Friday, November 27, 2020

Psalm 105 In Three Takes


Take I: An Historical Perspective

The RSV describes Psalm 105 as “the story of God’s great deeds on behalf of his
people.” It is a psalm that celebrates Israel’s sacred history in a straightforward way. The opening verses are a call for thanksgiving and praise: “O give thanks to the Lord, call on his name” (v.1, RSV throughout). “Remember the wonderful works that he has done, his miracles, and the judgments he uttered, O offspring of Abraham, his servant, sons of Jacob, his chosen ones!” (vv.5-6). Continuing, the psalm enumerates God’s wonderful works and judgments, "The covenant which he made with Abraham, his sworn promise to Isaac, which he confirmed to Jacob as a statute, to Israel as an everlasting covenant, saying, ‘To you I will give the land of Canaan’” (vv. 9-11a). The psalmist recalls the days “When they were few in number, of little account . . . wandering from nation to nation” (vv.12,13a). The narrative brings to mind the time of famine (v.16), how Joseph was sold as a slave (v.17), but then released, and made “lord of his house, and ruler of all his possessions, to instruct princes at his pleasure,” and “to teach his elders wisdom”(vv.21-.22). “Then Israel came to Egypt” (v.23).The story of the Exodus is remembered (vv.23-38), and the wandering in the wilderness--a place of miracles (vv.39-42). In the wilderness Israel is protected by “a cloud for covering,” and guided by “ fire to give light by night.” Here Israel received quail and “bread from heaven.” Here, God “opened a rock and water gushed forth; it flowed through the desert like a river.”

The closing verses of this psalm have strong verbs and few commands:“He led forth his people with joy, his chosen ones with singing. And he gave them the lands of the nations; and they took possession of the fruit of the peoples’ toil, to the end that they should keep his statutes, and observe his laws. Praise the Lord!" (vv.43-45). This is the sacred story that celebrates the birth of a nation.

Take II:  A Hero’s Journey
Drawing on the work of Joseph Campbell, Psalm 105 may also be interpreted as a
  Hero’s Journey. Campbell said that this metamyth is common to every culture.The Hero’s Journey has lots of moving parts, but basically it is a story told in three acts: (1) departure, (2) initiation or crisis, and, (3) return. Psalm 105 prepares for the departure when God makes a covenant with Israel and promises to give Israel the  land of Canaan (vv.10-11). At the time of departure Israel is few in number (v.12), wandering from nation to nation (v.13). The journey is marked by a series of crises and supernatural miracles (vv.12-40). 

When the journey ends, God’s people are singing songs of joy as they take possession of the Promised Land (v.43-44). It is a home-coming. The Hero’s Journey comes to a successful conclusion. God is the Promise-Maker and Promise-Keeper. Israel is the faithful Hero who has successfully completed the initiation period and comes home.

I can identify the following elements of the Hero’s Journey as it relates to Psalm 105. First, this metamyth gives us an image of life as a journey. This is a very powerful metaphor that lends itself to a linear view of history. There is a beginning and there is an end--a purpose. Second, this metamyth affirms that change is always possible. No matter the odds, even if we are few in number, even if princes and principalities are arrayed against us, there is cause for hope. Change is possible. The Hero can be an agent of change. Third, this metamyth creates a moral framework that validates a belief in progress that may justify the use of violence. Creative destruction is an idea closely linked to the ideology of progress. Sacrifices are called for, but ultimately they are worth it. Creative destruction is the price of progress. History, we are often told, is written by the winners.

Take III: A Postcolonial Hope
Psalm 105 may also be interpreted as a psalm that bears witness of a postcolonial
hope. The meaning of “postcolonial” has become a matter of debate. I use the term here to mean a critique of settler-colonialism--an ideology of superiority and a policy of land theft and genocide.To find hope in this settler-colonialist narrative, we must read Psalm 105 through Canaanite eyes.

I was living in Hawaii the first time I encountered this approach to the Exodus story. I was participating in a Bible study when a member of the group, a Native Hawaiian (Kanaka Maoli) said, “Wait a minute. We are the Canaanites.This was our kingdom before the United States took it from us.” 

When I moved back to the continent, I learned that many Indigenous people are reading the Exodus story in the same way. This was their land before Amer-Europeans stole it. Once we become sensitive to this history we non-Indigenous people must read Psalm 105 as a story of liberationandconquest. Must history be written by winners? What does this mean?

According to the sacred story, people who stand within the charmed circle of the covenant are “the chosen ones” (v.43). People who stand outside this magical circle are on the margins, or worse-- they are invisible--or worse--they are obstacles blocking the way of progress and promised fulfillment. Extermination of those who block progress is not too great a price to pay. Interpreted from the perspective of people on the margin, the closing verses of this psalm provide religious legitimation for land theft and genocide. Why do we have to accept this interpretation? Is there any alternative?

To answer these two questions we have to be willing to think about issues of authority, power, and community. These are political questions. Where does authority come from? How should power be exercised? What is the role of the community? There are no simple answers to these questions, but they are definitely worth discussing. In the course of the dialogue we will clarify our ideas about history, our image of the divine, and meaning of the holy.

My suggestion is that we must develop ways to interpret our traditions that do more than simply validate privilege and power and the status quo. What would it mean to the world today if faith communities stood in solidarity with marginalized and the oppressed? How would our story change? These are the questions that I wrestle with as I read Psalm 105.

Rev. David Hansen

Friday, November 20, 2020

Grounded in Time

One advantage of  being an elder and mostly retired is you have time for reading. Add a pandemic to it and there is a lot of time for reading. I realized the other day that I was going back and forth between six different books. That's never happened to me before! My usual habit is to read one at a time to the conclusion. Now, I read till the mood strikes me to move on to another. Fiction is always for just-before- bed, to escape the non-fiction and incredibly bad news of the day. With fiction on my mind, sleep might actually happen.

           Four of those six books made me start pondering the question of human origins and historical time. It's hard enough recognizing the changes on the planet in my lifetime. It's almost impossible to imagine the world 500 million years ago in the cambrian period; or the earliest reptiles in the carboniferous period, 300 million years in the past. How does one picture something like a million years when sometimes you can't remember what yesterday was like? I'm looking at the chart in The Sixth Extinction by Elizabeth Kolbert. Measuring in millions of years, humans are only the very top thread on the chart. 

Winner of the Pulitzer Prize, this book is an example of well researched writing on an important subject with readable prose. Kolbert travels to several sites around the globe to share her experiences with threatened and extinct species, all the while making us reflect on time, and on human origins and destiny.

A second book that made me reflect on similar issues was The Great Unknown by Peg Kingman. A novel, with an archaeologist as a main character, one is confronted with questions about times past but also with questions about timing; period! Why do things happen the way they do; is it really just coincidence, or good fortune, or destiny?

The novel made me reflect on our culture; the busyness to the point of exhaustion; the myopic orientation toward the future; the rampant materialism; the orientation toward doing big and important things; and the unexpected tragedies, like the great depression or a pandemic or climate catastrophe. How do we understand causality, or pure luck, or acts of God?

Both of these books made me recall a favorite author, Nikos Kazantzakis. One of his books made me ponder on the question of historical time and my connection to it in a new way. His Saviors of God invites the reader to savor and reverence their ancestry, all the way back to the beginning of time. And for Kazantzakis each of those ancestors is whispering to us through the ages, "climb higher, climb higher".

Elizabeth Colbert tells us something about our ancestors. Apparently, many of us have 1-4% Neanderthal DNA, some thirty thousand years after Neanderthals roamed the earth. Maybe they are whispering "climb higher" in our genetic make-up? 

The other two books making me ponder the past have more of a pronounced religious orientation. Matthew Fox believes there is one religious river that feeds many wells. His book of that title, One River, Many Wells, is a study in religious ecumenism. Looking at all of the major religious faiths, he quotes readily from their sacred texts and stories on a series of subjects, including creation. One begins to see in this volume the common historical themes that serve as the foundation for all of the various traditions. 

When God Was a Woman has been on my shelf for several years. A pandemic can free some books from their dusty cell. This 1976 title reminds us that there was an ancient time when the feminine was not alien to divinity and gives us some insight into what happened to that understanding.

          Looking at images from the Hubble telescope can remind us of how small and insignificant we are in the greater order of things. These literary trips into the past can do the same thing. They can temper our tendency toward self importance and encourage some degree of humility. They can stretch our conception of time. (They might even encourage us to live our time fully.) They can encourage our appreciation of our ancient and good planet earth, the natural world we have been given. Maybe a deeper recognition of the past will help us face the increasing challenges of living in harmony with the earth and its creatures. I'm sure that's a hope implicit in The Sixth Extinction of Elizabeth Kolbert. 

Family members recently sent pictures of them climbing in the White Mountains. I was reminded that when climbing in those mountains in my younger years, I always felt "grounded." Those mountains were likely created some 100 million years ago. There is something about connecting to the ancient, in person or in literature, that not only humbles, but grounds us as well. 

Try it! Touch something from 100 million years ago, if only a piece of literature, that grounds you in time. 

Carl Kline

Friday, November 13, 2020

To Cry Out Within the City - LET EVERYONE VOTE!


In the current climate of voting rights under attack, particularly galling to me is the cynical chipping away at the landmark Voting Rights Act of 1965, which built on the Civil Rights Act of 1964. Too young to travel south to help in efforts to register Black voters, I sought other ways to participate in the struggle. A small artifact on a shelf behind my desk tells the story. Appearing as a miniature sign or placard, it is the template for a larger sign to be held in a vigil. Formed of a business card folded around the thin slat of a tongue depressor, the block letters on the back of the card proclaim with urgency: LET EVERYONE VOTE! WRITE YOUR CONGRESSMAN NOW. The business card is that of the Protestant minister with whom I stood in a weekly vigil after school in Winthrop, Massachusetts through the school year following my Bar Mitzvah. We stood in front of the post office as the only federal building in town, the two of us alone, urging passage of what would become the Civil Rights Act.

Innocence was shattered during that year. I heard words I had never heard before, embarrassed to tell my parents, threats and taunts hurled from passing cars, the intent clear if not the meaning of each vile utterance. Barely aware of the words, I was introduced that year to the raw hate that feeds racism and antisemitism. Somehow they knew that I was Jewish, perhaps from a local newspaper article and accompanying photograph about the vigil. “Jew” and its pejorative forms that I had never heard before and the vile N-word joined with lover were for them fitting missiles with which to deliver their hate, words meant to demean entire peoples used as swear words with which to curse individuals. 

From a place of bewilderment and pain, though with an increasing sense of perseverance and pride, I struggled to understand how people could hate like that. So too, these encounters became lessons in learning to love in response to hate. I learned the role of the lone voice seeking to move others,

determined in tone and timbre to retain its own integrity and dignity, not to succumb to the seductively cathartic ways of hate and violence. Here, within the city, the public library and the town hall on the green across the street told of ideals and aspirations, of books and ideas, of civics and civility. Children made their way home from the nearby elementary school, some quizzical, the occasional one even stopping to ask why we were standing there, taking thoughtful note of our presence within the city, most simply delighting in their afterschool freedom. Younger ones walked hand in hand with parents, adults bemused or sullen as they hurried by, children wondering, asking, all inevitably touched by the swirl around them, souls imprinted with the sounds and sights of rage and witness, innocence offering no protection.

As encountered throughout life, from the first peeling away the veil, unraveling the skein of innocence, these are the questions that are meant to challenge us through the lens of Parashat Vayera (Gen. 18:1-22:24), continuing through Torah, and on into life, a portion filled with human triumph and tragedy, and in its midst a paradigm for speaking truth to power. They were questions intuited but unformed then for a young person standing in silent witness, a Torah portion that would become beloved to him, questions pulsating yet in this time - “LET EVERYONE VOTE!” - in all times: questions of justice and decency, questions of moral witness and its limits, of the one and the many, of collective responsibility and accountability, the guilt of leadership and the suffering of innocents. That we are called to act is made clear before Abraham models the way, rising to the call. Of cities consumed by violence and hate, as the text is read by the rabbis, it is the suffering of one young girl brutally tortured for showing kindness to a stranger, she whose cry rises to heaven. 

Responding to the suffering of one, even as it is one who will bear witness, in a moment of divine soliloquy, God weighs whether to confide in Abraham the contemplated destruction of the cities, needing to see what Abraham’s response will be, whether or not he will intercede, even for the sake of

the wicked. This is why God has sought out Abraham, only so that he may command his children and his house after him that they may keep the way of God/v’shamru derech ha’shem -- to do righteousness and justice/la’asot tz’dakah u’mishpat… (Gen. 18:19). Meeting the challenge, Abraham boldly steps forward and asks if the Judge of all the earth shall not do justice. Beginning with fifty, perhaps there are fifty righteous within the city/b’toch ha’ir, and God promises to forgive for the sake of fifty righteous within the city, and so the emphasis throughout, down to ten.
    We come to understand what is meant, for them and for us. There are those who are righteous at home, but who fail to raise their voices in public, b’toch ha’ir/within the city, those who fail to do righteousness and justice, who fail to resist and rebuke for the sake of the common good. In a powerful warning against the smugness that can infect religious observance, against the deceptive lure of withdrawing and seeing oneself as being above the fray, the Oznaim La’Torah, Rabbi Zalman Sorotzkin (Poland-Israel, 1881-1966), probes why the emphasis on b’toch ha’ir/within the city: because there are righteous people who live in the city, but not within the city; who cloister themselves only within “the four ells (cubits) of halacha,” (only within the narrow, protective parameters of their own observance); righteous people such as these don’t seek to influence the people of the city, nor to return them to the right path/v’lo yach’ziru otam l’mutav…. Reminding that God’s call to Abraham echoes through the generations and that Torah is a context in which we are to wrestle through its stories with all realms of human strife and struggle, Rabbi Sarotzkin emphasizes the duty to so teach children, our own and all of those who pass by within the city: one needs to tell in the ears of children and children’s children/tzarich l’saper b’oznai banim uv’nai banim, that stories such as these/sipurim k’eleh are designed to train them and make them wise, to turn from evil and to do righteousness and justice/la’sur mei’ra v’la’asot tz’dakah u’mishpat….

Wrestling with the efficacy of the lone voice, hope carried in the question of a child, as though of those who stand in vigil within the city, Elie Wiesel, of blessed memory, weaves a midrash that reflects his own horror before the crime of silence: A person came to the wicked cities of Sodom and Gomorrah to plead with the people to turn from their violence, to stop their killing. This person walked the streets of the city day after day talking and pleading, but alas to no avail; the people continued in their violent ways. One day, as the person walked through the streets of the city, a child came up and asked, ‘why do you continue to talk to them, you see that they don’t listen to you?’ And the answer came gently to the child, ‘When I came here, I talked to them in order to change them, now I continue to talk to prevent them from changing me.’

If only for the sake of one, the one of lonely voice, the child who barely knows how to ask, God in whose image of oneness all are created, however many times we have been there with Abraham, we nevertheless still sit at the edge of our chair, hoping he will keep going, pleading all the way down to one. Ten comes to represent the collective, the critical mass; the tipping point beyond which it is too late for survival of earth, of people and place, innocence offering no protection. Extended from a gathering of ten Jews for public prayer, minyan becomes the symbolic locus of moral responsibility.


From adolescence to young adulthood, less than a decade after the vigil in front of the post office for the right of all to vote, the Vietnam War by then in full fury, I was serving a jail sentence in the Worcester County Jail in Worcester, Massachusetts for sitting in at a draft board. My beloved rabbi, Rabbi Meyer Finkelstein, of blessed memory, wrote a precious letter to me in jail, affirming my path of witness. Drawing on Parashat Vayera, he offered insight into a midrash (B’reishit Rabbah 50:5) that ends with the words not one of them protesting, and so explaining, he spoke to my soul: “Abraham argued with God to try to prevent the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. The Rabbis explained that destruction by posing a question and then answering it. They asked – ‘surely not all of the residents of Sodom were people of violence. Why were all the people destroyed?” Then they answer – ‘Those that were not men of violence and crime committed an even greater sin. They stood by and never raised their voices in protest. They thereby acquiesced to violence and crime and sin.’”

The painful lesson of Torah is that more than one is needed to avert destruction. Sometimes, though, it begins with the voice of one, of one and one become two, of a child asking why we stand in the face of hate, become ten, become fifty, and in the echoing voice of Pete Seeger, of blessed memory, “if one and one and fifty make a million, we’ll see that day come round….” It is the hope of a small template for a sign to be held in a long ago vigil within the city, an artifact and its message that endures, words of witness to remind, words whose urgency is no less today than it was then, proclaiming in block letters, “LET EVERYONE VOTE!”

Rabbi Victor H. Reinstein

Friday, November 6, 2020

Creating the Society We Want


The Covid-19 pandemic has claimed more than 230,000 lives; fires in
the West have destroyed whole towns and are burning out of control;. the unofficial unemployment rate remains stuck at 11 percent; and the Black Lives Matter movement and other civil rights groups are marching in the streets. Although these disparate events may seem unconnected, they teach us that we are all bound together in an unbreakable web of mutuality. At our peril we have forgotten a truth that a gifted teacher taught me long ago: Our unity is not something that we are called to create; only to recognize. The imperative of our time is learning how to be a good neighbor.  

Psalm 119 has much to teach us.  It is an acrostic poem based on the twenty-two letters in the Hebrew alphabet. It has twenty-two stanzas, with eight lines in each stanza. Jews use this psalm in the celebration of Rosh Hashanah. Benedictine monks include it in the Book of
Hours. The Greek Orthodox church recites it in their liturgy. Many people memorize it and incorporate it into their daily meditations. I want to focus on what this psalm can teach us about the proper ordering of power in the commonwealth of this nation.

The theme of the psalm is announced in the opening verses: "Blessed are those whose way is blameless, who walk in the law of the Lord! Blessed are those who keep his testimonies, who seek him with their whole heart, who also do no wrong, but walk in his ways!”(vv.1-3, RSV throughout). The psalm is both a prayer for instruction and guidance, and a pledge of loyalty to the law--the Torah. In addition to “the law,” the word “Torah” also means “to teach. The purpose of the law is to instruct Israel in the ways of the life for the guidance and benefit of the whole of humankind.Thus, the psalmist says: “Teach me, O Lord, the way of thy statutes; and I will keep it to the end.Give me understanding, that I may keep thy law and observe it with my whole heart” (vv.33-4).The law has both a personal and a social dimension.

The political order in which we live deeply affects the way we live.The psalmist pledges loyalty to the law “even though princes sit plotting against me,” (v.23); prays for protection knowing that “Godless men have dug pitfalls for me” (v.85); and, vows, “I hate double-minded men, but I love thy law.” (v.113). The psalmist suggests that greed is corrupting the system, and says plainly: “Incline my heart to thy testimonies, and not to gain!” (v.36). The psalmist understands the law is a guardian of liberty and a source of hope in an uncertain time. Thus, the psalmist declares: “I shall walk at liberty . . . I will also speak of thy testimony before kings, and shall not be put to shame; for I find delight in thy commandments, which I love.” (vv.45-7).

I suspect that the psalmist was not grateful for the trouble he was in, but in the law he found a way to not to become cynical or to despair or to surrender to the status quo. The Law’s teaching and guidance gave him the strength he needed to fight for reform.

Perhaps it is this reformation spirit that attracted the well-known British reformer William Wilberforce to this psalm. John Newton, the author of Amazing Grace, and other abolitionists had a profound influence on Wilberforce, but it was his faith and particularly Psalm 119 that sustained him in his long campaign to abolish slavery. A member of the British Parliament, Wilberforce introduced anti-slavery legislation into the House of Commons 12 times before it finally became the law of the British Empire in 1833.

In our own time when the struggle for ecological justice and social justice seems daunting, there are. two images of this psalm that I find particularly helpful.The psalmist prays, “Lead me in the path of thy commandments, for I delight in it” (v.35).Thus, when we think about the valence of the law we must take into consideration both an objective criterion--the path--and a subjective criterion--delight. The path of the law provides ethical standards that are necessary for social and personal well-being.The law commands us to: “love your neighbor as yourself” (Lev.19:18), and, “Love the Lord you God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might” (Deut.6:5). The fruit of the law is personal delight and social delight.

To bring delight to the heart the law must impose justice and inspire hope. We delight in the law when it helps us answer the question: What kind of society do we want? Let me sharpen this question. The United States today is a Neo-Feudal society.  According to the Economic Policy Institute, for the first time in our nation’s history, on August 23, 2020, the combined wealth of the 12 richest people in the United States surpassed one trillion dollars. According to Alexandre Tanzi and Michael Sasso, who wrote a story entitled “Wealth Floats” in the November 19, 2019 issues of the Bloomberg Report,the top10 percent of the nation’s households held 60 percent of the nation’s wealth, while the lower 90 percent held less than 35 percent of the nation’s wealth. Not unrelated to these stories, the real income--income compared to the costs of goods and services-- of most people has flattened since the 1970s. The rising tide does not lift all the boats.

The events mentioned in the opening paragraph are not unrelated to the maldistribution of wealth in our nation. There is an inequality pandemic that is robbing the commonwealth of vital resources. Simply put, private wealth comes from the commonwealth and a fair share of that wealth must be returned to the commonwealth through taxes. We have a choice to make. We can choose to reclaim a greater share of private wealth for the commonwealth and rebuild our society, or we can give in to cynicism, despair, and the status quo. Just as William Wilberforce had to make a choice in the nineteenth century, each of us also has a responsibility to make a choice now in the twenty-first century. We can choose the way that delights and work to make it a reality.


The Torah teaches us that laws that delight provide for the poor and welcome the sojourner (Lev.19:9-10); pay honest wages (Lev. 19:13); and accomodate the needs of the deaf and the blind so that they are not blocked in any way (Lev.19:14). Laws that

Delight ensures that people can live in decent housing in safe communities, have access to affordable healthcare, receive a good education,and can drink safe water and breathe clean air. This is what love for our neighbor looks like in the public square.

In keeping with the pattern of previous meditations on the psalms, I am ending these reflections with a poem by Langston Hughes. The following is the last stanza of a poem he entitled: Freedom’s Plow.

A long time ago,  an enslaved people heading toward freedom made up a song:

Keep Your Hand On The Plow! Hold On!
That plow plowed a new furrow
Across the field of history.

Into that furrow the freedom seed was dropped. From that see a tree grew, is growing, will ever grow. That tree is for everybody,

For all America, for all the world
May its branches spread and its shelter grow 

Until all races and all peoples know its shade.


--The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes Arnold Rampersad, ed. Vintage Books

Rev. David Hansen

Friday, October 30, 2020

Dear Representative Johnson,

I appreciated the sentiment in your July 24 newsletter about how "Politicians Are People, Too." Although I don't blame the hyper-partisan divide in Washington on cable news, as you seem to, any efforts you or others make to bridge the partisan gap are praiseworthy.

You identify two members of the opposite party you respect. You empathize with them in their suffering. Once again, empathy is praiseworthy, especially in an age where the President seems unable to express it. To have you openly share it in a newsletter is heartening.


Representative John Lewis is one of those you mention, whose struggle with cancer drew the empathy of you and others in Congress from both sides of the aisle. You cite his commitment to nonviolence and rejection of toxic political rhetoric as things you admired. My guess is you would agree, along with so many others, that he was "the conscience of the Congress."

Hearing that phrase "conscience of the Congress" used again and again as the rites and rituals for Lewis proceeded, I was reminded of a personal experience early in my ministry. The first church I served as an assistant minister was at a time of both the civil rights movement and the Vietnam war. Both campaigns warranted some prophetic sermons and got me in trouble with some members of the congregation. On the last Sunday of my presence there one of the members approached me and said: "Carl, I hate to see you go. You've been the conscience of the community."

On the one hand, that was a complement. On the other, I wanted to say: "What about your conscience? Where is it? What about the conscience of everyone else in the community? Where are they?" I'll wager Representative Lewis would have forgone all the hubbub and hoopla around his passing for a few folks deeply committed to following in his footsteps, willing to get into some "good trouble" in the cause of nonviolence.

The juxtaposition of your 24th. newsletter with your letter to me of January 23 was striking. I tire of politicians and others reverencing those committed to nonviolence like Lewis and his mentor King, then supporting a bloated military industrial establishment that threatens and commits enormous violence around the world.      In your letter of the 23rd., you justify your vote against cutting funds for the defense department ($140 billion more projected for next year than last year), on the basis of serving our men and women in uniform and their families. That's a worthy goal. However, of all the money sent to the Pentagon, most goes to military contractors. In 2018, the average taxpayer worked 63 days to fund military spending. 31 working days supported military contractors like Boeing and Lockheed Martin while only 13 supported the troops.


Another glaring juxtaposition for me was an advertisement on TV, the same day I received your letter. It was an ad for the Wounded Warriors Project, soliciting donations. It showed pictures of an armless vet and one in a wheelchair without his legs. One family is thanking the Project for money for food. What? Why must we have non-profits to care for our veterans if all of this money is supposedly going for their needs?

At least you don't raise the argument in your letter, like your colleague Senator Rounds in the Senate, that we need to counter our adversaries Russia (I wonder, has he mentioned this "adversary" to the President) and China. Rounds doesn't mention we spend more on the military than Russia and China and the next five nations combined; 37% of the whole world's expenditures. You, however, seem to understand the military as necessary to coerce our will in diplomatic and economic endeavors.

Lip service doesn't cut it! Memorials and naming ceremonies and holidays don't suffice! Although the evidence accumulates, if only one will look at it, nonviolence works. Start with watching Erica Chenoweth, Jamila Raqib and Julia Bacha on TED. It will only take one hour. Read Gandhi and M.L. King but Gene Sharp as well.

Violence only produces more violence. As long as we are addicted to an economy where the essential workers are preparing the instruments of death rather than working to restore and enhance life, we will continue our march toward nonexistence. As M.L. King said, "the choice is not between violence and nonviolence but between nonviolence and nonexistence."

I have a few questions in conclusion. How much of the projected Pentagon budget will help mitigate the 17 veteran suicides each day? Are you in favor of the billions in military funding inserted in the Republican Senate version of legislation responding to the pandemic? Do you support the billions in the budget for "modernization" of nuclear weapons?

And your conscience, as our bombs kill children in Yemen, wedding parties in Afghanistan and threaten the planet with nuclear catastrophe? What says your conscience? Would you be willing to take a serious look at alternatives to violence and work to implement them in our country and culture?

Rev. Carl Kline

Friday, October 23, 2020


          Psalm 26 is about keeping and defending one’s integrity in the face of adversity. It bristles with issues that speak to us.The opening verses set the tone: “Vindicate me, O Lord, for I have walked in my integrity, and I have trusted in the Lord without wavering.”(vs.1, RSV throughout). Integrity comes from the Latin, integer. Among the several meanings supplied by Webster’s Dictionary, the three that I think are most fitting are: incorruptible, adherence to a moral code, unity. Integrity is a personal virtue, and a public trust. The psalmist understands that integrity needs to be demonstrated, “walked in.” People who have integrity can be trusted because their words and deeds walk together. 


The psalmist demands vindication. Vindicate is a powerful word that comes from the Latin, vindicare. Among the meanings Webster’s Dictionary offers are: avenge, deliver, exonerate, justify, defend. Try to imagine the scenario. Does the plaintiff want to be avenged? Delivered from an injustice? exonerated? Maybe the psalmist has written “BLM” on a public street and been charged with defacing public property. Perhaps she or has been victimized in some way, and is demanding justice?
“Prove me, O Lord, test my heart and my mind” (vs.2). Translation: I know right from wrong. I have walked the walk, and talked the talk. I have the courage of my convictions, and the credentials to prove it.
     The psalmist then moves from the personal to the social: “I do not sit with false men, I do not consult with dissemblers; I hate the company of evildoers, and I will not sit with the wicked” (vs.4-5). We cannot tell if the psalmist is addressing political enemies, or perhaps there is corruption in high places, or maybe the courts have been swayed by the influence of wealth and power.
     Religious institutions and leadership have been compromised as we read in the next verses: “I wash my hands in innocence, and go about thy altar, O Lord, singing aloud a song of thanksgiving . . . telling all thy wondrous deeds. O Lord, I love the habitation of thy house, and the place where thy glory

dwells”(vs.6-8). Narrowly construed, “thy house,” is the temple. We could interpret this psalm as a religious feud between church leaders.Think of Martin Luther declaring to church authorities at the Diet of Worms in 1521: “I cannot and will not recant anything.” But, if “thy house” is the whole inhabited earth, then “where thy glory dwells,”(vs.8) means “thy  will be done on earth.” The psalm is calling for environmental and social justice. 

     The next two verses make me inclined to favor the latter possibility. They read; “Sweep me not away with sinners, nor my life with bloodthristy men, men in whose hands are evil devices, and whose right hands are full of bribes”(vs.9-10). Who are these men? I think Bob Dylan’s 1963 song, “Masters of War,” gives us a fair idea.You can read the words or listen to the whole song online. One phrase gives a sense of the song:

I think you will find
When your death takes its toll
All the money you made
Will never buy back your soul.


Maybe the psalmist is facing time in jail because she or he is a member of the War Resisters League, or is a Conscientious Objector. We do not know.
  The psalmist returns to the theme of integrity in the closing verses: “But as for me, I walk in my integrity; redeem me and be gracious to me. My foot stands on level ground; in the great congregation I will bless the Lord” (vs.11-12). The image of level ground implies openness, transparency, and mutual accountability. When will people get equal pay for equal work?
     The psalmist is teaching us that integrity is the antidote to cynicism. Consider the following example.The government has pumped trillions of dollars into the economy and increased the budget of the Department of Defense (once upon a time called the Department of War), but the political class would have us believe that we cannot afford public healthcare for all when more than 170,000 people have died from COVID-19. Or think about this. As recently as August 7, 2020, the Aspen Institute warned that in the next few months 30-40 million people could face eviction from their homes unless the federal government takes action to prevent it, but  politicians think $200 a week will give people an incentive not to work. Cynicism is devouring dreams. Integrity is the antidote to cynicism. Restored health begins with personal integrity, and demands integrity on the part of people who hold the public trust.

In our social contract, integrity in government is defined as government of the people, for the people, and by the people. “People” in this instance means flesh-and-blood human beings who live and die, not, as the US Supreme Court and later laws misconstrued people to mean corporations with charters that can never be revoked. Integrity is government for the people. That means a government that directly or indirectly provides for peoples’ basic needs of food, clothing, shelter, medical care, education, and a safe environment. Government by the people means every vote counts, and it is the government’s responsibility to secure these votes.

     Integrity is the way out of personal and social conflict and chaos. However, there are cautionary notes to add to this psalm. Integrity is a double-edged sword. It is the antidote for cynicism and corruption. But integrity has also come to mean “purity,” in which case it can become a code word for racism, classism and phobias of many kinds. Crimes against humanity have been committed and are being committed to defend the integrity of “our” borders, “our” race, “our” way of life. Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice should be required reading to accompany Psalm 26.
     Lastly, and in a timely way, the psalmist forces us to examine our prejudices. We all want a fair chance and a fair trial, a level playing field. Like the psalmist, we want to stand on “level ground.” The following is a poem by Langston Hughes that sheds light on the meaning of “level ground”:

Park Bench

I live on a park bench
You, Park Avenue.
Hell of a distance
Between us two.

I beg a dime for  dinner--
You got a butler and maid.
But I’m wak’n up!
Say, ain’t you afraid
That I might, just maybe,
In a year or two,
Move on over
To Park Avenue?

 Langston Hughes
The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes
Arnold Rampersad, ed. (NY: Vintage Books,1994)

Rev. David Hansen

Friday, October 16, 2020


 Every now and then we make an excursion after dinner for a hot fudge sundae. We get the small size, which has gotten smaller as the plastic cup gets squeezed and shaped toward the bottom. It makes no sense to me unless they want to give you less ice cream. It's a pain to try and get the hot fudge off the serrated sides and extra work to clean the cups if you want to recycle the plastic.

Last night we also got a plastic cup on top of the sundae. I wanted them to turn it upside down because the top had a regular bottom and would have held more ice cream. I'm not sure why we deserved the extra plastic. Maybe they wanted us to believe it protected us from the waiter coughing or sneezing on our ice cream as he handed it out the window.

The experience made me think of that 1967 film "The Graduate." Remember Mr. Maguires' advice to young Benjamin Braddock?

Mr. Maguire: I want to say one word to you, Benjamin. Just one word.
Benjamin Braddock: Yes, sir.
Mr. Maguire: Are you listening?
Benjamin Braddock: Yes, I am.
Mr. Maguire: Plastics. There is a great future in plastics. Think about it. Will you think about it?
Benjamin Braddock: Yes, I will.
Mr. Maguire: Okay. Enough said. That's a deal.

All of which brings me to a recent article in the Audubon magazine by Zoe Schlanger on "nurdles." Nurdles are little pellets of pre-production plastic. They will become: the cups that hold and cover the hot fudge sundae; the plastic bags from the grocery store; the container for my new toothbrush; the straw, fork and spoon that come with the take out meal. Not to mention the kayak you might purchase.

Nurdles are proliferating all around a Charleston, S.C. shipping facility that sends them around the globe. Nurdles are one of the steps in the plastic pollution process beginning to circle the planet. It starts with the fracking that produces the natural gas, includes the air pollution from the pellet production process, and then plastic pellets end up in Charleston harbor, in plastic islands in the oceans and plastic fragments falling in the snow.

Apparently Mr. Maguire was right. It's just taken a while and a cheap supply of natural gas to really get the plastic industry off the ground. It's full speed ahead today. More than half of all plastic has been produced in the last 15 years and there are 343 new plastic production or expansion facilities presently in the works in the U.S. With the natural gas glut we have now, new plastic was so cheap last year it competed favorably with recycled plastic (only 9% of all plastic gets recycled). The fossil fuel industry hopes to triple plastic production by 2050 and by then expect plastic to account for 50% of demand growth for fossil fuels.

One could hope that reason would sometimes rule decision making. One could hope that people and planet would take priority over profit. But the fossil fuel industry, the most powerful and profitable industry in history, is bound and determined to find an outlet for its investments in the depths of the earth. If wind turbines, solar installations and electric cars threaten their profits, make more plastic. Never mind that their continued production of fossil fuels (and plastic) threatens all life on earth.

Why do I need the tough plastic covering on my new toothbrush I have to cut with a hack saw? Cookies and doughnuts were just fine in a bag or a box. Why must they be packaged in plastic? The virus can live up to 3 days on plastic bags so why can't we continue taking our canvas bags to the grocery store? And why can't communities decide to ban single use plastic?

The answer to these questions is the fossil fuel industry has a powerful lobbying arm and a cheap alternative. The industry has tried to make the case during the pandemic that plastic bags are more hygienic. They have also succeeded in convincing states to pre-empt local communities from banning single use plastics. They succeeded in S.D.. Twice as many states have pre-empted local bans as have instituted sate wide bans on single use plastics. The market drives decisions, not reason, people's needs or the needs of the planet.

If we are to survive corporate control of the economy, with the attendant destruction of the environment, we will need to much more dramatically assert local and individual control. We can ask establishments to skip the plastic packaging and forget the plastic straws. If it costs us a few cents more, so be it.

We can invite people to divest from fossil fuels and those financial institutions that support them. They are taking us straight to a hotter hell than humans have ever known. Heat records are happening every year everywhere. As plastic production increases, so do emissions that heat the planet. Right now, those production emissions are 1% of the planets' total. By 2050, they are projected to be 15% of the total.

Don't worry about the afterlife. Plastics will help make it hell on earth!
Carl Kline

Friday, October 9, 2020

Choosing Life in Learning and Living Torah


Reflections on life and death in time of a pandemic emerged in a precious gathering of seekers and sages, a weekly Torah class that has met with me for many years in a local coffee shop early every Thursday morning, now seeing each other’s faces as squares on the quilted screen. Yearning to hear our own Torah of the pandemic, I asked recently as prelude to the portion of Nitzavim (Deut. 29:9-30:20) and its exhortation to choose life: “What have we learned of life, of ourselves, of choices during this time of the pandemic…?” 

Responses emerged un-muted, as commentary on each one’s page in the Book of Life: “There is so much that I used to do naturally that now requires conscious choice;” “With so much curtailed, the blessings in our lives are reinforced;” “The realities of this time are stripping away superficialities, revealing my basic core, my essence, making it easier to connect with my inner self;” “Walking by the same places as before fills me with appreciation for what was and for what will be;” “I have found a well of patience and resourcefulness, doing things that help me feel more tolerant of others;” “Negotiating the feelings and needs of others, as in the wearing of a mask, makes me question my own assumptions regarding risk, and, so too, regarding diversity of opinion;” “I have realized that I was blaming on life what I was not getting to, coming to know the importance of just doing things and living patiently;” “I am finding strength in my own practice, building strength, learning to depend on myself and manage time;” “I am taking personal responsibility for others, in my house and in the world around me;” “Affirming the positives that have come out of this time, I am looking forward and wondering how to carry on what we have learned….”

We paused to take in the beauty of what had been said. It becomes a sacred challenge as we make our way forward; how shall we carry on what we have learned, making real the Torah of the pandemic? In soil newly softened, how shall we plant seeds of new understanding of self and others? How shall we nurture tender blossoms of change as they sprout within and around us? Coming now through these Days of Awe, taking stock, giving an accounting, will this time of physical remove from each other come to be seen simply as time lost, or shall it be affirmed in days to come as having been a time of fecund possibility? Of our own lives and those of others, of justice and peace seeming so far off, of wholeness envisioned through shards of brokenness as placed upon the eyes of our holy dead, how shall we draw near and lift up our days as offerings toward a greater good? The act of offering is itself a blessing waiting to flow through each of us while our eyes are still open to see the world as it is and as it could be, all of its beauty and all of its pain. So we came on that Thursday morning to the poignant words of Torah that stop us in the best of times, bringing tears, even more so now in this time of the pandemic and the festivals of Tishrei, the Book of Life open before us.

        With so much death in the land, so much suffering, how shall we read and hear the Torah’s exhortation: I have called heaven and earth today to witness through you; I have set life and death before you, blessing and curse. Choose life/u’vacharta ba’chaim, so that you may live—you and your children… (Deut. 30:19). Something of the verse feels at times almost cruel in the face of lives cut short, words seeming to mock the magnificent vulnerability of what it is to be human. Would that we could choose the length of our days and those of our loved ones, most of all of our children. All the more so, in this time of plague, disaster, and cruelty, we yearn to promise and protect from the virus, from police bullets, from fire and flood. The words of the Machzor, the holiday prayer book, haunt in their chilling reflection of the world in which we live: who by fire and who by water; who by sword and who by beast; who by earthquake, u’mi va’mageifa/and who by plague…, the last words lingering, sticking in our throats, emerging through trembling lips.


The Holy One knows our pain, crying with us, affirming our grandeur and fragility in the face of life’s mystery, the miracle that life comes to be at all, taking our hand at the point beyond which others can no longer accompany. God’s response to our inevitable human struggle is in the next verse, not removing our pain, but giving it greater context, soothing, reassuring, kissing away our tears: to love God, your God; to hearken to God’s voice and to cling firmly to God; for that is your life and the length of your days/ki hu cha’yecha v’orech yamecha… (Deut. 30:20). To choose life is to choose a way of life, that is the blessing and the length of our days, to choose a way that affirms all life, that recognizes the image of God in each one, the sacredness of creation, each of us as partners in its daily renewal, protectors, shomrei adamah/keepers of Earth, as God asked us to be even in the Garden, l’ovdah u’l’shomrah/to work it and to protect it (Gen. 2:15).

There has been much turning during this time to the Torah of other pandemics, to teachers whose words speak from their distress to ours. One of those teachers whose words have come to greater awareness is Rabbi Chaim ben B’tzalel (1525-1588) of Worms and Friedberg.  In a slender volume called Sefer Ha’Chaim/the Book of Life written while in quarantine during the plague of 1578, Rabbi Chaim tells of his tribulations and of Torah as a source of life and sustenance.

With words that are strikingly familiar to us, Rabbi Chaim describes being closed off from the world, and of the fearsome intrusion of sickness and death even in his own home: for death has then risen through the windows of my house/ki alah az ha’mavet ba’chalonei beyti… within this great upheaval/b’toch ha’hafeicha ha’g’dolah…, and the doors of my house are shut upon me…. In the midst of all this, at the thought of not being able to learn Torah, Rabbi Chaim says, challilah/God forbid, ki hi chayenu v’orech yameinu/for it is our life and the length of our days…. He then draws on the very distress he is feeling, reminding us, as well, to draw new insight, new Torah, from our experience of the pandemic, as he draws succor from the Torah to be learned in his time of disease and distress. That such a time as this can be a time of Torah and creativity, he writes, kach ha’z’man ha’m’yuchad l’limud ha’aggadah/so it is that this is a unique time for the learning of the aggadah, the rich tellings and tales of the rabbis, and so for us in our weaving of tales that tell of the experience of this time…; divrei ha’aggadah ba’makom ha’da’aggah/words of aggadah in a place of d’aggah/anxiety, ki’otiot dayn k’dayn/for the letters of this are as this…. Arranged in five sections according to the five books referred to in the beloved prayer of this season, Avinu Malkenu, so Rabbi Chaim draws on the heightened awareness of life’s fragility as felt so keenly during the Days of Awe, all the more so as felt in their confluence with a season of plague and pandemic. 

Naming his book after his own propitious name, it is also more than that, reflecting his deep sense of responsibility and purpose “to save our souls from death” through the wisdom gained of his learning in this time of “wrath and worry/b’af u’v’da’aggah.” On the name of his book, he then says very simply, poignantly and prayerfully, I have therefore called the name of the words of this letter Sefer Ha’chaim/the Book of Life.

In learning the Torah of the pandemic we nourish our selves and others, the Torah of Moses as the seedbed from which our own Torah, our own teaching rises, now, as always. As among the Thursday morning Torah seekers with whom I learn of Torah and life, there is delight, nachas ru’ach/soul pleasure, in the richness of wrestling together with life in all of its moods in the context of Torah, our own experience and its insights become as commentary. Such learning is the balm that Rabbi Chaim sought to draw from as healing for his own soul, then to share with others, joining souls beyond the solitudes and separations of the plague. As in the way of holy days, perhaps even, in its own way, in the days of the pandemic, solitudes and separations bridged in ways Rabbi Chaim could not have imagined, there is restorative pause now in the closing portions of this year’s Torah cycle. Beyond the tumult and strife of Torah and life, learning to navigate the harsh passages of both, nearing journey’s end there is revealed the universal essence that joins us all. 


Accompanying Moses in his last hours, we face our own mortality, and are yet reminded of the ever-present opportunity to choose life, even to the end. Sharing the aggadah, the tellings of our learnings and yearnings born of the d’aggah of this time, all the accumulated worry that has so touched our souls, distance is bridged, virtual made real. Choosing the way of life and blessing in the face of death, the learning of Torah itself emblematic of life and continuity, we learn not to give up on what is important and precious no matter the difficulties that surround. So we give strength and meaning to each other, and even beauty and sweetness, helping us all to go on, for it is our life and the length of our days. Standing in the gate of possibility at the turning of the year, we ask in the face of all that besets us of where we are going and to what purpose. If before the witness of heaven and earth we would choose life so that we, and our children may live, then we are called to account for the state of the world and its future. Learning the Torah of the pandemic and living it for the sake of a greater good, that all might be able equally to choose life, so we write ourselves into the Book of Life, Sefer Ha’chaim.

Rabbi Victor H. Reinstein

Friday, October 2, 2020

Finding Hope


We had just finished our Zoom yoga class and following the closing “OM”, our yoga teacher asked what we were doing to stay hopeful.  There were perhaps a dozen of us onscreen.  For 30 seconds or so the silence was deafening until one woman spoke of her despair and sense of helplessness.  We were sitting together, separately, feeling the overwhelming effects of PDDT (post debate debacle trauma).  Due to a storm, the newspapers that usually arrive on an early boat  had not been delivered. We had only watched about 7-8 minutes of the debate before acknowledging  that it would be too toxic to watch just before bedtime. So I was not yet as devastated as some of my “classmates.”

I reflected briefly on my response to our yoga teacher’s question - - what do I do to generate a feeling of hope in the midst of the trauma?  A couple of things came immediately to mind - - mostly longstanding disciplines that suddenly seem fresh and utterly life sustaining in a way that I have long taken for granted.  Things like consistent gathering (via Zoom) with my faith communities - - showing up for Shabbat services on Friday evenings and Saturday mornings, for worship on Sunday morning, for meditation with a more Buddhist emphasis three mornings a week, for a prayer circle on Friday mornings, Torah study on Thursdays, a bi-weekly meeting with the church’s Care Team and, of course, the yoga class.

I began to think about why these “practices” are what help to keep me from bottoming out in despair.  Central to each one are two things: gathering regularly with people of spirit who are no less vulnerable to despair than I am - - yet when we are together we strengthen and support each other; frequent connection with ancient texts - Torah, the Christian texts, the wisdom of the Buddha.

For me,  the connection with persons and texts is deeply grounding and centering.  Meeting with the Care Team helps me to focus on the needs of the church community.  Church and synagogue receive my anxieties and sorrows and then turn me outward into the needs of the larger world again.

I am not pollyanna hopeful by any means - but all the above practices broaden my scope by reminding me that this current darkness is not all there is.  There is a vast network of generous, loving, compassionate, intelligent humanity working like rhizomes beneath the surface, just out of sight - - bringing order and light and healing where they happen to be engaged.  We lose sight of this at our peril.

My husband and I had some time between appointments this morning so we took a short walk along the beach that borders the ferry terminal.  We noticed four sleek black cormorants, in a well choreographed ballet, taking turns, one after another, diving for fish and then resurfacing at precise intervals to repeat their performance.  An experience of captivating order - - not chaos.

Along the beach, several gentle men of a certain age gathered to race their remote controlled sail boats around the buoys located not far off shore.   A young father and his son were fishing off the dock.  He stopped at a safely masked 6 feet from me to explain that each of these men had built his own sail boat to a prescribed blueprint used by the whole group.  The boats were not motorized.  Somehow they were constructed so that they functioned as actual sail boats by remote control.  The men gathered several mornings a week to enjoy one another’s company and race their boats.  When the young father finished our conversation he said to his son, “C’mon buddy, time to get back to school.”   He was on a 30 minute break from home schooling - and took the time for a quick fishing trip to the harbor with his little boy.


It was all so brilliantly mundane - - normal - - peaceful - - a reminder that order is never very far from the chaos that seems to pervade everything - - maybe even existing at the center of it all.

I write from an admittedly very white, privileged background and milieu.  It is the world I live in.  It is what I know.  It is hard to escape that.  And yet, in the midst of all that white privilege, there is heartache, a despair, a sense of helplessness and a yearning to make things right in the face of what appears to be an overwhelming and crushing negative force.  Privilege comes with responsibilities.   Hopelessness and despair are luxuries none of us can afford in the face of all that assaults us these days.  An itinerant preacher from Nazareth once taught “From everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required; and from the one to whom much has been entrusted, even more will be demanded.” (Luke 12:48 NRSV) To me it sounds like a rallying cry not unlike a verse we often hear on Shabbat to “get up” -  to get out of the devastating malaise that often accompanies  hopelessness, to recognize that while privilege is a heavy weight on the neck of so much of white America, it is also a call to responsibility and action.

An hour with good friends, an hour spent re-connecting with the prophetic teachings of the ancients, a short walk in the sunshine after a storm, a few sleek, black water birds doing their thing - - bits of life that restore hope - - fragile, elusive, sustaining hope.  And then…to work!

 Vicky Hanjian

Friday, September 25, 2020

Rich In Love

Psalm 148

     My seminary teachers told me to read with the Bible in one hand and the newspaper in the other. Faith, they said, is a conversation, a dialogue, a living thing. So ever since I have been reading with the newspaper in one hand and the Bible in the other. And the news is not so good.  Four and one-half million cases of coronavirus have been reported in the US, and 200,000 people have died from the disease according to official statistics. And we all wonder and worry about what happens once the school year starts this fall. On the other hand, Black Lives Matter is forcing us to have a new conversation on race. The adult education class here at Pine Valley Christian Church is to be congratulated for tackling the tough issue of racism and white supremacy in America. I have listened to the TED Talk the class is discussing. The speaker says that as a nation we are at a tipping point. The history that we have tried to ignore or soft peddle for too long has to be faced. The chickens are coming home to roost. Watching that TED Talk I thought of William Faulkner’s line, “History isn't dead; it'snot even past."


     On a personal level, many of us are trying our best to stay home. Some of us have cabin fever. We are asking questions. How long will this go on?  What’s a person going to do? What does our faith teach us?  So if you have your Bible handy open it to Psalm 148.  It is called a psalm of praise. Some people call it a hallelujah psalm. It may have been written for the dedication of a place of worship. As you read it you might think about celebrations or dedications you have attended. Maybe you participated in a house blessing.
Sometime later today and again tomorrow, find Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony or his Ninth Symphony on the internet, and as you listen to that music read this psalm--out loud. Take a deep breath and read it: “Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord from the heavens. Praise God in the heights above. Praise God all the angels. Praise God all heavenly hosts. Praise God, sun and moon, Praise God all you shining stars. Praise God in the highest heavens. Praise God. Praise the name of the Lord.” Halleluiah. Joyful, joyful, we adore thee, God of love.
        Some people think this psalm was written when the temple was being dedicated. Other people associate it with St. Francis. I have an image of John Muir standing in Yosemite Valley reciting this psalm to El Capitan and Half Dome. In a world that is being paralyzed by a global pandemic it is no small thing to stand up and give praise. “Yea though I walk through the valley of shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” Do not under estimate the power of praise.
In the very next verse the psalmist declares: “God commanded and they were created, established for ever and ever, fixed by bounds they cannot pass.” Isn’t that an interesting paradox? Creation lasts for ever and ever, but every created thing, every created being has boundaries, which we cannot pass. We live in a web of mutuality and interdependence. Thus, in verses seven and eight the psalmist says: 


“Praise the Lord from the earth, you sea monsters and all deeps, fire and hail, snow and frost, stormy wind fulfilling God’s command. Mountains and all hills, fruit trees and cedars, beasts and cattle, creeping things and flying birds. Praise the Lord.
The psalmist is telling us that God has a covenant with all of creation. All of creation is an expression of God’s love. God’s love makes creation possible. God’s love sustains creation. God’s love tells the sun to rise in the morning and set in the evening. God is rich in love. God’s love makes life possible.
          Then, in the very next verses, the psalmist reminds us in verses eleven and twelve, that we have a role to play. We have a responsibility: “Kings of the earth and all peoples, princes and all rulers of the earth! Young men and maidens together, old people and children, Praise the Lord.” We are accountable for the things that we do, and for the things we ought to have done buthave left undone. We are responsible for ourselves and for the care of the earth to the seventh generation, responsible to our children and our children’s children. The psalmist has a vision of praise that expands our understanding of praise. The meaning of praise has a horizontal dimension as well as a vertical one. Praise binds us to God and to the earth and to all people.
     Then in verse 14: “God has raised up a horn for the people.” Hear the sound of the trumpet. Lately Sally and I have been reading a collection of Greta Thunberg’s speeches. They are published in a slim volume entitled, No One Is Too Small to Make a Difference. She is a trumpeter of the Lord. She entitled one speech, “You can’t simply make up your own facts.” She said in that speech, “I’ll tell you this, you cannot solve a crisis without treating it like a crisis. You cannot leave the responsibility to individuals and politicians, the markets or some other parts of the world. This has to include everything and everyone.” 

       In a speech that she gave at Davos, Switzerland, she was speaking to the one-tenth of the one-percent who own more wealth than ninety-nine percent of the world’s population. She said, “I have come to tell you our house is on fire.” She told them, “You like to talk about your financial success . . .  but your financial success comes with an unthinkable price tag.”  And in a speech to the US Congress she said, “I have many dreams, but now is not the time to dream. Wake up.” God has raised up a horn, a trumpet, for the people. The trumpeter’s name is Greta. She is reminding us of the wisdom of the psalmist. Creation does not belong to us. “The Earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof.” Creation does not belong to us, but we bear responsibility for it.

     Just recently, our nation paid tribute to another trumpeter of the Lord. If Martin Luther King, Jr. was the drum major, John Robert Lewis was the lead trumpet. This morning I am holding the image of the Congressman’s caisson carrying his casket across a bridge that I believe will soon be named in his honor, the John Robert Lewis Bridge. I learned last week that when he was a child and even to this day his family calls him Robert. Robert Lewis. That’s his name. When he became head of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee he took the name John. He wanted the world to know that he was a disciple of Jesus, so he took the name of a disciple, and called himself John. And he praised God with his words and with his deeds. This strong and gentle and nonviolent disciple of our Lord said, “If you see something wrong, say something. Do something. Go and get into good trouble.” 

Rev. David Hansen

Friday, September 18, 2020

Leaving The Baggage Behind

Peace Brigades International (PBI) was started in 1981 as a new experiment from an older idea implemented by Gandhi in the Indian freedom struggle. In response to Hindu - Muslim conflict, Gandhi developed groups of unarmed peacekeepers, who would go into situations of violence to temper and calm both sides. The volunteers were non-partisan in their approach, wore clothing that identified them as peacekeepers, searched out facts to scotch rumors and misinformation and identified points of common resolution.

PBI began its efforts in the early 80's in Guatemala, accompanying the Mutual Support Group for Families of the Disappeared (GAM), as they became politically active for the cause of their loved ones, and in turn, began receiving death threats. PBI volunteers would accompany the leaders of the group and their family members wherever they went, as an unarmed international presence, prepared to report back to an international audience that would send telegrams and assert international political pressure on the appropriate persons and parties.
        Gradually, as human rights workers and organizations requested help, the work expanded. Presently PBI is organized in 13 country groups for recruitment of volunteers and fundraising. Since 1981 the organization has been active in a total of 16 field projects and is currently working in 7 different country locations.
       Several years ago I was serving on the International Council of PBI. As an International Council member, I had the opportunity to attend a General Assembly meeting of PBI in Switzerland. It brought together representatives from all of the different country groups and the various field projects. We were a group of about sixty, speaking several languages and using three in our sessions. Some of the issues before us were highly contested.  As a group that was committed to operating by consensus, I couldn't imagine resolving those deeply felt issues in the limited time frame we had. I thought, perhaps, they could never be resolved to everyone's satisfaction.
 Early on in the gathering, a decision was made to start a working group that would focus on the most contentious issue before us. The group included the most vociferous adherents on both sides with a few others and a trained facilitator and mediator. They devoted themselves to the task, using every spare moment. At the end of the gathering they presented their resolution, which to my utter amazement, was adopted by consensus of the whole group.

I've thought about this PBI event many times since. It has loomed large these days as I watch a deeply partisan Congress and divided society struggle to do what's best for the country. Where are our facilitators and mediators? Where are those committed to building consensus?

In the same way, I wonder why we haven't yet learned that there are alternative ways to resolve conflict than war and violence? PBI has been in operation for almost forty years without loss of life to any of those they accompany. The Nonviolent Peace Force is active around the globe offering nonviolent alternatives. Yet, my country continues building an arsenal that can destroy the world several times over while the forever rising defense budget is the only item to get overwhelming bi-partisan support. Where is the vision and support for nonviolent alternatives?

Whenever we enter into any kind of disagreement, we all carry some baggage. It might be the baggage of personal ego. We all like to be "right." It might be the baggage of responsibility to others. Maybe we are representing our family, our workplace, our community, or Congressional constituency. Or it could be the baggage of "belief." It's when my religion tells me this is wrong, so you must be wrong to believe differently. Sometimes it's the baggage of fear, for my own or others personal safety or welfare. Sometimes it's the baggage of money; losing it!

As I ponder the "miracle" of that gathering in Switzerland, I have come to recognize that the baggage people brought was modest. No one was paying them or lobbying them with threats or money. Their fundamental belief in nonviolent conflict resolution had been formed and tempered by personal experience in the fields of conflict. That belief rose above all others. Those they represented were committed to the value of consensus, so they weren't too worried about those back home. And with good facilitation and mediation, ego is exposed and vulnerability is affirmed.
It's possible to travel lightly, leaving the baggage behind. This experience in Switzerland and the promise of groups like PBI continue to give one some modest hope for the future.

Carl Kline