The lion and the lamb shall lie down together;
The kid and the panther shall play in the sun;
No one shall know the strange word "soldier";
And war shall be a shameful deed that long ago was done.
And rest for the weary, and food for the hungry,
And peace for the comfortless shall not be far to seek;
And beauty in labor, and beauty in laughter,
And beauty in loving shall come to the meek.
Mountain calls to mountain top -
Sinai unto Calvary;
Whispers rise from ancient fields -
They push up through the sod;
"Tell all the children
To tell their children's children
To dream this dream for God."
Ernest Cadman "Pomp" Colwell
President, Claremont School of Theology (1957 - 1968)
So many memories, joyful ones, of Bishop Judith Craig. That laugh — so often laughing at herself. Those hands on your shoulder as she teased or counseled or intermingled the two and you didn’t realize you had been “schooled” until the next afternoon. Those eyes — that voice. That wisdom — cutting through the antics of clergy or lay person who would seek to damage the whole.
I think of her as one always open to delight — she lived with an expectancy of something better. And could she preach and pray — yes, my Lord, she could! Losing dear Judy in this hour in the life of our United Methodist Church is heartrending. I salute you, dear sister and beloved friend. May perpetual light shine on you.
I remember how moved I was when Judy was the first woman to give the episcopal address for the denomination back in 1996. She called for a church that could be bigger than the narrow bigotry that entrapped us. She was unashamedly a champion of full inclusion of our LGBTQ siblings.
At the time (1996), I thought the church would make a transition to a more accepting and courageous witness quickly. I was wrong. It has now been over twenty years of regressive movement. Twenty years of narrow interest caucus groups using the scriptures and our guiding documents as a blunt instrument of exclusion and harm. How can the good news of Jesus have been so disfigured into another kind of news? What hermeneutic can justify this push to separate and move away from one another in a time when the gospel is so relevant to a hurting world?
We seem to have been “trading down” as a denomination for these two decades. Giving away our legacy, our commitment to loving acceptance for all. Open hearts, minds and doors of welcome has been replaced by a move for the withering of the church by exclusion. It is fostered by those who build fences of fear and use the very resources and structures of the church against it. The church has lost a great visionary leader. She was mentored in East Ohio by another great, Bishop James Thomas. They were of an uncommon kind. I see them together — one testimony to our church at its very best. Both were able to stand tall for justice and piety. Neither would sell out for a false sense of peace. I saw both of them stand tall in difficult circumstances. Each possessed a wisdom that would not accept the ill-considered proposal, the seeking of unfair advantage of others, or the mean-spirited tactics of a caucus group.
Mary Oliver
Judy’s death comes within hours of poet Mary Oliver. Two women, two singular voices. I wonder if they ever met? Let me suggest that Judy offered us the poetry of a life-well-lived and of poetry-in-action. Or, as Mary Oliver might say, Judy “didn’t end up simply visiting the world.” She was indeed “a bride married to amazement.”
I give thanks for the witness, the joy, the friendship of Judith Craig… I now laugh through my tears. I have been touched by greatness and I know her expansive witness will endure and thrive in places we do not yet see, no matter the petty politics of the current United Methodist Church.
Almost autumn; rouge-tinged leaves hint that a soon-to-arrive-change is near. Rotund tomatoes have captured a summer filled with both promise and tragedy. It is time… to remember, to move on.
Saturday morning and a visit to our hometown Farmers’ Market. A much-needed respite, today’s early gifts.
Farmers Market, Bloomington, September 16, 2017
Our overripe national drama could cause one to despair, to wonder if a return to normal can be gained, or regained.
From near and far are images of tragedy… a nursing home in Hollywood Hills, Florida, opioid overdoses down the street, a denuded Virgin Island paradise, mud, posturing politicians, mold, South Texas languishing, St. Louis marching in step with decades of accumulated grievance. Politicians preen, speak sly words and pose for photo-op-displays-of-compassion. These televised images vie for attention alongside heartless racist-tinged rhetoric.
Will our national identity be reduced to cheap reality television episodes? Are we prisoners to shallow, disjointed actions and pathetic promises? “Everyone will be happy”!? Is this reality? Fake becomes real, while the real, the true, is declared fake. Don’t lose your balance fellow pilgrims-of-hope.
Even here, especially here, there is truth… there is music, poetry and beauty. So much fine produce at the market, stacked high, even okra (mostly for my spouse) and summers-end sweet corn (mostly for me). The community band plays sweet summers-end music. Abide With Me as it tunes up for the morning. Tune to the “A.” Some things do remind one of stability. Abide…
Sweet corn, ripe tomatoes, sweet music and poetry abide. Justice will prevail. Our belief in respect and decency will survive this cruel passage. It is clear in the acts of human compassion evidenced in the places of unimaginable destruction. From St. Johns, a family shares space under their tarpaulin. One visits a nearby hospital — just a brief word, a smile and a prayer. We applaud as early response teams arrive in Texas and Florida, and ahead of them are thousands-upon-thousands of cleaning kits, (flood buckets), arriving along with a piece of our hearts.
How will we know the way? What direction and pace shall we travel? Poetry directs us beyond the limits of here and now. Friend Walter Wangerin, Jr. calls our name:
The Wanderer*
I am the World-Rim-Walker.
I tread the sheer crags
Where night and daylight
Contour one other.
So we journey ahead as Rim Walkers toward the Eternal. Between the tragedy and treat offered in the daily news cycles and our truest hope found in the dignity of human beings at their best. Here and there… we move forward.
Bloomington Farmers Market
These are our compass points. Smiles and greetings. New friends met and old friends greeted. Fresh eggs, ripe tomatoes, kale and spinach now join honey, music and poetry to point to our pathway ahead. We journey together fellow Rim Walkers.
May your late summer be filled with laughter, joy and the reminders of taken-for-granted beauty all around. Together let us continue to walk in ways that rebut and rebuke the vapid efforts to divert us from the ways of our truest hope.
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*Poem The Wanderer is from “The Absolute, Relatively Inaccessible” by Walter Wangerin, Jr., Eugene, Oregon, Cascade Books, 2017.
philipamerson 