A homily I gave a few days ago at Holly Springs United Methodist Church, Holly Springs, North Carolina, at a mid-week Advent Evening Eucharist.

See, I am sending my messenger to prepare the way before me, and the Lord whom you seek will suddenly come to his temple. The messenger of the covenant in whom you delight—indeed, he is coming, says the Lord of hosts. But who can endure the day of his coming, and who can stand when he appears? For he is like a refiner’s fire and like fullers’ soap; he will sit as a refiner and purifier of silver, and he will purify the descendants of Levi and refine them like gold and silver, until they present offerings to the Lord in righteousness. Then the offering of Judah and Jerusalem will be pleasing to the Lord as in the days of old and as in former years.

Malachi 3:1-4

Let us pray:

From the cowardice that dares not face new truth,
from the laziness that is contented with half-truth,
from the arrogance that thinks it knows all truth,
Deliver me and all of us, O Lord. Amen.

Prayer from Kenya, United Methodist Hymnal no. 597, adapted

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Advent is my favorite season of the Church year. I wouldn’t say “it’s the most wonderful time of the year” since that phrase, as we know, has other associations. And now you have that sappy—I mean snappy—song stuck in Image result for advent modern liturgical iconyour head, don’t you? Sorry about that. Anyway, I don’t think the word “wonderful” gets at what is most profound about Advent.

The season of Advent is the Church’s ancient autumnal interval—a marking of the time between the end of the fall harvest and the coming spareness of winter, between November’s fading light and December’s inky darkness. Advent has a sense of the foreboding about it.

And not just because the trees are stripped bare and winter winds can come early—at least for those of us in the northern hemisphere. It’s because our inner landscapes can sometimes seem as desolate as the outer ones. Achy uncertainty can blanket our spirits like a late-fall Carolina snowstorm covering everything in slate-gray stillness.

This sense of foreboding, this Advent spirit of achy uncertainty is due in part, I think, to the scriptural texts that the Lectionary, year after year, cycle after cycle, asks us to hear, read, sing, pray, ponder. These texts can be startling in their bleakness, their harshness. They are at once familiar and yet ominous, perplexing, inscrutable.

Recall St. Luke’s solemn tone on the first Sunday of Advent this year, with his warnings about “distress among nations”; people fainting “from fear and foreboding”: the charge to be “on guard” that the Lord’s Day not “catch you unexpectedly, like a trap.”

This coming Sunday John the Baptizer—that most unsettling figure of Advent—will utter his famous words of welcome to those who came to him seeking baptism: “You brood of vipers!”

Anyone ever received that lovely sentiment on a Christmas card?

And then there is our text for this evening, the Old Testament reading appointed for the second Sunday of Advent.

The book of the prophet Malachi is a short one and the last book of the Hebrew Scriptures. Turn the page and you’re in the New Testament—ready to read about the birth of Jesus at the beginning of St. Matthew’s gospel. But Malachi doesn’t portend babies and mangers and shepherds abiding. Here we have, as we heard tonight and as you may have heard on Sunday, talk of fire and cleansing and purification. The coming Day of the Lord is not cheerfully summoned; there’s a question about whether it can even be endured.

And here we have more evidence of Advent’s sobering sensibilities, its achy uncertainties. This season is about the coming of a long-awaited messiah, yes, but it’s not only or even primarily about a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes lying in a manger. These few verses from Malachi remind us that we begin the Christian year every Advent not by embarking on a straightforward path to nativity joy but by acknowledging the gaping chasm that exists between our deepest human longings and the reality of God.

And God, according to the prophet Malachi, is “like a refiner’s fire and like fullers’ soap.” A refiner’s fire.

These are familiar words, especially if we’ve heard or sung Handel’s Messiah a few times. But we can too easily make the familiar idolatrous. We can forget that before the gospel is good news it is strange news. We can miss that the whole of Israel’s prophetic tradition, including the slim book of Malachi, seeks to say loud and clear and often “that things are not as they should be, nor as they were promised, and not as they must and will be.”[1] And we can misunderstand that metaphors like fire and soap and their refining, purifying properties are meant to call into question the dominant social reality of both the prophet’s day and our own.

In an Advent sermon in 1928, German pastor and later Nazi resistor Dietrich Bonhoeffer, said this:

It is very remarkable that we face the thought that God is coming, so calmly, whereas previously peoples trembled at the day of God . . . . We have become so accustomed to the idea of divine love and of God’s coming at Christmas that we no longer feel the shiver of fear that God’s coming should arouse in us. We are indifferent to the message, taking only the pleasant and agreeable out of it and forgetting the serious aspect, that the God of the world draws near to the people of our little earth and lays claim to us. The coming of God is truly not only glad tidings, but first of all frightening news for everyone who has a conscience.[2]

Bonhoeffer’s words suggest to me and perhaps to you that Advent might be the season of the liturgical year that reveals most profoundly how our social location determines how we read the Bible.

I’ll say that again: Advent might be the season of the liturgical year that reveals most profoundly how our social location determines how we read the Bible.

Because what we discover when we take in the sobering, unsettling scriptures of Advent is that they are difficult not because they are willfully obscure but because we are often willfully lodged in places of privilege and power, incapable of hearing them from the underside of history from which they come.

Refining fire is a horrifying prospect to those who benefit from the status quo. To the powerless whose daily lives are a struggle for survival, for dignity, the fire that would purify unjust systems, the caustic soap that would clean out corruption and abuse of power can’t do its work soon enough.

For those of us whose way of life depends on political, economic, and social systems in which power and resources are accessible to a privileged few, refining fire and caustic soap and the winnowing fork and the axe laid to the root of the tree and any number of Advent’s startling images can make us long for cradles and creches and toddler-shepherds in bathrobes. We prefer soft candlelight to refining fire, thank you.

But here’s the good news in this strange text in this bleak season—and it’s Bonhoeffer’s words again from the same sermon in 1928:

Only when we have felt the terror of the matter, can we recognize the incomparable kindness. God comes into the very midst of evil and of death, and judges the evil in us and in the world. And by judging us, God cleanses and sanctifies us, comes to us with grace and love.

It turns out, as blacksmiths and jewelers know, that refining fire does not annihilate; it purifies to make something beautiful. We are forged in a fire that makes us able to “offer ourselves to the Lord in righteousness”—to see to the moral obligations that bind us to God and to our neighbors.

“Moral obligation” is the connotation of the Hebrew word for “righteousness” in this passage but it does not refer simply to the obligation of charity that we are so good at this time of year. Rather, it’s about the obligation to let go of what we think of as real, as stable, as ordered and uncontested—the systems, again, that serve and benefit us at the expense of others—and to inhabit that realm, that reign, that kingdom of righteousness which all of Advent is leading us to: where the proud are scattered in the thoughts of their hearts, the powerful are brought down from their thrones and the lowly are lifted up, where the hungry are filled with good things and the rich are sent away empty.

I’ve included an image in our bulletin tonight by Everett Patterson, an artist based in Portland, Oregon who created this illustration in 2014. It is rich in JoseyMariaWebvisuals, in symbols and associations with the familiar story of a displaced couple in dire straits: an illegitimate pregnancy, harassment from political authorities, shunning and rejection from local businesses, an uncertain future.

I hope you’ll take the image with you and for the remainder of Advent and into the twelve days of the Christmas season ponder all these things in your heart. For, like the startling, unsettling texts of Advent, this image is about power. Who has it and who doesn’t. Like Advent, it reminds us that God resides with the powerless and invites us to live there, too.

And the power of Advent is that the one we are waiting for has already given us all we need to do this, to bear witness to his reign, to stand alongside and learn from those considered illegitimate—the harassed, the shunned, the rejected, those with an uncertain future.

For when the Word became flesh he didn’t just slip into skin like ours. And he didn’t come to impart wisdom to help us important people get on with our busy lives. He came, full of grace and truth, to show us that we are made for relationship, that we are most fully human when we live into God’s desired future envisioned by prophets like Malachi, where all abide in kinship and mutual care—where all oppression ceases, all are made welcome, all know their belovedness.

We need to be purified to see this vision of what God desires for all creation—to work for it and live into it. We need to be cleaned up. Fire and soap.

And we need bread. We need to be fed by the one who was born in Bethlehem, the house of bread, who gave his own body to be broken and shared. As we come to the table we offer our own brokenness—our anxieties, our blindness, our mixed-up priorities, and our toxic prejudices. And we trust that God will take all that we are and purify us, cleanse us, and make us beautiful.

This is our hope, in this season and in all the seasons of our lives.

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[1]Walter Brueggemann, The Prophetic Imagination (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1978), 21.

[2]Dietrich Bonhoeffer, A Testament to Freedom: The Essential Writings of Dietrich Bonhoeffer. Ed. Geffrey B. Kelly and F. Burton Nelson (New York: HarperSanFrancisco, 1995) pp. 185-186.

From the archives and in honor of the canonization this weekend of Oscar Romero, Archbishop of San Salvador: 

“And that is how Oscar Romero got disappeared by right wingers for a second time.”

Jon Stewart spoke these words at the end of a segment last week on Comedy Central’s The Daily Show. The occasion was the Texas School Board’s recent decision to reject a PROMO9recommendation that Archbishop Romero be included in a world history curriculum standard about important figures who led resistance movements against political oppression. Stewart noted, with his usual stinging wit, that the rationale for the board’s decision was that Romero wasn’t famous enough. The absurdity of it: “let’s not teach this because no one knows it.”

Thirty years ago today Oscar Romero was gunned down with an M-16 assault rifle while celebrating the Eucharist for a group of nuns in a hospital chapel. In a sermon preached the day before, and broadcast across the country by radio, he had called upon the Salvadoran army to stop doing the bidding of the country’s corrupt military government.

I would like to appeal in a special way to the army’s enlisted men, and in particular to the ranks of the Guardia Nacional and the police—those in the barracks. Brothers: you are of part of our own people. You kill your own brothers and sisters. Before an order to kill that a man may give, God’s law must prevail: Thou shalt not kill!

No soldier is obliged to obey an order against the law of God. No one has to fulfill an immoral law. It is time to take back your consciences and to obey your consciences rather than the orders of sin. The Church, defender of the rights of God, of the law of God, of human dignity, of the person, cannot remain silent before such abominations . . .

In the name of God, and in the name of this suffering people, whose laments rise to heaven each day more tumultuous, I beg you, I beseech you, I order you in the name of God: Stop the repression!

American involvement in El Salvador’s government was direct: Jimmy Carter dramatically increased U.S. aid to the Salvadoran military during his presidency–despite Romero’s public plea that his country was “fed up with weapons and bullets,” and between 1980 and 1992 6 billion American taxpayer dollars helped to fund an oppressive regime and its death squads.

And so on March 24, 1980 Romero wasn’t exactly “disappeared” as so many of his fellow Salvadorans had been, but his life was brutally cut short, his prophetic voice silenced by a sniper assassin.

Yet his witness has endured. In 1989 Australian filmmaker John Duigan made Romero, introducing the first world to this third-world prophet of the people. A collection of Romero’s writings–excerpts from radio addresses, sermons, speeches, and homilies–was published in 1988 (paperback 2004), and is available in its entirety online. Romero’s compelling life and death and the liberation theology he espoused have been the subject of countless theological texts and treatises.

When prophetic figures like Oscar Romero are cut down in their prime, there’s a tendency sometimes to tidy up their image; soften their radical edge a bit; make their persona a little more palatable for mass consumption–in other words, to minimize the revolutionary qualities that got them killed in the first place. (Tim Tyson has written eloquently about this phenomenon in relation to Martin Luther King, Jr.).

So it’s important to remember the truth that Romero bore witness to with his words and his witness (which were one and the same): a truth that wounds but which also heals; that accuses but also liberates. The truth of Christ, of God’s abundant mercy and generosity incarnate in a life of sacrificial love–a life and love which refused violence in all its seductive guises.

Chris Huebner suggests that “the truth of Christ is not merely a belief uttered or expressed or otherwise made present by us. Rather, it is a performance enacted in and through which truth is given as an offering or gratuitous gesture.” Romero made of his own life this kind of offering, this kind of gratuitous gesture in which “the interruption of the violent world of mastery, possession, and control” was glimpsed “by a nonviolent offering of a radically different way of being and knowing called peace” (Huebner).

And for this he was felled on the altar of a small Salvadoran chapel, days before the start of Holy Week, his own body and blood mingled with the body and blood of the Eucharist. The peace that the Eucharist makes possible made Romero’s life possible, and in his violent death, martyrdom and truth were again revealed as gifts that make the ongoing witness of peace in the world possible.

For those of us who live and work in the tedium that often characterizes church life in America–the pettiness, the mind-numbing sameness of our squabbles, the countless ways we accommodate to state power and politics, the scandals that may yet undo us–Oscar Romero’s witness is an enduring challenge–and a gift. For constitutive of his life’s work was another gratuitous gesture: that of making God credible in the world.

Texas school children won’t find this out in their new history books and they will be the poorer for it. But the body of Christ gathered around his table around the world have, in the martyrdom of our brother, Oscar, the credible truth of God’s own life and love.

Thanks be to God.

In 2003, members of Westboro Baptist Church picketed outside the funeral of Fred Rogers. They followed the same script, held the same signs, enacted the same dismal theatre of outrage they had at countless funerals before and as they would at many more.

Journalist Tom Junod talks about this near the end of the new, beautiful documentary film Won’t You Be My Neighbor? (He also wrote about it for Esquire in 2014—link above). Junod describes how he approached the protestors after the funeral and was drawn, as Mr. Rogers would have been, to the children among them:

There were so many of them, for one thing; the Westboro congregation turned out to be a young one, and even some of the lank-haired women holding signs and spitting epithets turned out be, on closer inspection, teenagers. And they were all so poor. I’m not speaking simply of their clothes, and their teeth, and their grammar, or any of the other markers of class in America. I’m speaking of their poverty of spirit. Whether they were sixteen or six, they looked to be already exhausted, already depleted, with greasy hair, dirty faces, and circles under their eyes that had already hardened into purplish dents. They looked as if they were far from home, and didn’t know where they were going next. They looked, in truth, not just poorly taken care of, but abused, if not physically then by a belief inimical to childhood—the belief that to be alive is to hate and be hated.

By the time Junod recounts this experience in the film, the viewer has been immersed in the theology of childhood that Mr. Rogers embodied in his life and work. He was no heavy-handed evangelist, of course—gentleness and utter guilelessness were his way in the world. The long-running Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood was not explicit in its theological convictions but it was unintelligible apart from them. Which may be why he was relentlessly mocked by critics who for decades questioned his sincerity, his sexuality, even describing him as “an evil, evil man,” as Fox and Friends did in 2007. The cheery hosts breezily claimed, with characteristic ignorance of their own ignorance, that Mr. Rogers had help to raise generations of spoiled, narcissistic, entitled adults who didn’t realize that specialness must be earned.

A Wall Street Journal article was full of the same armchair Ayn Rand huff, though it struck a more patronizing tone:

Fred Rogers, the late TV icon, told several generations of children that they were “special” just for being whoever they were. He meant well, and he was a sterling role model in many ways. But what often got lost in his self-esteem-building patter was the idea that being special comes from working hard and having high expectations for yourself.

But as the film points out, not didactically but with every frame featuring Fred Rogers, this criticism gets everything wrong. Without ever saying it directly, Mr. Rogers conveyed to children watching him in living rooms and in his many face to face encounters with children and their parents that they were persons of inherent dignity, worthy of love and capable of love by virtue of their creatureliness. “Love,” he said, at the beginning of his long career, “is at the root of everything: all learning, all parenting, all relationships; love or the lack of it.” Children, he believed, had complex inner lives and should be respected not condescended to; they should be valued and listened to for the unique, beloved human being each one is. Every child should be protected and given the opportunity to flourish.

The lack of love was at the heart of the second episode of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood but not overtly. It was part of a week long series—the very first week the show went into national distribution from its production base in Pittsburgh—on conflict, change, and distrust. In the episode, King Friday, one of a dozen or so low-budget puppets voiced by Rogers, was posting border guards and erecting a fence to keep out those calling for change. “Down with the changers!” he bellows, “because we’re on top!” The episode aired in February 1968 when images of Vietnam were the centerpiece of the nightly news. In the end, the fence came down, the guards were dismissed, but only through the bold civil disobedience of King Friday’s subjects.

In a 1969 episode, Mr. Rogers invited African-American cast member Francois Clemmons to join him as he rested his feet in a kiddie pool of cool water. The associations aren’t subtle: the segregated swimming pools of that era, the Christian practice of washing feet, the simple gesture of inviting a neighbor to sit and rest. (Clemmons played a police officer on the show; a strategic choice in the late 60s. The two reenacted this scene in a 1993 episode.)

Mr. Rogers was a practitioner of disruptive peacemaking which is, at heart, love’s redeeming work: bearing witness to another way of being and seeing in a world where the powerful rule by fear-mongering, the constant threat of war, and dehumanizing others. Disruptive peacemaking, the redemptive work of love, is both the dramatic, potentially risky work of social protest and civil disobedience and the ordinary acts of loving one’s neighbor with kindness, hospitality, friendship; it is seeing to their well-being in ways that may be modest—a homemade meal for a homebound neighbor—and may be costly, as in refusing in material, consequential ways to live by a story that would deny anyone their dignity and strip them of their personhood.

I wept pretty much through the whole of Won’t You Be My Neighbor? and not only for the beautiful man that Fred Rogers was but for the fear-mongering, constant threat of war, and the dehumanizing of others that has become normative and maybe long-term 50 years after the beginning of Rogers’ work.

The travesties of the last few days seem beyond comprehension and yet the moral and intellectual bankruptcy of the President and the calculated destruction plotted and carried out by his henchmen and henchwomen have become so routinized in only 18 months (only!) that systematic acts of child abuse seem as inevitable as they are horrifying and heartbreaking. The conservative corporate media defend the traumatizing of children (the effects of which will be lifelong; we know this) with the same breezy certainty they displayed in criticizing Fred Rogers (a life-long Republican).

Counterintuitively maybe, tenderness is also at the heart of disruptive peacemaking. That tenderness is utterly absent in our public discourse, that it is seen as weakness, especially in men, is something to be mourned. Tender men like Fred Rogers are marked men—mocked, belittled, dismissed, and regarded with deep suspicion, especially if they work with children.

Another tender man, the extraordinary  Jean Vanier, who founded the first L’Arche community a few years before Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood began, says that “to love someone is to show to them their beauty, their worth and their importance.”

This was Fred Rogers’ lifelong vocation. He practiced it fiercely.

God help us to do the same.

There’s a hint at the beginning of Martin McDonagh’s Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri about where this wild ride is headed. Red Welby, owner of the billboard company, is reading Flannery O’Connor when Mildred Hayes, grieving mother of Angela, strides in–and, oh, this woman does stride–with $5000 in cash and a sorrow that has crushed her.

She pays for three signs on Drinkwater Road to get the attention of the town and to shame the police chief into doing more to solve her daughter’s murder. Chief Willoughby is beloved by the townspeople and dying of cancer and sympathetic to Mildred’s pain so it’s left to officer Dixon–a foul, thuggish, dimwitted racist–to deal with Mildred’s effrontery.

We soon learn that Mildred’s own cruelty can be breathtaking, hardened as she is by loss and suffering and guilt. “There ain’t no God and the whole world’s empty and it doesn’t matter what we do to each other?” Mildred poses this question to no one in particular and when she answers it with “I hope not” we know that a capacity for compassion–we get fleeting, unsentimental glimpses of it–resides alongside her savagery.

It isn’t just that McDonagh’s film is populated with the grotesque and that it captures so exquisitely an ethos where violence and tenderness, ignorance and insight coincide in almost every frame, within every character. And it isn’t just that he seems to have taken to heart one of O’Connor’s enduring bits of wisdom: “To the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost-blind you draw large and startling figures.”

It’s that McDonagh seems to believe that one really can be changed in a moment, that a sudden flash of insight or truth can come like a purifying fire–quite literally in the case of Dixon or, for Mildred, from a despised enemy–and everything can change.

In the few reviews I’ve read, it’s Dixon’s transformation that comes under the most scrutiny for both its lack of believability and the unsatisfactory way it glosses his virulent, violent ways. I get that. Especially in this current cultural moment.

But I think about the ending of “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.” The insufferable grandmother, the murderous Misfit. Each, in a startling blaze of terror, discovers the truth about themselves and each other.

She saw the man’s face twisted close to her own as if he were going to cry and she murmured: “Why you’re one of my babies. You’re one of my own children!” She reached out and touched him on the shoulder. The Misfit sprang back as if a snake had bitten him and shot her three times through the chest. Then he put his gun down on the ground and took off his glasses and began to clean them . . . 

“She would have been a good woman,” the Misfit said, “if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.”

It’s a flicker of grace in both O’Connor’s short story and McDonagh’s movie. Who knows if it will last. The film keeps us guessing about that. But maybe we can be changed in a moment, in a twinkling of an eye.


As the CNN anchor was about to introduce another segment on another hero in the aftermath of Hurricane Harvey, music began to play in the background.

It was almost imperceptible–so conditioned are we to expect this kind of artfully packaged reporting in the wake of so-call “natural” disasters. The intent is hardly disguised: “human interest” stories like these are meant to restore our faith in the basic decency of humans. And to boost advertising revenues for the network.

The cynic might say the latter is more important to network executives but we viewers reliably–storm after tragic storm–give them the data they need to keep at it. We consume these stories, are moved to tears by them (the music helps with that), and grant our permission again and again to be manipulated in such easy, overt ways.

To say this isn’t to denigrate the selflessness of ordinary people who often go to extraordinary lengths to help the vulnerable in times of crisis. (But maybe we could stop saying that Texans–or North Carolinians or West Virginians or whoever–are the very best at this; it’s not a competition and no one group has a monopoly on goodness).

The problem is what these stories of individual heroism do in aggregate, especially when they are accompanied by the rhetoric of “we’ll bounce back,” “we’ll be stronger than ever,” “this storm won’t defeat us.” They can misdirect our gaze to where we need to be looking most intently, with continual vigilance and no little righteous anger: at policies and programs and political institutions who bear direct responsibility for making the effects of naturally-forming hurricanes much worse than they would otherwise be.

We have known for a long time that emissions of heat-trapping gases are increasing the probability and intensity of heat waves, record rainfall, and storm surges. It doesn’t take rocket science (it’s climate science, Mr. President, and it’s real) to know that warmer oceans create more severe hurricanes.

We have known for a long time that easing restrictions on building in low-lying, flood-prone areas is to court environmental disaster which is to create social chaos. The explosive growth in Houston in the last few years is a sobering parable for our time: when you allow developers to pave over acres of prairie and pasture land that once absorbed large amounts of rainwater, you are responsible for a level of devastation and misery and loss of life that is staggering, and much of it avoidable.

When you have more than 1300 chemical plants, as Texas does, many of them in low-lying coastal areas susceptible to flooding, you get what happened last Thursday: the Arkema plant in Houston lost power, lost back-up generator power, took on six feet of water–all of which caused highly flammable organic peroxides to catch fire. The company had recently pressured federal regulators to delay new safety regulations, and the Trump administration obliged.

And when you have persons in control of agencies and institutions who deny the settled science on climate change, who actively undermine measures to ensure safety, you get, for example, an EPA chief whose entire public career has stood in opposition to the mission of the agency he now heads. Old news, I realize, and so bizarre as to be laughable, but the power being wielded, mostly in secret, is chilling to contemplate, breathtaking in its reach.

And so these agencies and institutions and the media that unwittingly conspire with them would have us focus on personal acts of charity rather than on corporate acts of injustice. It is a twisted reality of our time that affluent America has an interest in maintaining unjust social structures which create victims on whom we can lavish our charity. The poor as social project.

But justice comes before charity. The prophet Amos, after all, did not say, “Let charity roll down like mighty waters.”

So while we are, rightly, admiring the generosity of rescuers in motor boats, may we also, with vigilance and righteous anger, speak truth to power, saying loud and clear that justice is called for here. And justice, simply, as one prophetic voice of our time has put it, is “to sort out what belongs to whom, and return it to them.”

Our beloved dog, Duke, got sick the week before our family vacation and, even though we had witnessed his decline for years, it was beyond hard. And when he died at the age of 16 years and one day, we wept more tears and remembered a puppy who ate every shoe in sight; who once, when briefly left alone in the car on a cool autumn day, chewed through every seat belt; a dog who, like every dog you yourself have ever loved, showed us what living and loving with full-on joy and abandon looks like.

Duke came to us the second Saturday of September, 2001. On the morning of September 11 I took him to his first veterinarian appointment and saw the tumbling twin towers on the waiting-area TV. That day was always redeemed a little for us as it was also linked to this slobbery, unwieldy 12-week old bundle of energy and affection who would change our lives for ever, for good.

When we gathered for vacation on Sanibel Island in southwest Florida this past week we told funny, tender stories about Duke, who was named by Drew who, at the time, was an avid Duke basketball fan. That Drew would go on to become a Blue Devil-hating UNC Tarheel didn’t diminish one speck of affection for the name of our “Dukie.”

There are so many sentimental cliches about the love of dogs. In my experience all of them are true. But what I couldn’t have known was the grace Duke would show us in death. As we tended to him those last few days, when he already had significant infirmities–total deafness, the worn-out, painful hips that labs are cursed with–he never failed to register somehow, sometimes with the smallest gesture, how thankful he was for our presence, our care.

We buried Duke in the backyard of a house we likely won’t always live in but his body Duke at Duke Gardenswill lie here under green grass and white snow, season after season and, while I don’t envision a reunion with Duke in some meadowy heaven, I have the hope that the goodness that was his very being participates somehow in what Dante called “the love that moves the sun and the other stars.” And if I can live with the kind of integrity and fullness of life that was our Duke, and if I can die with the same grace and gratitude, I will have been made more fully human, in no small part, because of this beautiful animal.

Thank you for 16 years of friendship, dearest Duke, faithful companion to Debra, Jim, Drew, and Sean Patrick. You made us laugh. You made us proud. You made us better.

In an upcoming issue of The Christian Century I say a few things about Mary Oliver’s poem “Gethsemane.” It appears in her book Thirstthe first collection of poems published after the death of her long-time partner, Molly Malone Cook. These poems speak of grief and loss and gratitude, and many also reveal the theological and liturgical edges of Oliver’s work during this period of her life.

She writes about worship with both whimsy and seriousness, and always in her exploration of scriptural theology is the natural world–trees and bees and oceans and honey locusts taking their necessary place in the cosmic story of redemption and restoration.

And because Oliver is not an academic theologian, not even, I would say, a conventional church-going Christian, she brings surprising insight to familiar stories. In “Gethsemane,” for instance, she notes briefly what is always highlighted, often tediously, about this incident recorded in the gospels according to Saints Matthew, Mark and Luke: Jesus asks the disciples to stay awake while he prays in a garden yet they soon fall asleep. Oliver, though, imagines that while humans might have let Jesus down in his moment of crisis and uncertainty, the rest of creation did not.

The “wild awake” world she conjures is arresting, jarring, especially on Good Friday. And on this Good Friday, when it becomes clearer with each passing day that we have neither a president nor a collective public will interested in seeing to the health of a planet in peril, Oliver’s poem is a kind of lament.

Yesterday the United States dropped the “mother of all bombs” in a faraway place on mother earth. How can we “hear both the cry of the earth and the cry of the poor” (Laudato Si’) in the midst of such Holy Week destruction and blasphemy? The destruction of our world, after all, as Wendell Berry has said, is “not just bad stewardship, or stupid economics, or a betrayal of family responsibility; it is the most horrid blasphemy. It is flinging God’s gifts into His face, as if they were of no worth beyond that assigned to them by our destruction of them.”

Jesus prays in a garden. We are asleep. But the precarious earth, beloved of God, suffering unspeakably at our hands, is wild awake.

by  Mary Oliver

The grass never sleeps.
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.

Jesus said, wait with me.  But the disciples slept.

The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet,
and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.

Jesus said, wait with me.  And maybe the stars did, maybe
the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn’t move,
the lake far away, where once he walked as on a
blue pavement,
lay still and waited, wild awake.

Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not
keep that vigil, how they must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing this too
must be a part of the story.