office Interfaith Iftar

Iftar is the meal that Muslims observing Ramadan share together to end their daily fast. St. Peter’s has been invited to take part in an Iftar for RRO refugee families. Bring a (non-meat) dish to share.

I shred green and red leaves of lettuce

place them in a glass bowl,

sprinkle succulent red and orange nectarines on top,

cover the bowl with plastic wrap

and set a small set of silver tongs on top.

 

In the church basement a small group has gathered, shortly before 9, the sun almost set.

The metal doors are propped open onto the concrete patio.

It is a warm evening.

I place the bowl on the plastic table by baskets of dark brown samosas, a bowl of deep red soup,

salads, rice, cantaloupes, green melons, grapes and strawberries on a little plate,

frosted Safeway cookies.

Women and little girls in black and white, silver and gold scarves flutter into the room.

I shake hands, introduce myself to Azizi, a round faced man who is here with his family.

He is kind and friendly, answers my many questions about Ramadan –

Who fasts? How long? Is it difficult?

The answers roll off his tongue, he has been asked these questions many times.

He tells me that Ramadan is a fast for the mouth, ears and eyes. A purification time.

If you die during Ramadan you go straight to Paradise, he says.

I laugh, and say, Perhaps today would be a good day to die!

 

The young blond workers from the Refugee Resettlement Office

invite us to gather around the gray plastic tables.

Father Edmund expresses gratitude for the invitation to join the feast this night.

Azizi says a few words about Ramadan to the circle of brown, white, black and Asian faces

gathered close around the table laden with food.

We hear the call to prayer.

I am suddenly in Turkey, in Palestine,

hearing loudspeakers sing out the call over dusty hot streets.

Is there a mosque in this neighborhood? Did I not notice it?

No, it’s coming from somewhere here in the room.

I look around. A young girl turns off her cell phone.

The room is silent.

Now that we have heard the call, we can eat, Azizi says.

A young woman says, Let us let our Moslem friends go first, they haven’t eaten all day.

I remove the plastic wrap from the glass bowl,

pour the dark brown dressing over the salad,

place the silver tongs on top.

The guests fill their plates.

 

I see a young boy across the room. I smile. He smiles back.

I cross the room.

Hi, I’m Peter, I say.

I’m Omar.

What was that?

Omar?

Omar.

I hold out my hand, shake hands with Omar.

I pull up more folding chairs around the plastic tables. I sit by the boy.

Omar has just finished 6th grade. He likes basketball most of all.

He’d like to play baseball someday but he doesn’t understand the rules.

I tell him I never played basketball but I did play baseball once.

I ask him what the big sport is in Ethiopia. He says, Soccer. I say, I like soccer too.

I ask him what he is going to do this summer.

He tells me he might go to camp but he doesn’t want to go. I ask him why.

He says, I don’t like meeting new people.

I say, You are talking to me. I sat here because I didn’t know where to sit

and I smiled at you across the room and you smiled back.

I say, Maybe you are more social than you think you are.

I say, I bet you would make friends at camp. I think people would like spending time with you.

After dinner, I tell the workers from the Refugee Resettlement Office about meeting Omar,

his little brother and their mother. I tell them I would like to invite them to a baseball game.

I ask if that would be alright. I give my business card to the volunteer coordinator.

It is after 10 pm.

I go to say goodbye to Omar.

He looks up from his cell phone.

It was nice to meet you.

It was nice to meet you too.

Perhaps I will see you again.

Yes.

 

I pick up the bowl on the table.

A small piece of orange nectarine, like a small ember,

a blessing and gift, rests on the side of the bowl.

It tastes of Paradise.

 

Peter Ilgenfritz

July 5, 2016

 

We’re all here at First AME Church, this Friday evening of June 17^th –

The Mayor, the Police and Fire Chiefs, State Reps and Senators,

Interfaith Leaders, Muslim, Jewish, Christian, Buddhist,

All gathered here in brown cushioned pews in the bare walled sanctuary.

All here to remember the Charleston 9 massacred a year ago, this very night

At a Wednesday evening Bible Study by a lonely, confused and angry young man,

A stranger whom they had welcomed that night into their little group, as Christ taught them to do,

Prayed and studied the scriptures with him.

Then he turned on them shooting.

He wanted to start a race war, he said.

 

Here to remember what happened Saturday night, just a few days ago, almost closing time at the Club.

Another lonely and confused and angry young man killed after killing 49 and injuring 53 young people

Just out celebrating and having a good time.

It was Latino night, that night.

More Brown and Latino brothers and sisters killed.

It has been a long week.

 

The little choir of five assembles on the stage.

The drummer, the organist, the guitar player, take their seats.

The lead singer picks up the microphone.  The microphone squeals, stops.  He taps the microphone.

He starts to sing.

They start to join in, to play along and sing.

Yes, let’s sing out some praise, yes, let us begin with praise, the Deacon says.

 

I haven’t sung all week.  I didn’t come here to praise this night.

I came here to sit alone in the back pew and feel the hurt.

I came to find my way back to meaning after the meaninglessness of it all.

 

Alright now, up on your feet now.  Come on, come on, he says.

We rise, one, two, then more and more.

I’m standing too.

 

Beginning where we don’t even know if we can possibly end, not on a night like this.

Doing what we don’t even know if it’s alright to be doing, not on a night like this.

What kind of praise is this?  What kind of song?  How can we sing when so many have died?

How can we praise when we know so many more will die, so many more will be taken

If we cannot end our love affair with guns, with violence and with hate?

 

They share the stories, the Charleston 9.

We see again their smiling, beautiful, hope-filled faces.

Life ahead of them, looking straight out at it.

 

We hear the long litany of names of those killed at the Club.

The names go on and on and on.  Keep on going on.  The beautiful cadence of their names,

Their tender ages.  Their hope-filled lives.

How young, how very young they were.

 

The song begins again.

Let’s get up, come on now, come on, the Deacon says.   

More and more are standing.

I am standing too.

We begin again, with praise.

 

Praise so hate won’t erase the wonder of their lives, the particularity of their stories.

Praise to hold us in our grief.

To move us through the pain.

To stir us to passion.

Praise when they wanted us to start a war of hate.

 

Praise – We’re clapping our hands, we’re starting to swing.  Slowly back and forth. Hands in the air.

We’re singing and praising.

Praise to stand up,

To stand out.

To never forget.

 

The Pastor stands and remembers,

They just loved their Lord and were just doing what they loved to do –

Gathering for fellowship, scripture study and prayer on Wednesday nights. 

A little spiritual renewal midweek to buoy them up,

Revive them in hope, so they could see it through to the end of the week.   

 

Praise to sing loud!

To sing clear!  Courageous and brave when they wanted us to cower in fear.

Praise!  The possibility, the reach, the hope, the song that will never die, never be taken from us.

Praise! In spite of so many that have been killed,

In spite of the lynching’s and captivity, the slavery and addiction, the prisons and police,

The homelessness and hopelessness, the joblessness and abuse, the despair and so many deaths,

And yet still this rising, this hoping, this Praise.

 

The Pastor remembers,

They were just some young people out having a good time on a Saturday night. 

Doing what young people do.  Nothing wrong with that.  We were all young once.  Yes, we were.

And we remember too. 

 

Praise that we are not here to condemn or judge.

Praise for the possibility of the church growing and changing in acceptance and love.

Yes, sing out our praise!

Take back our song!

Reclaim our sanctuaries!

Turn our prayer to action!

Sing us out of despair!

 

Three hours later:

The praise goes on.

 

I know it’s late. 

About the time I used to be ready to head out to the Brown and Tan, the Deacon says. 

We’re almost done, but before we go, go take a hand.  Let’s share a blessing. 

 

I take the usher’s white gloved hand in mine, stretch out my hand to hold

the small bony black hand of the woman beside me.

The night’s been a blessing.  A surprising blessing.

 

We shake hands.  Hug.  Button up our overcoats.  Zip up our jackets.  Say our goodbyes.

I tuck my helmet under my arm.  Spill out with the rest into the dark night, drizzling rain.

Streetlights sparkle in puddles.

The music from the neighborhood bar spills out in the street.

The young couple walks by laughing, holding hands.

 

Peter Ilgenfritz

June 21, 2016

After checking in at the seaside hotel with valet parking and a concierge,

I go over to the desk to ask not about the best place to eat or what to see

but where and if there’s a vigil here tonight,

There has been a terrible shooting today, you see,

Terrible, he says, I know, I heard, I will see what I can find.

 

Tonight.  5 blocks south. 8 p.m. The Art Museum steps.

Perfect.

 

I go off to do what tourists do.

I lay out my clothes in long bureau drawers.

I hang up my pants and brush my teeth.

I take off to find the food court and a table by the window

where I watch families pose by the waterfall –

black, white and brown, Asian, Indian,

bright red jackets and straw hats,

scarves and turbans, suits and ties,

they’ve come from everywhere.

 

Two little Indian brothers stand at attention arms straight at their sides wearing wide grins.

The older puts his arm around his little brother.

The little brother smiles, grabs his brother, squeezes him tight.

Their father laughs, snaps a picture.

 

My family met here years ago to celebrate a 50^th wedding anniversary, a family cruise to Alaska.

We’d taken pictures by the waterfall.

Commented, my how Erin has grown and how good Warren is at math,

all it has taken to bring us together, and here in this place.

I smile, remembering this.

 

The crowd gathers near the steps on smooth brown dirt where the grass used to be.

Eight men stand at the top of the marble steps with rainbow flags.

The Canadian flag at the end is decked out in rainbow colors.

The men silent and still.

The flags flutter in the wind.

I stop, alone, across the busy street.

I see the flags, the dirt, the small crowd gathering.

I do not wipe away my tears.

I wonder on the way of grief.

I wonder how it lies hidden until it comes and surprises you.

I wonder where these tears have been hiding all day.

It has been a long day.

 

Driving into church this morning I’d heard snippets of news.

Another mass shooting, Orlando, a nightclub.

50 presumed dead, 53 wounded, not releasing names.

They’ll bring more updates as the news come in.

I complain to my colleague Catherine about the absurdity of the morning news,

hearing all this between fashion trends and the morning puzzle,

hearing all this like entertainment, like curiosity, we ingest over bites of our morning cereal.

But something heartbreaking has happened…again

and the world just goes on except for those for whom it won’t,

except for those for whom today changes everything.

 

I move on to my own duties and morning questions,

Where is the meeting? and What is the agenda?

An update on the child in hospital,

a stiff shoulder and a sore neck, the need for a ride.

And Yes, I say, It’s good to be back.  And it is.

Back to slide through the emails,

Scan a letter to the LGBT community from colleagues in Florida.

I still do not know.

I still do not understand all that has happened.

On the way to the sanctuary I remember the vigil this Friday.

The name of the church escapes me.

I google the name on my cell phone during the announcements.

That’s right.  Emanuel.  It was Mother Emanuel.  Last year.  A year ago this week.

 

I wonder how we pray for this, for all of this.

I pray.

We sing.

 

Driving north, more snippets of news –

A gay nightclub, Latino Night, a young man under surveillance and known to authorities.

Another assault-style rifle, another shooting, eight high-profile shootings since last July.

It’s all the same.

The same old, same old, story again.

The biggest mass shooting in U.S. history and all we know is that there will be more.

 

There are sweet people here.  Sweet people who turn and hug, kiss and greet one another.

Sweet people who have come off these busy streets at the close of a day to find their place here

to find each other,

to mourn, to remember,

to unite, be strong.

 

How are you doing? he asks his friend.

Oh alright, you know, it’s one of those days.  I woke up this morning to the news. 

Yah, it’s one of those times you have no idea what to say or do.

This is one thing we can.  We bind together.  We can show our lives matter.

Yah, half, three-quarters as much as others. Three-quarters.  I can live with that.

I never thought this would happen.

I never thought it would be this bad.

 

I ask where they got the candles.

They walk with me over to the reflection pool.

I am handed a white candle in a red plastic cup.

 

Members of the Coast Salish tribe welcome us to their land.

The microphone squeals.

How’s this?  This? 

The microphone squeals again.

We cannot hear you.

Yes, now we can.

 

There are words.  Lots of words and a few that I remember.

A gay Syrian refugee –

When people think of terrorism

People think of people who look like me.

This is not terrorism.

This is hate.

 

Joan E., a drag queen in a bright red dress, towers over the little assembly of speakers –

In the weeks and months to come the dialogue about what happened today will change.

This will not: what will not change is what happened today to the families and friends who

lost someone today.  For them, their lives are changed forever. 

We wonder what we can do. This is one thing we can.

She smiles at the Syrian refugee.

Do not confuse what happened today with anyone’s religion or the color of their skin.

That we must never do. 

The crowd cheers.

We raise our candles high.

A young woman in a bow tie, and black and white tuxedo shirt, named Andy stands by Joan –

I woke this morning and knew I needed to do something.

I am so moved that all of you came, that all of us, a thousand or so, on such short notice.

I want us to say the names, to repeat the names, the names we know so far.

She says the names, we repeat the names.

Edward

Stanley

Almodovar

Luis

Juan

and Kimberly…

 

And…

Can we say his name?

Do we have to say his name?

Do we have to remember Omar too?

Do we have to remember him as well?

Who are we if we do?

Who are we if we do not?

 

I want us to hold some silence.

We hold silence.

Tears running down my face.

Amen.

 

I want us to yell for all the words we do not know how to say. 

I want us to yell for all the things we are reaching and striving for.

I want us to fill the city with cries.

We shout.

We yell.

We roar again.

It feels good.

 

We make a beautiful noise together, she says.

 

There are pleas for volunteers and how we can give back.

Reminders of the Pride Parade and how we must be together.

I am weary of announcements and words.

I want silence and songs.

I want benedictions and blessings.

I want us to hold hands and pass the peace.

I want us to turn and greet each other in all the names that peace can find –

Shalom , Salaam and Namaste.

I want the crescent moon to turn and fill like a great disco ball spiraling above the museum.

I want them to turn up the music and invite us to dance.

 

That’s it.  That’s all we’ve planned.

 

We turn to each other with hugs and goodbyes.

We drift off anonymous, disappear on the streets,

off to our homes and hotel rooms,

a drink at the bar,

whatever you do on a night like this.

 

I turn to go back to my room.

 

The waning light dances on the water.

The sky, a brilliant red.

Then clouds, black and gray and white drift by.

 

Peter Ilgenfritz

June 17, 2016

It’s June and in neighborhoods like ours here across the street from the University of Washington, there are questions in the air. You can see them in the anxious and hopeful expressions of graduating seniors posing with their parents in cap and gown, “What now?”  “What’s next?”  “What are you going to do with your life?”

I reminded our graduating seniors the other day that the reason we plague them with questions about their future plans is because we are plagued in anxiety about our own. We wonder with them about our own futures. We hope they might inspire us with their clarity, purpose, passion and drive. We too are hoping to find some of the same.

Life brings challenge and change to us all. We want to make something of our lives. We want to make a difference. We don’t want to be lost in our pain as we sometimes are. We don’t want to be isolated in our privilege tempting as it is.  We want to do something meaningful and we struggle often with what we ought to do.

This week a mother, a boxer, and a neurosurgeon have opened my imagination to how we might answer the question of what we shall do, what we might possibly choose to do today in response to the triumphs and catastrophes that are life.

On Sunday we baptized a little girl named Amaya.  She’s named after an El Salvadoran woman, Rufina Amaya.  In December 1981 government troops came into Amaya’s village where she lived with her husband and children. The next day they starting shooting. 809 people, her whole village, was killed.  Amaya hid in a tree during the massacre.  She was the only survivor.

I don’t know what “survival” means after a trauma like that.  I understand “survival” as running and hiding, keeping silent, getting lost in the black hole of despair. I understand any of these responses.  And Rufina Amaya chose something different. She chose to do another thing. In a time of unimaginable loss, she bore witness to what happened that day. She kept telling what happened even though her government and the US government shook their heads at the delusions of this poor peasant woman.  She kept on telling the story.  It took 10 years until they finally dug into the earth and discovered the bodies. Amaya found a way out of the ashes of her life to move forward.  A little girl in Seattle bears her name and carries her memory.  I want to remember what I might choose to do when life is full of losing.

I met Muhammad Ali once.  Or rather, I had breakfast with him. Well, actually we were in the same restaurant at the Holiday Inn that hot summer day in Chicago in 1991. He sat there across the room at a little table eating his breakfast.  1964 Cassius Clay had stood arms high overhead, the new heavy weight champion of the world.  Cassius had it all but he used all he had not to advance his career to but to live into his call.

He aligned himself with the Nation of Islam. He changed his name to Muhammad Ali. He registered as a conscientious objector. He used his status not to advance his own career but to speak out against the Vietnam War. Instead of racking up prizes in what promised to be a brilliant career, he was fined, sentenced to prison. He lost the best years of his boxing life. He used his status, his privilege not to withdraw in isolation but to challenge what it means to be black in America.  I’ve thought about him a lot this week of his death. I want to remember what I might choose to do when I have it all. I too want to use what I have to live into my call, to do some good despite all it may cost.

Paul Kalanithi flipped through the CT scans, saw that the body he was looking at was riddled with cancer – lung cancer that had metastasized, a deformed spine, a dark spot on the liver. As a surgeon he’d seen hundreds of such scans before. But this one was different. This time the scan was his own. What do you do when the verbs are running out and you have to choose what to do with the little time that is left? He’d worked all his life for this – to be here, 35, newly married, all the credentials, the fancy schools, Stanford, Yale, the job offer in the Midwest, his dreams to be a surgeon/scientist.  Suddenly all he had dreamed, all had aspired to do, felt like something he would never be able to do.

He knew that if he had 20 years, he’d take the fancy position in Wisconsin and be a surgeon/scientist.  10, he’d go back to surgery.   A year?  Write.  But he doesn’t know how much time he has left and even if he did, none of those decisions help him decide what to do right now in this moment and time, on what to do next.  When he could have chosen so many other things, Paul returns to his call as a neurosurgeon.  He and his wife have a baby.  He chooses life in the midst of facing his own imminent death.  He picks up his pen.  In his memoir, When Breath Becomes Air, he bears witness to the struggle to make a choice moment by moment when the moments are running out.  Finally, his memoir is incomplete and the final chapter completed by his wife.  And yet, maybe it is complete, complete as all of us are ever going to get as we lean into making meaning of our lives. I want to remember to lean into life when the moments are running out.

At the conclusion of the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus stands with the disciples on a mountaintop.  At a time when questions are in the air, “What now?”  What’s next?” Jesus offers the disciples three verbs and a blessing.  Three little verbs on what he hopes they might do with their lives – make disciples, baptize, teach.  Three little verbs that lean towards something – something Jesus called the Kingdom of God.  A Kingdom where we draw wide the circle of God’s way of peace and justice, love and hope.  To make a kingdom where there is a place for all, food and table and blessing for all, “Lo I am with you always to the end of the age.”

Rufina Amaya, Muhammad Ali and Paul Kalanithi all open up my imagination to possibilities.  They did not withdraw into pain or fame – understandable as either choice might be. Instead, they used their pain to go deeper and their fame to go further.  They used what they had to do something that mattered.  None of them answer for me what is mine to do today but they open up the possibility that there might be other options than what I have imagined.  There might be other things to consider than the endless pursuit of making money, finding security, securing some status.  Maybe what we are called to do is more than that.

Maybe it’s a stretch to say that Amaya, Muhammad Ali and Paul Kalanithi lived into the Kingdom that Jesus spoke of or perhaps this is exactly what it looks like when we do.

 

 

 

8:05 a.m. Monday morning.  I’m late.  The windowless, gray-green room at the end of the corridor is already packed with 200 men and women sitting silently in tight rows of blue gray chairs.  I look around for a seat and squeeze in past a young woman in a blue business suit, a priest in a long black robe, and a young unshaven man with a little bob of black hair tied at the top of this head.  I shove my backpack and gym bag under my seat. I look up at the long rows of florescent lights humming above us, the bank of television sets fastened to pillars at the edge of the room.  I wonder how early everyone else was here. I wonder how long the video has been running about what we can expect in our next two days of jury duty at King County Superior Court.

8:30 a.m.  A woman with long dark hair and a round face stands at the podium at the front of the room and introduces herself.  Julie will be our steward to guide us through our next two days of service.  I thought we only had to be here for one day.  I wonder how I missed that.  I think about having to come here tomorrow on what was supposed to be my day off.  I can’t believe we have to be here for two days.

Julie smiles.  She thanks us for our service.  She tells us that the court sends out those white postcards calling us to jury duty to many more people than are actually required for service.  Most never show up or call in sick.  Others report back that they have responsibilities that make it far too difficult for them to come in.  I have done this as well, feeling that the mere fact of being a minister during Advent is a hardship that should prevent me from serving.

But this time was different.  I got the postcard and I followed up and reported in.  I didn’t have an excuse not to go and I thought I was required to report in if I couldn’t find a good justification not to like Advent.  I realize that Advent was rather a lame excuse.  Now I wonder why I was so responsible this time around.

Julie tells us it is our civil duty and responsibility to come in to serve.  She reminds us that in small communities the sheriff can go out and drag you in if you don’t report. I look around the room at the young women and men, the middle aged and gray haired. Some have their phones and lap tops out and open, already at work.  It’s rather an amazing group of people I think.  They didn’t throw out the postcard out or lose it in the pile of flyers and bills accumulating on their dining room tables.  No, these are the dutiful and organized who got the postcard and made the arrangements to heed the summons. They came happily or not, whether it was convenient or not.  They came nonetheless.  Duty called.  They responded.

I think about the Scout Law I recited every week for years, promising to “Do my best, to do my duty to God and country…”  I wonder if that’s why I am here.  I wonder if there are other Boy Scouts in the room.

Julie tells us she will give out what little rewards to us that she can.  She will let us know when we can take 20 minute breaks and go outside as long as we come back promptly at the end of the break.

She tells us that we are eligible to receive $10 for each day of jury duty, and that, yes, that small amount hasn’t changed in over 50 years.  Today, $10 I will discover barely buys you lunch in downtown Seattle.

“And now after offering you this small token of appreciation for your service, I’m going to invite you if you wish to give it back.”  She smiles.  She tells us that many jurors give their $10 and small transportation stipend back to support a childcare program for folks on jury duty who have responsibility for young children.  She tells us that so many jurors have supported the program that they’ve been able to expand it to other courts.  She tells us it has made a huge difference to families, allowing them to serve.  Many of us will fill out the form and give our lunch money back as well. There are good people here.

10:00 a.m.  We are told we can take a 20 minute break. I look over at the clock.  It doesn’t seem worth it to go to the trouble of dragging out my gym bag and back pack. The drab room saps any energy I have for doing much of anything.  I sit here in the middle of the long row, scribbling on my white legal pad.

10:20 a.m.  Names are called, people file from the room.  Others sit and wait, stand by the coffee machine and fidget.  I am exhausted after a long weekend of meetings.  I have spent the last two days at an annual gathering of leaders in our Pacific Northwest Conference of the United Church of Christ.  As with a jury summons, the call went out to many and some 23 showed up on a Thursday night to spend the next two days together talking about the work of our Conference.  Some drove for hours across the state to come here to Pilgrim Firs, our church camp on the Kitsap Peninsula.  Some made complex arrangements to take care of the kids, board the dogs, take care of stuff at home so they could be here. I am moved by their stories and the old-fashioned words they share about why they had made all sorts of sacrifices to come – duty, commitment, a responsibility to those beyond their own communities and walls.

10:40 a.m. I look around the silent packed room.  Almost every chair is taken.  I realize this would be a terrible place to be if you are claustrophobic.  I wonder if you can get excused from duty for being claustrophobic.  I wonder if I might be claustrophobic.  I get up, squeeze by the people in my row and stand by the refrigerator in the little brown paneled kitchen at the side of the room eating the peanut butter sandwich I had brought for my lunch and drinking water from my paper coffee cup.  I think about Flint.  I wonder if there is lead in the pipes.

11:30 a.m.  Julie releases us early for our lunch break and we are told to report back promptly at 1:30.  The room empties quickly.  I go to the Y and do jumping jacks and sit ups.

1:00 p.m. I get in line for lunch at the food court.  Lunch is slow coming.  I look at the clock.  I tell the woman at the counter that I need to change my order to take out.  I think about eating my salad in a plastic box with a plastic fork in the back of that grim windowless room.

1:20 p.m. I step outside.  It’s a beautiful day here in mid-May, warm and sunny.  I hear Mary Oliver whisper to me, “You do not have to be good.  You just have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves…”

I am tired of being good and dutiful and sitting in a dreary room on a beautiful day.  I want to stay out here this afternoon.  Perhaps I don’t need to report back at our 1:30 deadline.  I am so tired.  I don’t remember when I’ve been this tired before.  I fantasize playing hooky and finding a park and lying down on the grass with a view of the sky and the sound of the waves lapping on the shore. I think how much I would love to do this.

1:25 p.m. I hurry to the security line to get back into court. I wonder why I’m doing this. I think again about Mary Oliver and what I would really love to do this afternoon. I wish I didn’t feel so compelled to be good and dutiful.

1:40 p.m. I stand in the small kitchen and eat my salad in my plastic container with my plastic fork.  I remember that Julie told us that for many of us there will be no summons, no call, no trial, but just two long days of sitting here in rows or stretching at the edges of the small room.  I feel already like I am stuck in a plane on a very long trip that is going nowhere.

2:30 p.m. My name is called – #74 out of 80 potential jurors in the pool for what is expected to be a two week trial.  We file into the court and sit on long wooden pews.  The judge smiles.  He reminds us that the government asks only two things of us – registering for the draft, and jury duty.  I wonder if he forgot about paying taxes.

The judge tells us that jury duty is certainly better than being called up to serve in the army overseas.  I think about Pha, the sweet young man from Vietnam, who I met with this afternoon.  He wonders how long he will need to be here.  He is supporting himself as an hourly contract worker.  Unlike the folks here who work for Amazon or Starbucks, no one is paying him for reporting to jury duty.  It’s costing him two days of potential salary.  He isn’t complaining, he tells me.  He just worries about his job.  He wants to do the right thing.  He knows that the right thing comes with a cost.  I think about duty.  I think how 50 years ago my country would have called me to fulfill my duty and go to Vietnam and kill people like Pha and his family.

I raise my placard with my #74 and request being excused from the jury pool for this trial that is expected to last until June 8.  I am leaving in a week to officiate at a wedding for a young couple at church. I feel bad that I can’t help out with this trial.  I’m surprised I feel this way and not just relieved.  I try to think how I could possibly adjust my travel arrangements to make serving on this trial possible.  I know this is ridiculous.  I think about the gray bearded man who now stands, pivots, nods to us from the center of the room, a man accused of doing terrible things.  And yes, as the judge reminds us, is also presumed innocent until proven guilty.  In this room that surrounds us are some who will decide his fate.  I won’t be one of them.  Other duties call.

7:00 p.m. Exhaustion drags me to our church council meeting that night. I am totaled. Whipped.  Done in.  I fear that I am one of those people whose lack of energy saps everyone’s energy from the room. I have nothing to offer here except the sense of duty that compelled me to show up because it is my job, my responsibility.  I think about how duty sometimes feels like begrudging compliance – being good without the goodness. All I have energy for during the meeting is fantasizing about calling in sick to court tomorrow morning and sleeping in.  I could so use a day off.

Like many other communities our church too is “restructuring”, figuring out new ways to get our work done. Fewer people want to serve for years on boards and committees that meet each month for two hours.  We hear a report that something like a third of our families don’t pledge to our stewardship drive. We hear that lifestyles and needs have changed and the church needs to change.  I wonder if our sense of duty has changed as well.  I wonder again what duty means. I wonder is duty is a good thing or not.  Perhaps it too needs to be reimagined.

9:30 p.m. I wonder if it is my sense of duty or my guilt for my lack of contribution at the meeting that compels me to stay and stack dirty dishes in the dishwasher.  I think, “I may not have been able to contribute much but at least I can contribute this.”

10:40 p.m.  Home, asleep.

Tuesday, 8:45 a.m.  We pack the room again for our second day of service.  Pha tells me he spoke to the judge yesterday afternoon.  He told him that he worries about not understanding English well enough to serve on the jury.  He feels bad that he asked to be excused. He tells me over and over again how he worried about having to slow the process down, to ask for clarity if people spoke too fast or with an accent he didn’t understand.  He says that he didn’t ask to be excused because he is an hourly employee and looking for another job. It’s just understanding English well enough that worries him.  He so wants to do the right thing.

Across the counter, a young man named Luke, overhears that I am a minister.  He introduces himself.  We shake hands.  He’s studying to be a counselor at Bellevue Community College and attends City Church.  He tells me that many of his friends aren’t looking at careers in public service. I ask him why not.  He blames technology, the culture of instant gratification. He tells me about his friends who have found jobs where they can make a lot of money.  “Don’t get me wrong, I too like nice things, but there is something else I want besides making lots of money. I want to look back fifty years from now and say what I did made a difference.”  I nod, smile.  Duty still beckons and the world is a better place because of it.

11:00 a.m. Julie tells us we may get to go home early.  A hundred or so of us are still waiting unassigned this second day.  Pha wonders if there is any kind of trial where he could feel comfortable serving with his challenges in understanding English.  I wonder if Julie knows that I had to excuse myself from that jury pool I got called into yesterday.  I wonder if there is really any chance of my name being called today.

The process grinds slowly forward. We dutifully wait, reading, checking our phones, flipping through the morning paper, typing on our keyboards.  The willing, the not so willing, the tired and bored, the responsible and those yes, who showed up, ready to get up and serve when duty calls.

Noon.  No such luck for going home this morning, we are sent out on lunch break and told to report back promptly at 1:30.  

12:15 p.m.  I change into my running geat at the Y and run to the Seattle Sculpture Garden.     It’s such a beautiful day.  I want to keep on going, keep on running down there by the sailboats in the marina.  I turn around, run back.

1:30 p.m. Back in the jury waiting room, I eat my yogurt and strawberries and peanut butter sandwich leaning against the counter in the kitchen.

2:00 p.m.  Julie steps up to the podium.  “When I call off your name, will the following people come forward to the desk.”  We all dutifully pull out our little sheets of paper to write down our numbers in case we are called.  “Just kidding!” she laughs, “We’re done for the day.  You can go home.  Your jury duty is now complete.”

We cheer, say our quick goodbyes, drop off our little white badges in the gray plastic bins and scatter into the hallway.

I wonder why I am sad.  The ending all happened so fast.  Down the hall in the foyer ringed by gold plated elevators I drop my gym bag to the floor, lean down to tie my shoe.  I look down at the words engraved in gold on the floor of the foyer.

“Never allow it to be said you are silent onlookers, detached spectators, but that you are involved participants in the struggle to make justice a reality.” (Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Commencement Address, Oberlin College, 1965.)

Sometimes I have heard the call to duty and responded.  Sometimes I have walked away.

Sometimes I have reported for duty begrudgingly when I’ve had nothing to give.  Sometimes I have worn duty with exhaustion, and sometimes, yes, with pride.  And sometimes I have stepped forward in hope to give myself to the duty of serving something larger than myself.

I look again at those words, “involved participants” at my feet.  I want that to be me, an involved participant in the struggle to make justice a reality. It sounds so glamorous and noble.  So exciting.  And sometimes, yes, on days like this requires the duty to just show up and sit and wait in a dreary room on a beautiful day.

The roomful of folks who reported for jury duty has dispersed anonymously on the streets only to reveal themselves again when people like Pha and Luke, the woman in the blue business suit, the priest and the young man with the bob of hair at the top of his head will step aside from the teeming crowds and take their place when duty calls again.

2:15 p.m. I stand up, adjust my back pack.  I wonder if I will be one of them.