Daily Dose (February 17 – 20)
TUESDAY FEBRUARY 17 — Caring for others is music worth singing. It is the music of Grace. It is the music that brings people out of hiding, out of unease, and out of fear.
Songs that invite courage, and renewal, and resilience.
Songs that let us know; it is safe to come home.
This I know: I want a world where is it safe to come home.
I want to live in a world where fear is not the final word.
Although, if I’m honest, my druthers would be that this—a world alive with peace and compassion—all kicks in after life is tidy, and all straightened out.
That would be nice.
In the Post Office this week, I heard this conversation. “I’m trying to stay sane and healthy. Or is it healthy and sane. I’m not sure of the order.”
Of course, the first Noble Truth of Buddhism is that life is filled with suffering. So much for tidy. Or for my wish to eliminate sorrow.
The (very old) Sanskrit word for suffering is “Dukkha”. (It can mean stress, anxiety or dissatisfaction.)
The contrast is “Sukha”, which can translate happiness (which throws me because I’m not real certain what happiness looks like, except that it seems to describe someone other than me).
What is helpful to know is that these words date to a time when humans traveled by horse or ox drawn carts, and the words were literally used to mean, “having a bad or good axle.”
Okay, I love this. (Plus, I’m good at mixing metaphors.)
Yes, there will be ruts—life can be precarious, and unsafe, and at times without mercy—but it is the axle, (not the ruts), that determines the ride.
So. What is next?
Mother Teresa was asked where she found her strength, her focus, her fuel. The fuel, she explained, is prayer. “To keep a lamp burning, we have to keep putting oil in it.”
To be replenished is to be reminded of what is true, of what tethers us. This is not just someone saying, “you’ll be okay.” But to know, at our core, that we are safe, and we are home. And now we have something to draw on. And that means we have something to give.
Yes. And I say that’s the oil Mother Teresa is talking about. Our sanctuary is not just for solace, but also indispensable as deterrent. Because with sanctuary, we build immunity; to not be as easily susceptible to fear, or to being at the mercy of every threat.
And we are reminded of this when we hear the music that invites us home.
However, here’s the deal: our story doesn’t stop when we hear the song.
We leave different than when we came in.
And now, we sing (spill) the song to others.
The song gives us the power to change our paradigm. Yes. Even though there is suffering, the axle determines the ride. And the song always invites people home to safety. We saw it in the civil rights movement. And we see it now, in groups like Singing Resistance, in Minneapolis, MN, where they see music “as a vehicle for demonstrators’ grief, rage and strength”.
Yes, and Amen. This is music we share with our brother and sisters.
“When we choose to stay human—when we keep telling the truth, caring for one another, protecting the vulnerable, practicing restraint instead of revenge—we become carriers of a different future, even if we never see its fullness.
This does not mean we ignore injustice or accept harm. Benedictine communities were not neutral. They were ordered around values that quietly but firmly contradicted domination: humility over power, shared resources over hoarding, hospitality over exclusion, care over control. In times like these, courage does not always look like confrontation. Sometimes it looks like preserving what makes life worth saving.” Thank you, Rev. Cameron Trimble.
“When you extend an open hand, instead of a closed fist, you’ll be surprised by who takes that hand.” James Talarico (Texas State Representative)
WEDNESDAY FEBRUARY 18 — There’s an old story of a child walking in a forest, surrounded by sun-dappled oak trees. He climbs through the brambles and plays in the fallen leaves, mesmerized by spiderwebs and mossy rocks until the moment he realizes he’s completely lost. He tries to find his way out, but each path seems to lead him deeper into the forest. As the sun begins to sin, he grows increasingly afraid, wondering if he’ll ever make it home. But just then, he sees another child approaching in the distance.
He excitedly cries out to her, “I’m so relieved to see you. I’m lost. Can you point me to the way out of here?”
“I wish I could,” she says. “I’m lost too. But take my hand—we’ll find our way through this forest together.”
(Attributed to the early nineteenth-century Rabbi Hayyim Halberstam of Zans)
We all know feeling lost. Or, untethered, or in the midst of life disagreeable, or circumstances unfriendly, or grief all-encompassing.
And it is real. And easy to focus only there, on the lost part. Forgetting that we are on this journey together.
It is why every Sabbath Moment embraces Ram Dass’ reminder, “We’re all just walking each other home.”
And so grateful for those in my life who have said, “Take my hand, we’ll find our way together.”
Here’s the deal: Caring for others is music worth singing. It is the music of Grace. It is the music that brings people out of hiding, out of unease, and out of fear.
Songs that invite courage, and renewal, and resilience.
Songs that let us know; it is safe to come home.
This I know: I want a world where is it safe to come home.
I want to live in a world where fear is not the final word.
“Never look down on anybody unless you’re helping him up.” Jesse Jackson reminded us. Now that, my friends, that is the music of Grace.
And we say, “Thank you, Mr. Jackson, for making our world a better place. And may you rest in peace.”
Former President Obama said, “He was relentless in his belief that we are all children of God, deserving of dignity and respect.”
Yes. Belief is, literally, all about where and how our feet hit the ground in terms of the choices we make.
It’s not uncommon to be asked, “What do you believe?”
And in response, we recite a creed (or doctrine or dogma). And it’s not that we don’t avow what we recite. It’s just that creed profession is one thing, and we need a paradigm shift in terms of how we “measure belief”.
Instead of asking, “What do you believe?” Let us say, “Show us how you treat the least among us, and then we will know what you believe.”
“We need stories that tell us the reason why compassion and the humane treatment of our fellows is more important—and interesting—than feathering our own nests as we go on accumulating property and power.” William Kittridge
“Our country and our people cannot continue to be drenched in animosity, hatred, and the denial of respect for human beings. There has to be another way home to peace and justice. A Herod-like atmosphere cannot be allowed to destroy our nation’s spirit of hospitality and good will for all.” Thank you, Joyce Rupp
THURSDAY FEBRUARY 19 — Caring for others is music worth singing. It is the music of Grace. It is the music that brings people out of hiding, out of unease, and out of fear.
Songs that invite courage, and renewal, and resilience.
Songs that let us know; it is safe to come home.
This I know: I want a world where is it safe to come home.
I want to live in a world where fear is not the final word.
And I am very grateful for what Joyce Rupp wrote in her blog about “Field of Compassion”—another great image for the music of Grace.
“Last week I led the workshop for our new Boundless Compassion facilitators who had gathered for a week of growing in compassion. I marveled anew at the desire, dedication, and determination of people like themselves who are willing to tend to their own suffering and that of others with kindness and hope. They renewed my belief that each person who lives in this way can add to the strength of bringing about a world where genuine peace and love abide.
Something I read years ago convinces me of this possibility. The scientist Rupert Sheldrake developed his theory about fields of energy that can be strengthened and influential the more they are activated and practiced. These non-material realms of energy contain information that forms a ‘collective memory upon which all organisms draw and to which they contribute.’ I recently came across a story in Aimee Nezhukumatathil’s World of Wonders that exemplifies how Rupert’s theory works: ‘There’s a spot over Lake Superior where migrating butterflies veer sharply. No one understood why they made such a quick turn at that specific place until a geologist finally made the connection: a mountain rose out of the water in that exact location thousands of years ago. These butterflies and their offspring can still remember a mass they’ve never seen, sound waves breaking just so, and fly out of the way. How did they pass on this knowledge of the invisible? Does this message transmit through the song they sing to themselves on their first wild nights, spinning inside a chrysalis? Or in the music kissed down their backs as they crack themselves open to the morning sun? Does milkweed whisper instructions to them as it scatters in the meadow?’
The butterflies carry the memory created by the field of energy residing in their ancestors and pass it along to the next generation. In the same way, I believe that the more we practice kindness and compassion, the stronger that energy of love becomes within us and within those who follow after us. Judy Cannato describes this reality in her Field of Compassion: ‘We live in a world of grace, and as we more consciously receive grace, each of us becomes a Field of Compassion. Each one of us becomes open to love a little more completely, and then love pours out of us and into the world. As we become free, others experience freedom in our presence and can choose to be open to love, too. This is our life work, our great work, what the Universe asks and what this moment in time demands. Our work requires all that we have become and all that we are becoming. It requires a ‘yes’ that at one moment may be whole-hearted and the next tentative and unsure. But together our ‘yes’ is empowering. Let us imagine the grace, then, hold it in our hearts and manifest, one day at a time, a Field of Compassion.’
We are not butterflies with the memory of a former mountain urging them to veer around it. We are humans carrying the memory of love, the kind reflected and taught by Jesus and all compassionate leaders before him and since then. The possibility for reinforcing this quality of the human heart dwells within each of us. It flows forth with every gesture of kindness toward those who suffer, and strengthens the field of compassion as it does so. (Thank you Joyce)
FRIDAY FEBRUARY 20 — In the Holocaust Museum there is a story about an exchange in a concentration camp on the Day of Liberation (1945). The prisoners still alive in concentration camps, were being set free. A young American Lieutenant, extraordinarily moved by the bleak and foreboding nature of the setting, asked one prisoner to show him the camp. As they approached a building, the lieutenant opened a door for the young woman, and she collapsed in tears. Certain he had offended, he did his best to comfort her. After some time, she told him, “I am weeping because it is the first time in years that someone has done anything kind for me. Thank you.”
With one simple gesture of kindness, we remember that a human world of helping is still alive and well, even when the news too often, feels otherwise. I don’t tell this story of the Holocaust Museum as some kind of motivational tool. As if there is an obligation to “be kind.” I tell it as an affirmation, and as a reminder—mostly to myself—that within each of us there is a light. And that this light—of hope and dignity, of delight and passion, of justice and grace, of beauty and wonder—still shines, regardless of whatever may conceal it.
And yes, there are times we forget. However, there are also times when a simple act of kindness, or gift of compassion, rekindles the light in our own spirit. This gift we give to another, becomes a gift we gratefully receive.
In the story, both the giver and the receiver are liberated.
“There’s a light in this world, a healing spirit more powerful than any darkness we may encounter. We sometimes lose sight of this force when there is suffering, too much pain. Then suddenly the spirit will emerge through the lives of ordinary people who hear a call, and answer in extraordinary ways.” From the film “Mother Teresa”
Caring for others is music worth singing. It is the music of Grace. It is the music that brings people out of hiding, out of unease, and out of fear.
Songs that invite courage, and renewal, and resilience.
Songs that let us know; it is safe to come home.
This I know: I want a world where is it safe to come home.
I want to live in a world where fear is not the final word.
My friends, let us remember than many hearts are sore. People around us, people we know and love. So, thank you again, Mr. Rogers. “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”
In “The Return of the Prodigal Son”, Henri Nouwen offers this testimony: “Every time I take a step in the direction of generosity, I know that I am moving from fear to love.”
I am writing this from Anaheim, CA where I’ll be joining all those who’ve gathered for the Religious Education Congress. My talk Friday morning is, “Look for the Helpers.” You are welcome to join us by YouTube.
Prayer (poem) for our week…
Prayer for Refugees
“Give me your tired, your poor,
your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed, to me.”
—Emma Lazarus
Companion of the Companionless,
let my day not go by without remembering
the sixty-five million people forced from homelands
due to poverty, crime and political conflict.
Home of the Homeless,
gather the shawl of your compassion
around those who have nowhere to abide,
nowhere to call home, nowhere to work.
Nurturer of the Impoverished,
turn the attention of political leaders
toward systems that cause oppression;
urge them to open their doors to refugees.
Comforter of the Injured,
the prophet Hosea describes your love
as that of a parent lifting a child to her cheek.
Lift, now, the demoralized and beaten-down.
Refuge of the Lost,
protect those who are tossed upon the seas.
Be near to those thirsting in the deserts
and roaming dangerous city streets.
Hope for the Hopeless,
lift up the heavy hearts of families
who have lived for years in camps;
do not let their hope slip away.
Justice Bringer,
Bother us. Keep after us. Open our eyes.
Widen our hearts. Change our judgments.
Urge us. Chase us. Badger us, until we act
on behalf of the sixty-five million people
whose tears fall on foreign soil.
Joyce Rupp, Prayers of Boundless Compassion
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