May I be Excused? I Want to Watch Us Gas the Children

It’s a unique opportunity. I was never able to watch Israel in action against the Palestinians first hand, and events happened so quickly In Ferguson that the tear gassing was over almost before it started. But now I have my opportunity. The chances are good that the military will continue this long enough for me to see it up close.

I’ve plotted a route from Oregon to Tijuana. 1082 miles; 17 hours, 3 minutes. Two 9 hour days or one straight run. If I take I-5 I can see the poorly maintained California forests that should have been raked. And then the excitement that comes from watching hopeful immigrants scatter in all directions. At least some of them will scatter.

“Designed to force people out from behind barricades and trenches, tear gas causes burning of the eyes and skin, tearing, and gagging. As people flee from its effects, they leave their cover and comrades behind. In addition to its physical consequences, tear gas also provokes terror.’” (1)

So most will run, but in Tijuana some - the children - couldn’t or didn’t. If a person can’t flee there is the danger of getting whacked in the head with a gas canister - a substantial blow. One news report said, “Children screamed and coughed in the mayhem of the tear gas. Fumes were carried by the wind toward people who were hundreds of feet away, not attempting to enter the U.S.” But some were admittedly trying to bypass the fences and barbed wire in an attempt to get into the US. What did they expect, anyway?

So I imagine it will be exciting if the gassing continues. The excitement will be generated by panic. Lots of people running around screaming have that effect. It will be accompanied by fear on our side of the border, because after all, these folks have been labeled terrorists, gang members and criminals. What if they actually bypass the troops? Surely they will overrun our cities, steal our jobs, and rape our women.

And excitement will be generated in us by the knowledge that corporations are profiting from this approach. “Over the past two decades, sales of tear gas, and less-lethal weapons more broadly, have grown substantially. Just as tear-gas salesmen in the 1920s monitored news headlines, today’s chemical executives receive  market reports informing them, for instance, that civil unrest has become commonplace in many regions of the world, from protesters in Brazil to activists in the Middle East. Governments have responded by purchasing record amounts of non-lethal weapons.” (2)

Finally there is the recurring hope that the Wall is truly coming. We entertain our dream of it in the knowledge that Donald Trump’s erection won’t be just a barrier to keep the criminal elements out. It will provide order for a government that is sadly under-equipped to process more than ten or twelve immigrants a day, even though they have valid reasons for seeking asylum and the legal right to enter the country. 

A wall will help us maintain a white population in the face of a growing citizenry of non-whites. It will reinforce our notion that we are strong, even invincible, in the face of international criticism, and that the executive branch is more powerful than the judiciary. And finally it will reassure us that we don’t have the resources to embrace 2,000, or even 20,000, refugees. I personally don’t want to be reminded that churches all over the country would welcome a family or two and help them resettle. Or that what we might spend erecting a few miles of a wall would accomplish the same thing. Or that the cost of sending thousands of troops to the border is much higher than setting up a tent city, with beds, restrooms and air conditioning to house a lesser number of refugees. I can hardly wait to get there.

(1)  Feigenbaum, Anna. “100 Years of Tear Gas.” The Atlantic: August 16, 2014

(2) Ibid

Compassion is a Balancing Act

In seminary we spent an inordinate amount of time discussing theological jots and tittles, such as the need for the adjective “personal” when referring to the Savior, as in “I have accepted Jesus as my personal Savior. Some said the modifier was unnecessary; Jesus made salvation possible individually and communally. Others contended that through Christ God met us personally, one on one, uniquely addressing our sinfulness and our need for forgiveness., and we should be clear about it from the beginning. I confess to being in the former group. I was more concerned with the result than I was with God’s methodology, and for me these conversations about a personal Savior joined a long list of topics that couldn’t be proved one way or another. 

That was true until recently, when I began to see God as my personal antagonist. The awareness surfaced in worship when our pastor, Steve Fawver, addressed the subject of compassion. For the past several weeks he has focused on portions of Henri Nouwen’s book, With Open Hands. The chapter “Prayer and Compassion” states, “Prayer can never be antisocial or asocial. Whenever we pray and leave out our neighbors, our prayer is not real prayer.” (82)

The message coincided with the horrific fires burning in California, both north and south, where a multitude have lost their lives, thousands have lost their homes, and thousands more are under evacuation orders. But to understand my sense of God as my personal adversary I need to step back several years.

In 2012 fire ravaged the Mountain Shadows neighborhood where we lived in Colorado Springs. In what was an historical event at the time over 350 homes were destroyed. The number was record-setting. If I were to identify pivotal life moments, the fire in Mountain Shadows would be included - with our marriage, our children’s births, my ordination (1973), and my first car (a 1965 Ford Fairlane).

And our home, along with 5 others on the street, survived the fire. The rest of the subdivision lay in ruins. We had substantial damage, but our insurance covered it all. For those whose homes had burned I had a great deal of empathy. I thought that was enough. But as Edwin Friedman points out in A Failure of Nerve, 

On the one hand, there can be no question that the notion of feeling for others, caring for others, identifying with others, being responsive to others, and perhaps even sharing their pain exquisitely or excruciatingly is heartfelt, humanitarian, highly spiritual, and an essential component in a leader’s response repertoire. But it has rarely been my experience that being sensitive to others will enable those “others” to be more self-aware, that being more “understanding” of others causes them to mature, or that appreciating the plight of others will make them more responsible for their being, their condition, or their destiny. (137)

An incident from the California fires stresses the point. I heard about a woman who was driving through the flames trying to escape when the traffic came to a stop, the fire came toward her, and she finally called her husband on her cell phone and said, “I don’t think I’m going to make it. I’m going to die here.” He said, “Don’t die without fighting. Get out and run.” She did, and she survived. It was empathy with stern advice. I believe in the aftermath of the Mountain Shadows fire I was very empathetic, but less concerned about being actively involved. I felt bad for the fire victims. I really did. I even gave them some money. Such generosity. I could have done more.

And excessive empathy wasn’t my greatest shortcoming. It was a lack of humility. Down deep I reasoned that our home survived, and it was our effort that made it so. We had taken out a “good” insurance policy, one that covered all the possibilities. We had worked hard to have enough money to make the payments. I even had a back-up plan. I took pictures of every room, all of our belongings, just in case the house burned and the insurance company quibbled with us. Woe unto those who don’t photograph their stuff. 

When we had to evacuate the neighborhood we had friends who took us in, who fed us, who gave us a room to stay in, because after all we were good, nice people whom others would feed and shelter. We knew we had a safety net. 

And most important we had stood, prior to the evacuation orders, in our driveway with other friends and prayed for our home and our safety before we hopped in the car. Surely not everyone had done that, and surely it was a sign to God of our faithfulness. A part of me (that I prefer to keep hidden) felt we had been rewarded in kind. Their homes burned and ours didn’t.

Then God the Antagonist began to show up.  In retrospect the first appearance was last summer when California was previously burning (It seems California is always burning) and I started with the snarky prayers. “Lord God, the smoke from these fires is making me really uncomfortable. It’s annoying. It makes my eyes water.” And God said, “You’ve got to be kidding me. Your attitude is not good, and your priorities are out of whack. Maybe I should show you really watery eyes.” 

Recently, as the destruction in California has become greater and the death toll has increased, God’s presence has become more frequent. God my Antagonist. I can’t decide if God has gently taken my chin in hand to look me in the eye, or put me on the ground with a divine foot on my neck. Maybe it’s some of each. This is the God about whom the Psalmist said, “You hem me in behind and before, and you lay your hand upon me,” (139:5) and has said to me, “You can do better than this. Three hundred and fifty homes are a pittance, and yours in Colorado certainly wasn’t at the center of all things. Neither are you.”

I am more and more convinced that compassion is a balancing act. It is empathy and action. Or as 1 John puts it, “This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers and sisters.  If anyone has material possessions and sees a brother or sister in need but has no pity on them, how can the love of God be in that person?  Dear children, let us not love with words or speech but with actions and in truth.” (3:16-18)

Pastor Mike

Now I'm a Mobster

I was warned that retirement could involve a challenging transition, especially for a Christian pastor who was used to being in front of a crowd much of the time. In fact the words of caution carried more truth than I imagined. Retirement  would mean jettisoning my identity as a person in charge, the one others came to for advice, someone frequently called on to speak publicly. Now I would have to take more of a back seat.

At first I became, unwillingly, a medical patient. I was hospitalized with a heart condition, had surgery, proceeded with physical therapy, and then was treated for prostate cancer. The recovery process wasn’t terribly difficult or frightening, but I did become accustomed to being waited on and having friends, even strangers, ask, “How are you doing?” or “Can I get you anything?” Yet after reassuring them several times that I was just fine and no longer needed help, that attention dwindled.

Falling into the identity void once again, I decided I would relate to others as an artist. In the past I had painted several watercolor pictures and I resumed the hobby. I even felt a sense of accomplishment embracing this positive sense of self. I recognized that I was indeed a creative person. And it was good.

Then came a cruel awakening. I was labeled a mobster. I was given no advance notice. Instead I had this epithet thrown at me because I was, in fact, an advocate for people on the margins of society.   I had often mingled with Democrats. Been one who empathized with legal protesters. And the accusation was directed at me repeatedly by certain politicians, including the President and his followers. I was part of an “unruly mob,” angry, left wing, inclined to riot and to overthrow any sense of law and order.

Being troubled by this description (I’ve always considered myself a  good citizen, albeit a pacifist) I searched my past for any behavior that would place me in this violent anarchistic category. And then it became clear. During the summer I had attended what amounted to a civil insurrection. It was disguised as an ecumenical worship service at the Sheridan, Oregon prison. It was promoted as a protest of the illegal imprisonment of a border-crossers. But what appeared peaceful on the surface was obviously a mob action.

Over a hundred people were present, a mob by any measure. They carefully hid their anger at the authorities by maintaining benign looks, but they were clearly on the verge of violence. Some looked accusingly at the razor-wire fence around the prison, while others whispered, perhaps scheming, among themselves. Prison guards warned us not to talk to prisoners through the fence, but some in the group hovered near the razor wire certainly looking for an opportunity to converse with those confined criminals.

Our gang of imposters was organized by members of the Sikh community, a group that supposedly embraced “non-violence” but had engaged in public protests before. At this gathering they chanted, encouraged the raising of hands, and provided hypnotic music. The crowd participated willingly. Many in attendance carried metal objects camouflaged as lawn chairs which could have been wielded as weapons. Speakers from various religious groups spoke forcefully about the need to resist the actions of the government as part of this imprisonment. Then, thankfully, the crowd quietly dispersed.

So now, unavoidably I am part of an unruly riotous group of mobsters. Indeed, I am an American Baptist/Quaker mobster. Like a convicted sex offender I will have to live with this identity for the rest of my life.