People of the light

‘Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.’ (Matthew 5:7)

They are people of the light, and there are tens of thousands of them. They are in the streets and classrooms and neighborhoods and behind store counters and a thousand other places.

We must see them, hear them and feel their hearts. For they can save our souls … and the soul of the nation.

Perhaps no single story, in the saga of MAGA vs. the State of Minnesota, reveals the beauty of these hearts as clearly or as poignantly as the plight of a little boy named, Liam, and the students and leaders at his school, Valley View Elementary.

After Liam was illegally carried off by immigration enforcement agents, clad in his bunny hat and Spiderman backpack, leaders at his school mobilized the most potent salvo yet in the battle for human decency amid the great indecency the Trump administration is exacting on the nation.

Their actions, like those of their fellow Minnesotans, have upended the administration’s devout conviction that virtue is rare, that people don’t really care about injustice or the struggle and suffering of their neighbors, just so long as they are comfortable.

In this case, the virtue in evidence is profoundly spiritual, certainly for Christians, Muslims and Jews. ‘Blessed are the merciful for they will receive mercy,’ many Christians read or heard on this Sunday in the season of Epiphany.

The merciful receive mercy because their hearts are already carried in the current of love that is God’s living presence in human hearts and amid human affairs, a living flow of mercy.

Any whose eyes and ears and hearts have not been shuttered by hate, apathy or political ideology can see the beauty of mercy at Valley View school, especially when viewed against the dark and brutal background of what ICE and Homeland Security are doing in their community.

It was unmistakable as a principal at Valley View Elementary, his voice wavering, walked a reporter through a school room to see Liam’s desk and his cubby, with a bin of school supplies, his water bottle and a stuffed, green dinosaur.

Leaving that room, bags of groceries and supplies lined the hallways for families too scared to come out of their homes. Twenty-five parents of Valley View students have been carried off by ICE, and now … two more students, a second and fifth grader.

Students have written letters to ICE and recorded them, sharing what they are seeing and the fear and sadness they are feeling. But there is also this letter from an African American girl, ‘I believe there are birds whose songs of love aren’t heard by people who need to care.’

A living mercy flows through the beautiful, young heart who gave voice to those words. They are a prayer, a hope that mercy and simple human kindness will soften stony hearts, evaporate apathy and carry us all away in the stream of mercy flowing through the halls of Valley View school.

For there are more children languishing in ICE gulags. There are more shattered families longing to touch and hold their beloved. There are thousands carried off for no reason beyond the nihilism of power for power’s sake … and many, many more living in fear.

But there are victories in the struggle. Liam and his father are home, and all because an army of light has appeared in the mercy of those who care … and in judges who know the difference between the darkness of lies and the light of truth.

They are people of the light, every last one of them.

David L. Miller

People of the lie

 

 

[T]he people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned. (Matthew 4:16)

It’s infuriating.

They stand, open their mouths and they lie. They lie again and again and again.

Their tone, authoritative. Their confidence, sure.  Their position, secure, ensconced in the trappings of officialdom we were taught to trust when we were naïve children.

But no longer. Now, we know.

They are lying about their brutality. They are lying about the people they arrest and abuse. They are lying about the justification for their actions. They are lying about the people who leave their homes in the bitter cold to protest—average, decent human beings who blow whistles to warn their neighbors, bear food to their doorsteps and ferry their children to school to protect them from illegal arrest and deportation.

And, now, they are lying about the people they shoot and kill in front of witnesses on city streets, calling them terrorists and assassins.

They lied in Portland and Chicago and Charlotte, et. al., and have reached new heights … or depths … of depraved mendacity, in Minneapolis.

We know their names: Noem, Bovino, Homan, Miller, Trump, and all who attempt to justify the fascistic machinations of this administration.

They are people of the lie, and they will keep on lying, day after day after day. Possessed by a malignant, narcissistic self-righteousness, they project their bitterness, hatred, imperfections and inadequacies onto those they despise and defame.

And we? We live with the disorienting dissonance between what our eyes see, our ears hear and what our hearts know …. and the world of lies they narrate, forcing us to deal with the dark and bitter world their lies create.

‘In our country the lie … has become a pillar of the state,’ wrote Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn about the murderous brutalities of Soviet Russia.  

‘We know that they are lying, they know that they are lying, they even know that we know they are lying, we also know that they know we know they are lying too, but they are still lying.’

His words apply to our situation today. But with apologies to the great Russian author, I wonder if those so deeply engaged in denying and dissembling lose their capacity to know they are lying. Have they called evil good for so long that they have lost their souls, unable to find their way back from the abyss of inhumanity.?

Blessedly, we are not left or consigned to live in their darkness. All we need do is to look around, especially in Minneapolis.

As a Christian, and I hope a contemplative Christian, the light of compassion I see in the eyes of my Lord Jesus shines in the life of Alex Pretti, well-known among friends and colleagues as a nurse who cared deeply for his patients at the VA hospital where he worked, a trusted and encouraging mentor to less experienced nurses.

He was no terrorist or would-be assassin, but a man committed to healing and care. His life gives the lie to people of the lie, unveiling the darkness of their hearts and illumining a way of life that truly is life.  

He died saying ‘no,’ to the brutality and inhumanity of immigration agents employing unchecked power to push a woman down in the street, attacking and shooting him in cold blood when he tried to help her up.  Our eyes do not lie.

He is not alone, of course. Tens of thousands have gone to the streets to magnify that ‘no.’ They say ‘no’ to the lie when they take food to their neighbors, ferry their kids to school, blow whistles to warn of danger and when they sing and pray and mourn, hoping their voices will move people in power, finally, to stand up and say ‘no.’

The light of truth and compassion shines in their hearts, and the darkness will not put it out.

David L. Miller

Who belongs?

And as [Jesus] reclined at table in his house, many tax collectors and sinners were reclining with Jesus and his disciples, for there were many who followed him. And the scribes of the Pharisees, when they saw that he was eating with sinners and tax collectors, said to his disciples, “Why does he eat with tax collectors and sinners?” (Mark 2:15-16)

I heard it long ago and many times since: ‘If you draw a circle to define who’s in and who’s out, be assured Jesus is on the outside looking back at you.’

It’s a cliché, a bit tired. But perhaps it fits today amid the brutal question roiling the soul of America: Who belongs? How big should the circle be? Differences of opinion are currently being played out on the streets of Minneapolis.

Christians have a dog in this fight. At the heart of a truly Christian consciousness, lies the love of Christ, who is constantly seeking to restore human community to a fullness of love and belonging, where graces are shared and every human soul knows its worth.

There is something in the Christian heart that hates walls that divide, a desire to welcome every willing soul into the respect and warmth of human community.

It is well accepted that nations need borders, and no nation can or should be expected to accommodate all who want to enter. But the faith of the church leans toward welcome, toward mercy, toward compassion, shaped as it is by Jesus, who so regularly stood outside circles of exclusion, erasing lines of division drawn by the privileged, the fearful and the self-righteous.

There’s nothing more telling in this regard than Jesus’ meal practice. Take the quote above.

Most translations have Jesus sitting at table with a group of outcasts and social disasters whose behavior has placed them well outside community acceptability. But he doesn’t sit. He reclines, along with everyone else enjoying the meal.

Lying on his left elbow, the typical practice of his time and place, he reaches with his right arm for bits of food or to take a cup. The picture is one of relaxation, familiarity, comfort, ease, savoring the pleasure of food, drink and human presence with people who were regularly reminded they didn’t belong, except here, with Jesus.

It is impossible to think of this without imagining a smile of satisfaction tugging at the corners of his mouth. Lord knows, I feel his joy as I imagine him there, creating his own circle of acceptance into which his critics would have been welcome had they been willing.

This after all was his purpose, to regather and restore the people of Israel to their true spiritual vocation of being ‘a light to the nations,’ where the Lord ‘will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines’—the fullness of human existence, as the prophet Isaiah proclaimed.

Something of this hope and vocation, ‘a light to the nations,’ is deeply embedded not only in the hearts of those who cherish the boundary-breaking joy of Jesus’ witness, but also in the American dream of many peoples becoming one for the good of all.

This dream and vocation are daily attacked on the streets of our nation by those who draw narrow, exclusive circles because they have replaced the vision of America with arrogant delusions of their superiority.

Even more troubling, many American Christians have lost or never knew and felt the gracious vision of Jesus reclining with his excluded friends. Seduced by the rhetoric of fear and falsehood, they fail to know the joyful mission to which they are called. But Jesus doesn’t forget. He is still there, inviting all of us to come home and share the feast of welcome.

Perhaps this is why I cherish the demonstrations of Christians singing in the streets of Minneapolis, so much more than the bitter vitriol (however understandable) that merely mimics the brutality of ICE. The singers seem to know Jesus.

David L. Miller

Staying human amid the mess

 

Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls (Matthew 11:29)

We took the Christmas tree down today. The tree is artificial; the emotions were not.

The process follows a decades-old pattern. I remove the ornaments and give them to Dixie, who packs them away until next year when we will bring them out of storage and tell stories about where this one or that came from, or who gave it to us, and how it is connected to the life of our family.

Dixie is better at remembering these stories. She was paying closer attention to what most matters through the years, so she reminds me as we put away the tatted angels and glistening stars, olive wood mangers and the artisan acorn our daughter, Rachel, reclaimed from my mother’s house after she absconded with it.

‘I suppose this is silly,’ Dixie says, as she slips ornaments into protective boxes and bags they don’t necessarily require.

‘No, it’s not,’ I reply without thinking. ‘Its gentle and respectful and reverent,’ which is what I see as I watch her eyes and hands guide each item into its bag or tiny box until it is safely ensconced, her pulling a draw string or sealing the top of a Glad bag, ensuring it is safely home.  

Gentle, respectful and reverent, the words came without prior consideration. They crossed my lips before I knew what I was saying, which doesn’t make them less true, only more so. The words are, in fact, a prayer of my sad and troubled heart. In this case, they are an answered prayer, for which I am doubly thankful.

My mind and heart have been absorbed in the news where gentleness, respect and reverence were killed once again, this time by a bullet piercing the head of a Minneapolis mother and wounding the hearts of all who still believe every human being is a precious and irreplaceable image of the God who is Love.

Unfortunately, the federal government of our nation is now led by men and women who lack this reverence for life, regardless of what pieties they may spout. Their hearts are wed to power without principle, and their words demonize, their actions brutalize, any who get in their way.

A woman is shot, and they immediately blame her, undisturbed by the agent who called her a ‘fucking bitch’ as he holstered his gun and just … walked away … after killing her, his words and actions an apt metaphor for the dark heart of the Trump administration—if not also for the loss of transcendent values at the heart of post-modern secularity.

It is hard, no, impossible, for me to navigate the vertiginous distance between the nihilistic barbarity of our times and the preciousness of life I felt as Dixie and I carefully stored Christmas away until the happy day, we, God willing, do it all again.

What happened in our living room seems insignificant amid the fury of recent events. But I know it is one more thing that keeps me human. It softens my heart, eases my sadness and protects me from the rage that swells within at the malignant malevolence of ICE, which, unchecked, would make me a mirror image of that which I hate.

Holding the image of those hands slipping ornaments safely away, my heart is healed by the gentleness, respect and reverence that is the heart of my Lord in the heart of my beloved.

David L. Miller

Becoming Simeon

Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying, ‘Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation. (Luke 2:27-30)

Stories rise and fall in memories’ store. Floating beneath the horizon of consciousness, they wait their time, suddenly appearing in vivid contour when touched by other tales, to show us who we are and what we need.

In ancient story, an old man wanders into the temple as he has for years, there to pray and watch and wait, biding time, hoping to touch the meaning of all time. Enter a couple with an infant, coming to pray and make an offering for the gift of the child.

And he knows. I don’t know how. But he knows the mysterious way the heart knows love and beauty and kindness and other things that most matter. This is the one, his old heart says. This is the child, the light God promised he’d see before death closed his eyes.

Taking the child in his arms, he raises his tired eyes to heaven to pray his thanks, and suddenly I don’t see an old man in an ancient land. I see Bob, an old man who lived down the street when I was a boy.

He stands there, holding the child. But I know the child he is holding is me, the way he held my life with gentleness when I was 10 or 11, taking me fishing in his old green Studebaker, showing me how to dig potatoes and pick beans in his garden, letting me come along as he walked to St. Anne’s down the street to caulk a worn window, repair a door hinge or do whatever the priest needed.

I was there, my heart held, though I knew it not, at least not as now.

Now, I see. Bob was Simeon, holding the life of Christ yet sleeping within the hidden depths of my boyhood, waiting to be awakened to unveil the beauty within that we each bear … and each are.

Today, I am about as old as Bob was then, and I want to be Simeon, too, filled with gratitude and praise and wonder for the lives my heart and hands have been privileged to hold.

I can see the whole of life, all that I am, all that I see and do through Simeon’s eyes and with his heart. Like him, I am called to hold the mystery of the Christ-life hidden in the hearts of every face I meet. The beauty of Christ lies asleep in the hearts of many, waiting to be warmed and awakened by whatever love and kindness I have to share, that the Lord’s beauty may be known in human flesh once more.

Being Simeon is a whole way of life; a gracious way filled with gratitude for the privilege of holding the beauty of Christ, not only within ourselves, but in our care for the Christ-life hidden in the hearts of every human soul we shall ever know, see or touch.

In the communion of Saints, as we dwell in union with those who have gone before us, I hope Bob can hear the thanks of my heart for being Simeon for me, one of several. But then, as I hold the precious lives of those most dear, I realize, no thanks are needed.

David L. Miller

 

A letter to my grandson, first draft

‘This is one of those apposite, beautiful … and precious and very great promises given to us … that we are to become participants in the divine nature … not only loved by God through Christ, and have his favor and grace … but also to have Him, the Lord Himself, dwelling in us in his fullness …  also to enjoy this love.‘ (Martin Luther, 1544)

I wonder if you remember, Ethan. You turned and asked me a question as you descended the stairs at the end of our Christmas celebration.

‘Why do you do it?’ you asked, about my online teaching and retreat work, knowing it is not necessary for me to work in retirement.

My answer was quick and satirical. “Not for the princely sum I’m paid,’ I quipped.

I have regretted those words ever since. They haunt me because you deserve a better, truer answer, and my heart will not let me rest until I try to tell you what’s in my heart.

My words won’t be half good enough to tell you what I know and feel. I’ll likely think of better words five minutes after I send this. But … here goes.

The real answer to your question is that I’d do what I do for nothing. But that is not true either. I am paid extraordinarily well.

I do it because I must, something within me will not allow me to stop naming the Love who lives at the depth of my soul, a Love who exceeds my ability to name or describe.

It doesn’t happen all the time, but often enough, when I teach or guide the prayer and meditation of others, my heart fills with an unimaginable joy and mercy that brings tears to my eyes.

A current of love springs up from a place in my soul I do not control and cannot command. All I can do is consent to its flow and share the blessing, passing on what I know and feel is true.

I know this love not because someone has told me about it, but because I experience the great and all-surpassing love of God living in my heart.

It melts my fears, releases my regrets, breathes peace in my soul and awakens joy for the simple gift of being alive. It opens my eyes to see beauty in others and the world around me, despite the pain and ugliness that abounds in so many ways and places. In this love, I feel truly free to be myself with all my quirks and shortcomings.

A long time ago, I was tempted to think life was absurd, empty and meaningless. But a handful of people taught me how to pray, how to meditate and let stories about Jesus come to life in my mind and imagination. I began to feel their power and realize that I, too, was wanted, treasured and delighted in by God.

I felt a great love enveloping me. No, I don’t feel this way all the time, but even when I don’t I know this love remains and times of feeling it near will come again.

For this eternal love of God, the source of creation, is the presence of Christ, who is not only born in history but also in the mystery of our hearts, yours and mine.

Sometimes, when I do what I do, I get to see another human being light up with joy, feeling profoundly loved and treasured by the love of God living within their own flesh and blood. And I feel it, too, living and loving me, often with tears of joy.

Of all the great things that lie in your future, my greatest prayer is for you to feel this, too.

David L. Miller

With Mary, let it be

‘You were also blessed because you have heard and believed. A soul that believes both conceives and brings forth the Word of God and acknowledges his works. Let Mary’s soul be in each of you to proclaim the greatness of the Lord. Christ has only one mother in the flesh, but we all bring forth Christ in faith.’ (St. Ambrose, 339-397)

With eyes to see and ears to hear, we receive the wonder the Lord unveils to our senses that we might discover the beauty of the divine heart and know this wonder within ourselves, amid tears of joy.

For in this of all seasons, we see that we are loved by a Great Love whose joy is seeing our faces come to life, our eyes alight with surprise that we, of all creatures, should be one with the Love who made us. It is for exactly this purpose that we are created, to be joined in love with the One who is Love.

From the start of the Christmas story, we can see this. Imagine an angel, Gabriel, pure spirit, appearing in such form that a young woman might see and hear words of divine favor spoken just for her. Gabriel appears, loving the very sight of her soul, longing for Mary to believe that the secret darkness of her womb might hold the Light whom heaven and earth cannot contain.

But who can imagine it? Words are insufficient. Perhaps artists can bear us into the mystery. Thousands have tried, the great and the mediocre. With paint and brush, light and color, they exhausted their skills, longing to touch the mystery and capture the moment when heaven’s heart was conceived in the body and soul of a mere mortal who dared to say, ‘let it be.’

 

(Fra Angelico, Annunciation 1440-1445)

I return to two images each year. In Fra Angelico’s Annunciation, Gabriel bows before Mary, holding his (her?) heart lest it burst with love and hope, longing for her to believe, trust and know that Love has chosen her to be Love’s holy temple. For she is to bear the beauty of the divine face into a dark and dying world that we might see and feel the warmth of divine light melting the cold darkness of our hearts.

Mary’s eyes turn down before the wonder of heaven’s messenger. Bent at the waist, her posture matches Gabriel’s bow, each offering humble reverence to the other.

With Gabriel, she is consumed in the moment of encounter, lost in the incomprehensible surprise that her life, hidden in an insignificant place, should be known, desired and chosen to bear Love’s greatest gift that we, the exiles, lost and mortal, might find our way to the home we have always wanted.

But perhaps Mary’s eyes cannot conceive or understand any of this, any more than we can. Perhaps her eyes are like ours, confused, wondering, apprehensive, not knowing what Gabriel’s greeting portends, but not turning away either, for we want, we need, we long. Our hearts attuned to the heart of the One who made us, restlessness remains until we are one with the Mystery of the Love we shall never understand in all of eternity.

(Henry Ossawa Tanner, The Annunciation, 1898)

Yes, this is our state as we listen to Gabriel’s words to Mary, inviting her to believe that she will bear the heart of God, the beauty of Christ, into the world. But this is not a message for her alone. It is a word to us and very much for us. For, the One who is born of Mary longs for your consent.

The Loving Mystery, who fashioned the stars, shaped your soul to be Love’s own dwelling, ever waiting, eager and longing for our hearts to lay down our pretenses, surrender our defenses and open ourselves to Love’s invitation to bear the beauty all heaven and earth cannot contain.

Speak then. With Mary, offer your heart in the words we most need to say, ‘Let it be. Let the beauty you are take flesh and blood in the kindness of my heart, in the forgiveness I struggle to share and the grace I try to be. Let it be, let it be, let it be … that your greatness may be known in the one life you have given me.

David L. Miller