This weekend

I am...

Writing one paper and making a good dent in the research for another

Taking care of a faculty member's cat overnight

Going to the once-a-month women's group at church, tomorrow morning

Going to the DioCal convention volunteer training, tomorrow afternoon (I'll bring my homework and study in the city between times)

Serving as MC (Lay Assistant) at church on Sunday

Doing piles of catch-up reading

Why do I do this to myself?

A-Z Meme

Because, of course, I have too much to do.

Accent: Pacific Northwest, accelerated (thanks be to Ritalin for slowing me down)

Book: The Secret Life of Bees

Chore I Hate: Cleaning the bathroom

Dog or Cat: I have neither. I like cats and large dogs.

Essential Electronics: Laptop, CD player in the car, cell phone

Flower: Nasturtium (I'm growing some for a friend who likes to eat them), lilac.

Gold or Silver: Silver, but I only wear a necklace

Hometown: Olympia, WA

Irritant: Asthmatic response to incense

Job Title: Seminarian

Kids: None, but I love them and want them someday.

Living arrangements: Grad student dorm

Most admirable trait: In myself: enthusiasm. In other people: compassion

Number of projects to do in the next month: Don't ask.

Overnight hospital stays: Four as a child, none since age 5.

Phobias: Heights and large spiders

Quote: "There are no outcasts. There are no second-class citizens. That is Gospel truth." --Rt. Rev. Vincent Warner, Bishop of Olympia, ECUSA, 10/31/03

Religion: Episcopalian, with a strong affinity for interfaith connection.

Siblings: None

Time I wake up: Between 6 and 7, though I rarely get out of bed then.

Unusual talent or skill: I can walk on my knees in the lotus position.

Vegetable I refuse to eat: Brussels sprouts

Worst habit: Procrastinating

X-rays: Teeth, chest, back, right foot.

Yummy foods I make: Tofu chocolate pie

Zodiac sign: Virgo

Liturgical Subversion

My friend, the "Apostle in Exile" in San Joaquin, conspired with my mentor (through whom I landed at St. Aidan's) to send me the most creatively, lovingly, wonderfully horrible package I have ever had the pleasure of receiving. Inside were all things necessary to create the Twelve Stations of Easter Kitsch, complete with written instructions. I knew it was coming; we'd talked about the "conspiracy" for weeks, and I knew how much she was relishing putting it together for me. (I was compelled to open it publicly, hence the enlisting of an on-campus friend.) I even suspected that Molly would spring it on me yesterday at lunchtime--which is why I had my camera in my pocket. (We'd just come from chapel, where we'd prayed in the Anglican Cycle of Prayer for the Royal Religious Peculiars. Not even knowing what they were, we couldn't look at each other.)

God help me if I ever tried this at school, but you may try it at home.

The apostle in question is in Florida for the week, and anyway she has a day job, so couldn't be here for the unveiling. You may adapt the instructions; I'm leaving most of those to your imagination. For her benefit and yours, here are pictures of this dubious resurrection. Molly took them, with my camera. Enjoy!



Station 1: The Easter Basket. "Behold, Kitsch is risen from the grave! Like the basket of a hot air balloon, he is lifted up."

We visited Target and a couple of dollar stores in the same evening, over Spring Break. I begged her not to get me this. But I knew she would. She had to. I had no idea what it would become, though.

The Note to the Celebrant is absolutely priceless: "...In ecumenical settings, it is advisable to have Easter baskets... show at least three faces of the Lord: the Masked Master of Hidden Strengths (aka Spiderman), the Intrepid Traveler (aka Dora the Explorer) and the Maker of All (aka Bob the Builder)."



Station 2: Pink Peeps, inspired by an overdose of hideosity that evening in Target. "Here begins the story of our salivation toward the Lord. We remember the sound made by the women on discovering the empty tomb: ...Eep!! Eep!! Eep!!"



Station 3: Bunny Ears. "Open your ears, O hard-headed people. ...The spiritual truth comes only through the eyes on TOP of our heads."



Station 4: Lop-eared Ceramic Bunny Woman. "For this is also a cautionary tale... If you do not preserve even the uttermost tip of your bunny ears, you too will be condemned to stand as a bunny woman statue forever!"

So that's how Lot's wife gets into this...



Station 5: Chocolate Cross. "Taste and see that the Lord tastes good!"

I'm utterly fascinated with the whole idea of eating a chocolate torture instrument. I mean, I wear a silver Celtic one. But eating them, in celebration? In the words of the online education guru, a mutual friend of the apostle's and mine, "It's like eating a chocolate electric chair." This one has the wood grain and everything. Eep!



Station 6: Chocolate Easter Bunnies. "Behold the demons that leer and glitter at the glory of our Lord! ...Devour your enemies. Quickly, lest someone else should gain their heads!"

I have no compunction against eating chocolate bunnies. But I can't, until at least Sunday. My rector needs to see this liturgy. He'll enjoy it almost as much as I have.



Station 7: Stretchable Bunnies. "How can we contort ourselves into such an unlikely faith?"

I actually would (and will) play with these. You shall see the evidence. But not yet...



Station 8: Bunny Jacks. "Fearfully, the people scattered. Patiently, she gathered them. Reenact this holy ritual with these most sacred bunny jacks and ball."

Someone had to make this stuff up! And people buy them for their kids, like regular toys. Really!



Station 9: The Chickie Basket, the bright pink scary thing at the far right of this picture. "Bow your head in reverence as the scattered jack people come to rest in its bosom."

Bow my head in helplessly unstifled giggles, she means...



Station 10: Easter Jump Rope. "Come, all you peoples. Come and jump for joy!"

If I did this at school, it's just enough rope to hang myself with. Even I don't dare do that!



Station 11: Carmen Miranda Celebriduck. "On this most holy day, we also welcome others into our fellowship--through the rite of baptism."

My favorite of all of these, the drag-queen duck. My friends and I jokingly call her "Magdalen."



Station 12: The Light of Kitsch. "It is time for us to be sent forth into the world..."

Giggle in peace to love and serve the Lord!

(And please, if you're ever on my COM, this is only for fun. We're poking at popular culture. Easter itself is sacred to all of us--which is why these things leave us shaking our heads.)

Knowing

I slept very little last night. Went to church again this morning, and then to a potluck. I'll admit to exhaustion. But everything I wrote previously is, if anything, more deeply true. I am not feeling any endorphin high. I have been touched, changed, more profoundly than I know how to articulate. I know what I am called to do, on a cellular level, in my throat and in my heart, deeper than doubt can reach. I'd thought that I was grounded, before. The ground is different now. But it is life-giving, and strong.

I know that I will need to live into this reality, and to find these words. This calling came to me gradually, tentatively, over many years, as I was able to listen and as I wasn't. Now it is clear and strong. I don't question my sanity. I want to know how to grow into what God is asking me to be. The first thing to do is to take all the skills I'm learning more seriously than I have. I had a watershed experience yesterday. I am called to relationship with God, as we all are. I believe I'm called to be a priest. I want to do this, and I want to do it well. I care much more about my pastoral skills than about, say, the Council of Chalcedon. I couldn't care less where anyone falls on an internet heresy quiz--I want all to know that God simply loves them. How to do this? Go after the academics like a dog with a bone. Practice everything. Listen. Listen. Listen. Attend to other people and attend to God. Know that I am learning to be a vessel--not the healer herself, but one through whose hands and words and actions, God heals. And then, get out of my own way and be that conduit.

Learn to listen. Learn to speak. Learn to stand up, and to sit still. Let the fire burn; burn with it. Tell my rector exactly what is different--not "I'm thinking, maybe," but "This is where I know I'm called to be." Tag along to vestry and stewardship committee meetings, as well as the liturgical/pastoral activities that draw me. Learn everything I can. Try everything I can. Own everything. Grow without fear. Let myself love what I love, and follow what I follow, awake and with abandon. Listen to the Yeses, listen to the Nos and Laters; dig deeper all the time.

Always, keep walking. Keep praying. Keep alive to the world and to God.

Christ is Risen!

Christ is risen from the dead,
Trampling down death by death,
And upon those in the tombs bestowing life!

Sing along.



Wow. I've never been to an Easter Vigil like this one. We told all the stories--none were read the usual way. Genesis was read, against a background of Native American instrumentation. (We got what creation might have sounded like.) Ezekiel and the Dry Bones was performed wordlessly, as interpretive dance. One man encircled another, breathed on him, and both danced together. They drew a few of us into the circle with them; I was one. Noah's Ark was read as a poem. The Moses story was told by Aaron and Miriam, two years in the desert and tired of everything. We had three baptisms. And I got to serve at the altar.

Always before now, I talked about "being called to something." I hardly dared say what--at most, "maybe priesthood, maybe Mercy Corps." I didn't commit--I couldn't, as my process will take forever and I have no control over what people see in me, and decide about my calling.

Until tonight. I was six inches from the baptisms, holding the book, and I wanted to be performing them. Not maybe. Wanted to be. Felt the Spirit flowing into me, "This is where I want you." It was like being in a waterfall of God. I thought about what it means to be there and to be initiating other people, and I don't want to be anywhere else.

Called a friend when I got home, because I knew she'd understand. She did. (She's a woman in San Joaquin, with a calling of her own.) She said the alleluias for me and with me, and told me what I knew--that I was glowing, and that my soul was "going splat!" against the ceiling. "There is," she said, "no going back now." I know that. And all I can do is rejoice. All I can do is love God back, and dedicate myself again to being the person God affirms I am now, and is calling me ever more deeply to be.

Now. I need to live into this calling until other people see it, and forever, let myself live it always more. The service was beautiful, creative, wonderful, powerful--and frustrating, because while I felt internally, invisibly anointed, I was also reminded how long my road will be. I'm not formally in process. I've got many people to prove myself to. I keep hearing messages from friends about how the process toward ordination beats people up--and messages from God not to doubt who I am or what I give.

God is, inexorably, no matter how I block it out or doubt my own worthiness, calling me.

The Lord is risen indeed. Alleluia.

(We sang the Troparion I linked to, though less well than the choir from St. Gregory's. You can find their music here.)



(Pictures added May 2, 2006, from the St. Aidan's Tuesday FLASH.)

Worth getting up on a Saturday...

Since I came back from Spring Break (a week ago Monday), I've been feeling like each of my limbs is caught in its own separate riptide. I'm having real trouble focusing. I have a million things to figure out and do, and it feels like very little time to do them in. Sometimes I just can't move. Sometimes my head's above water--and I'm choking. Sometimes I can do the things I need to do.

I'm housesitting in Walnut Creek this weekend, and drove in to school this morning for the ally training that four of my friends put together. I wasn't sure what I'd learn; I'm capable of and willing to stand up for and with other people. I'm very, very glad I went.

Early in the workshop, we heard the story of the paralytic who was lowered through a roof to be healed by Jesus (Mark 2:1-5). We split into two groups: an inner and an outer circle. Partners faced each other and each answered a question. Then the outside circle shifted three people over, and we had new partnerships. Three times we answered questions: who in the story did we identify with and why, when did we not have an ally and need one, and when did we have an ally when we needed one? We didn't dialogue; we just listened, and told our own stories. Then we got back into the big circle and called out the feelings we had heard and experienced. We noticed how the mood of our group changed when we shifted from discussing feelings of abandonment to feelings of relief, validation, and freedom. I noticed in myself how, when I am listened to and supported, I am reconnected with the truest parts of myself, with other people, and with life.

Later, we discussed two models of interaction from a tiny little $100 book, Overcoming Organizational Defenses: Facilitating Organizational Learning, by Chris Argyris. Model I can be described as "making nice" in order to persuade. Here, you shy away from confrontations to appear non-threatening, but when you're challenged, you win by not backing down. It's kind of an intentional passive-aggression, except that you can feel good while you're doing it, because you want to make other people feel good. Model II encompasses much more self-reflective behavior, as well as honesty with the other. Your currency here is valid information and varied perspectives. You speak from your own position, and listen when others do the same. You're not chasing social victory, but mutually acknowledged truth. You operate not from a place of fear, but from respect for yourself and those you're conversing with.

I thought about this for the rest of the morning, through a role-play we did and our closing discussion. I thought about who I am as an ally and as someone who needs allies of her own. I finally realized something: I am not very practiced at remembering my own power. I forget that my words--anyone's words--carry weight simply because I speak them. Thinking of it now, it feels like inner tai chi: finding my balance, testing my limits, using my voice. I can stand up as I am, and I can thoughtfully speak in truth. I don't have to be emotionally reactive. I can know that I am a valid and immeasurably worthy creation of God, and I can live from that place of sureness and strength.

This is our birthright. You can do it too. Speak from your center, in confidence that you will be heard.

Rejoice!

The three surviving Christian Peacemaker Team members held hostage in Iraq have been released. Welcome home James Loney, Harmeet Singh Sooden, and Norman Kember!

Information, action requests, and memorials for Tom Fox are on the CPT website.

Links to news stories:

Al-Jazeera

The BBC

The Guardian

The New York Times

We thank you for their release, gracious God, and we pray for all who are still held captive in this war and all others. Keep them safe, and bring them home. Give all those in government wisdom to seek cooperative relationships, and give us wisdom to choose leaders who will guide us in the paths of peace.
Amen.

Affirmations

I will change your name
You shall no longer be called
Wounded, outcast, lonely or afraid,

I will change your name

Your new name shall be

Confidence, joyfulness, overcoming one,

Faithfulness, friend of God, one who seeks my face.

I love this parish. We're singing the above as our gospel hymn this Lent. It's so simple, and it's so real. Non-threatening repentance, you know? Your error is in all forms of hurt and alienation. I will bring you home.

I've known the New Zealand Lord's Prayer for years, but had never used it liturgically. It enfleshes what the more familiar version is trying to get at. It's incredibly powerful to say, "For you reign in the glory of the power that is love," surrounded by a community whose identity is invested in loving and welcoming the stranger. I'm praying, and aware of what I'm tasting, at the same time. (I'm not a stranger here anymore; haven't been since the first Sunday I attended, in October. But there's talk here all the time about how to be a more welcoming community. They're unaware of how well they already practice it.)

I went to a meeting after yesterday's service, to plan the logistics of Holy Week. I hadn't known it was happening, and didn't need to be there; I was just there for the learning experience. I expressed enthusiasm about labyrinths. Ended up not only promising to write up a one-page guide to what a labyrinth is, but being there for an hour and a half on the Wednesday of Holy Week (5-6:30 pm, if you want to show up), to teach people how to walk it. After, I tagged one of the people on the healing team, whom I'd spoken with in January. I hadn't seen her in recent weeks; she's been sick. I told her I was still interested. She said, well, talk to Tommy, I think you're qualified. What? There's a week-long, intensive (and expensive) training that you've all had, that I haven't done. She knows. But she sees this in me, and she'll teach me what I need to know. She wants to do a Saturday training and a bunch of Wednesdays, also to help build up the Wednesday healing service. I told her I only know where I'll be through May. So, she's doing it while we know I'm here.

A friend drove me from church to the Embarcadero BART. I don't know how far it is out of her way, and it's not by any means the closest to church, but we like talking and so there it is. She's been questioning the level of her own participation, because she has physical limitations that she's not used to. I said something like, "If we're going to be inclusive, physical abilities need to be a part of that." New thought for her. But isn't it obvious? You should not be limited--by yourself or other people--from doing what God calls you to. We all live in this, er, Kindom. Anyway, she responded: "I think you're in the right calling." Wow, thank you. Why? "A lot of things. It's not just this conversation."

These are the snippets I cherish, walking on an unknown road. These are my streetlights, my signposts. "Go here. Do more of that. This is where you belong." I'm so thankful for them. All I know, in my own self, is to be where God is. God is everywhere. I know I'm called to give everything I am. Utterly. I'm learning how to do that.

"The process," and politics, scare me. I need to just explore and experiment right now; to play and learn and do exactly what I'm doing. I'm grateful for this time.

Came home and attempted to study--with absolutely no success. I have a midterm tomorrow, a paper due Thursday, and a verbatim to get pinned down this week. Next week is spring break. I'm staying with my friend in Stockton next weekend, then driving to Olympia next Monday morning. I love what I'm doing and I'm meant to be doing it--but all I want to do right now is pack up the extra junk in my room, and get out of Dodge.

Rachel

Today, March 16, is the third anniversary of the death of Rachel Corrie. She grew up in my hometown, Olympia, WA. I never knew her, but we had many friends in common, and I have become friends with her family. Today, I pray for them, and I pray that Rachel's work will continue to bring peace to the world.

Rachel died in Rafah, Gaza Strip, while using her body to defend a house from demolition by the Israeli army. She knew the family that lived there; she had stayed with them, eaten with them, played with their children. She was wearing a bright orange jacket, and speaking through a megaphone to the driver of the 9-ton Caterpillar D-9 bulldozer that killed her. He dropped the blade, ran over her, and backed over her again. She died of massive internal injuries.

Whatever you think of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, here is a woman who believed passionately that peace was possible. The year before her death, Rachel organized a contingent of doves to march in Olympia's Procession of the Species celebration. She did not go to Gaza to die, but to do what she could to assist the people who were living in a world of checkpoints and armed watchtowers. She walked children to school. She slept at wells to defend them from military demolition.

Rachel went to Gaza to learn what life was like there, so she could teach about it when she came home. She went with the hope of connecting the communities of Rafah and Olympia. Her family and friends have continued that work.

Rachel sent e-mails to her family from an internet cafe in Rafah. Read them at Rachel's Words.

Here is the link to the Olympia-Rafah Sister City Project.

Here is a poem for Rachel, written by Palestinian-American author Suheir Hammad.

I remember also that the body of Tom Fox was found this week in Iraq. He was one of the Christian Peacemaker Team members taken hostage. There has been no news of the others. Today, do something in the name of peace. Plant a flower. Say hi to someone you normally wouldn't speak to. Sign up for a foreign language class. Write a letter to your Congressional representative. Pray for the work of CPT. Read Rachel's words out loud.

Lent

I meant to write Wednesday, and didn't. Been meaning to write since, and haven't. But I want to get back into this blog, and I really ought to say something about Lent.

I've always had a hard time with Lent being when it is. How can you concentrate on the finiteness of your humanity when it's Spring? It's hard to be penitential when the world's waking up. Winter doesn't happen in the Bay Area, though. I'm not having my annual mood swing because the light's back; it didn't really leave. (Winter days are shorter, yes, but still longer--and much sunnier--than I'm used to.)

I've needed to take stock of my life, though, and reprioritize things. It's good to take time to live more closely to where you want to be. I've never gotten into giving up things for Lent; I take a practice on, instead. Usually I intensify my prayer journal. I've gotten so far out of the practice of keeping one, that writing anything at all is a huge act of cleaning house. I also intended to start getting up for Morning Prayer. I didn't make it once last week. I'll try again Monday.

What am I hungry for? More quiet prayer time. More movement: walks, swimming, getting off of Holy Hill and being outside. Less time being randomly online. More focused study habits. More involvement at church--but really all I have to do is show up, and that is given to me. (I hadn't even planned to go on Ash Wednesday, but was offered a ride home across the bay if I went. Ended up doing three jobs.) More time in conversation, and more time in listening.

Know how you're sometimes given challenges just so you can learn from them? I've been so deeply called into healing. I'm really needing to learn about my own personal boundaries, and to build myself back up within them. I don't think I have a choice but to go there--and I need to create time to explore that this season.

If I make a schedule, and keep to it, this will be a fruitful time.

What can you do?

I posted this on a discussion board I visit, and thought I'd repeat it here.

What are you proud of yourself for?

I can...
Fold origami cranes in my sleep
Sing endless Girl Scout camp songs
Build a one-match fire and keep it going in the rain
Read a map, and fold it when I'm done
Spell
Make rosaries
Knit well
Crochet poorly
Walk on my knees in the lotus position
Make a really good tofu chocolate pie
Survive and be happy in graduate school
Read French
*Whistle (but not yet with my fingers)
Look at a craft and figure out how to make it
Write silly poetry
Laugh well and often

What can you do?

*A story about whistling: I was at a Christmas party with a 7-year-old that I'm friendly with, listening to someone play the piano. He recognized a song, and I asked if he could sing it. He started whistling, in perfect tune, for all he was worth. Then he answered:,"I can just sing with my lips."

What do you know...

I got tagged. I must be in now! Thank you, Dixie Blue; I haven't been here in ages.

Four jobs I've had:
*Homeless shelter and soup-kitchen organizer (aka Catholic Worker)
*Preschool teacher
*Educational Assistant with clinically-eccentric children
*Tenant Support for developmentally disabled adults

Four movies I could watch over and over:
(Make that two that I want to see)
*Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World
*The sequel to What the Bleep?

(and two that I could watch again indefinitely)
*Fried Green Tomatoes
*About Face

Four places I've lived:
*Everett, WA
*Olympia, WA
*Seattle, WA
*Berkeley, CA

Four TV shows I love:
*The West Wing (but not now)
*Frasier
*MASH
*Interesting documentaries

Four places I've vacationed:
*Someplace by Santa Cruz, CA (camping; no idea of the name of the park)
*Stockton, CA (I know--a friend lives there. She gets out occasionally; see above.)
*Cannon Beach, OR
*Lilliwaup, WA (Girl Scout camp when I was a kid)

Four favorite foods:
*Vegetarian lasagna
*Spanakopita
*Any sort of seafood
*Anything Indian or Thai

Four websites I visit daily:
See my Links box; I mostly go there.

Four places I'd rather be:
Olympic Mountains
Burfoot Park (county park in Olympia)
San Juan Islands
Out sailing right now; it's gorgeous outside.

I don't have time to tag anybody right now; I shouldn't even have written this today, but I did. It's fun playing, though.

I'll come back with a real update later. I haven't been here in way too long. 'Bye!

I Have A Dream

I am happy to join with you today in what will go down in history as the greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of our nation.

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand today, signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of their captivity.

But one hundred years later, the Negro still is not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize a shameful condition.

In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men, yes, black men as well as white men, would be guaranteed the unalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

It is obvious today that America has defaulted on this promissory note insofar as her citizens of color are concerned. Instead of honoring this sacred obligation, America has given the Negro people a bad check, a check which has come back marked "insufficient funds." But we refuse to believe that the bank of justice is bankrupt. We refuse to believe that there are insufficient funds in the great vaults of opportunity of this nation. So we have come to cash this check -- a check that will give us upon demand the riches of freedom and the security of justice. We have also come to this hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quick sands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God's children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro's legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. Nineteen sixty-three is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual. There will be neither rest nor tranquility in America until the Negro is granted his citizenship rights. The whirlwinds of revolt will continue to shake the foundations of our nation until the bright day of justice emerges.

But there is something that I must say to my people who stand on the warm threshold which leads into the palace of justice. In the process of gaining our rightful place we must not be guilty of wrongful deeds. Let us not seek to satisfy our thirst for freedom by drinking from the cup of bitterness and hatred.

We must forever conduct our struggle on the high plane of dignity and discipline. We must not allow our creative protest to degenerate into physical violence. Again and again we must rise to the majestic heights of meeting physical force with soul force. The marvelous new militancy which has engulfed the Negro community must not lead us to distrust of all white people, for many of our white brothers, as evidenced by their presence here today, have come to realize that their destiny is tied up with our destiny and their freedom is inextricably bound to our freedom. We cannot walk alone.

As we walk, we must make the pledge that we shall march ahead. We cannot turn back. There are those who are asking the devotees of civil rights, "When will you be satisfied?" We can never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the victim of the unspeakable horrors of police brutality. We can never be satisfied, as long as our bodies, heavy with the fatigue of travel, cannot gain lodging in the motels of the highways and the hotels of the cities. We can never be satisfied as long as a Negro in Mississippi cannot vote and a Negro in New York believes he has nothing for which to vote. No, no, we are not satisfied, and we will not be satisfied until justice rolls down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.

I am not unmindful that some of you have come here out of great trials and tribulations. Some of you have come fresh from narrow jail cells. Some of you have come from areas where your quest for freedom left you battered by the storms of persecution and staggered by the winds of police brutality. You have been the veterans of creative suffering. Continue to work with the faith that unearned suffering is redemptive.

Go back to Mississippi, go back to Alabama, go back to South Carolina, go back to Georgia, go back to Louisiana, go back to the slums and ghettos of our northern cities, knowing that somehow this situation can and will be changed. Let us not wallow in the valley of despair.
I say to you today, my friends, so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream.

I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal."

I have a dream that one day on the red hills of Georgia the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood.

I have a dream that one day even the state of Mississippi, a state sweltering with the heat of injustice, sweltering with the heat of oppression, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice.

I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day, down in Alabama, with its vicious racists, with its governor having his lips dripping with the words of interposition and nullification; one day right there in Alabama, little black boys and black girls will be able to join hands with little white boys and white girls as sisters and brothers.

I have a dream today.

I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight, and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed, and all flesh shall see it together.

This is our hope. This is the faith that I go back to the South with. With this faith we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.

This will be the day when all of God's children will be able to sing with a new meaning, "My country, 'tis of thee, sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died, land of the pilgrim's pride, from every mountainside, let freedom ring."

And if America is to be a great nation this must become true. So let freedom ring from the prodigious hilltops of New Hampshire. Let freedom ring from the mighty mountains of New York. Let freedom ring from the heightening Alleghenies of Pennsylvania!

Let freedom ring from the snowcapped Rockies of Colorado!

Let freedom ring from the curvaceous slopes of California!

But not only that; let freedom ring from Stone Mountain of Georgia!

Let freedom ring from Lookout Mountain of Tennessee!

Let freedom ring from every hill and molehill of Mississippi. From every mountainside, let freedom ring.

And when this happens, When we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual, "Free at last! free at last! thank God Almighty, we are free at last!"

Miscopalians

Mimi and I met at Orca Books a few nights ago. She's Orthodox, and worships sometimes at the mission that meets upstairs at St. John's. She told me this story: They were there at the same time as the Midnight Mass. Her nine-year-old son really likes talking. She asked him to be quiet, so they wouldn't disturb the Episcopalians. "What's an Episcopalian?" She tried to explain the belief systems. Then they went downstairs for something. Xavier saw an usher. He asked his mom, "Is that a Miscopalian?"

I told her to tell him that his Miscopalian aunt says hi.

We sat on a rather uncomfortable couch in the bookstore, and talked for a long time. Then we prowled the shelves. I paged through The Best American Spiritual Writing, and ended up buying it. Here is the first paragraph of the first essay, titled "The Gift of the Call" by Christopher Bamford:

The call comes gradually, or so it seems. We must be called over and over before we hear its whisperings. Then we begin to notice. We begin to respond. Unconsciously, hesitantly, we start to listen. Incrementally, our response deepens. Finally, we realize that we ourselves are the call; that call and caller are onein life lived in obedience to the gift of the call. We come to realize that we were called from the beginning, "from the foundation of the world," as Saint Paul says. Looking back, we cannot remember a "first" call.

I forget to listen, or I get distracted and other things speak louder. But this rang true for me. I'm going to explore that idea more, when I get back to California and my life there. I'm flying back on Monday, and I won't have class for almost a month. I'm going to consciously schedule time to take walks, write, listen, and just to be with God. To dig down deep into the roots of this longing, and then when I get busy again, to hold on and not let myself let go. This call--wherever it leads me--is the reason behind everything I'm doing. In it is where I need to be.

Merry Christmas!

Not much to report; I've been hanging out in the rain and the mud (Olympia), seeing friends and taking care of my back. Having a really low-key break... and looking forward to getting back into things when I go back to Berkeley in a week.

I wanted to share this, though; it's one of my favorite Christmas songs. Sing along, if you know it. (And mess around with the pronouns at will; I do.)

God On His Birthday

When God Almighty came to be one of us,
Masking the glory of his golden train,
Dozens of plain things kindled by accident,
And they will never be the same again.

Sing all you midwives, dance all the carpenters,
Sing all the publicans and shepherds too.
God in his mercy uses the commonplace,
God on his birthday has a need of you.

Splendor of Rome and local authority,
Working on policy with furrowed head,
Joined to locate Messiah's nativity,
Just where the prophets had already said.

Sing all you tax men, dance the commissioners,
Sing civil servants and policemen too.
God in his purpose uses the governments,
God on his birthday has a need of you.

Wise men, they called them, earnest astrologers,
Watching for meaning in the moving stars.
Science or fancy, learned or laughable,
Theirs was a vision that was brought to pass.

Sing all you wise men, dance all the scientists,
Whether your theories are false or true.
God uses knowledge, God uses ignorance,
God on his birthday has a need of you.

Sing all creation, made for his purposes,
Called by his providence to live and move:
None is unwanted, none insignificant,
Love needs a universe of folk to love.

Old men and maidens, young men and children,
Black ones and colored ones and white ones too,
God on his birthday, and to eternity,
God took upon himself the need of you.