Daily Dose (March 31 – April 3)

TUESDAY MARCH 31 — The Sunday-school teacher asked her 10-year-old students if they would be willing to give $1,000,000 to missionary work for children and families in need.
“Yes,” they all screamed in unison.
“Very good. Would you give $1000?”
“Yes!”
“Good.  Would you give $1?”
The class responded, “Yes,” except for one young boy, who sat silent.
“Why didn’t you say yes?” the teacher asked.
“Because,” he stammered, “I have a dollar in my pocket.”
Okay, that’s honest.
Napoleon reminded us, “Nothing is more difficult, and therefore more precious, than to be able to choose.” And because of that, freedom always works better in speeches, than it does in practice. Because if I choose—to commit, to invest, to give—I offer my heart freely. I’m all in.
I offer this little light of mine.
However, I can sure relate to the little guy. I’m good with answers and debate prep about what I would do with the million. But when you’ve got “a dollar in your pocket,” there’s a parting of the ways in what we “believe” and how we live. Of course, I am still “free” to contribute, give, care for, risk, go out on a limb, let go, to live unshackled. But with my hand over the dollar in my pocket, I am stuck. And we all know the litany here (any of the reasons we find it difficult to remove our hand, any of the reasons that keep us stuck—fear and worry about what “they” think, fear of failure, shame from feeling not enough, need for perfection, the tyranny of “should,” need for certainty. (And by the way, did it ever occur to you that we’ve never actually met “them,” but they still control our lives? Go figure.)

If I’m honest, it boils down to this: For whatever reason, I too easily live afraid.
If I open my heart to care, I risk vulnerability.
If I speak out for compassion and justice for the least of these, it is considered too “political”.
To give without regard for reward, is to risk misunderstanding.
To expose feelings (openness and vulnerability), is to risk exposing your true self.
To love, is to risk not being loved in return.
To hope, is to risk despair.
I’ll cut to the chase. When I am afraid, I react (allow the narrative of my life and world to be owned by the shouting and anger, where labels rule), or I shut down (Lord knows I don’t need the drama and headache).
Reporters were fussing over a woman celebrating her 104th birthday. “And what do you think is the best thing about being 104?” one reporter asked.
She simply replied, “No peer pressure.”
Now we’re talking…
My mind goes to the image of Michelangelo’s statues. He started many more stone statues than he finished. I believe that he completed fourteen. And what of the others (also creations of extraordinary genius)? As far as I know, they remain locked inside of the blocks of marble. I needed the story of the young boy, to invite me to live unstuck. But how?
I am certain that there are programs, with, no doubt, apps for your iPhone: Basic Unstuck and Unstuck Pro.
But freedom (“unstuckness”) is not about adding one more thing to our life.
Freedom is about embracing the gift of grace—in the words of Seamus Henry, “like well water far down”—that already abounds. Inside of us.

This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.
And here’s the good news; every single one of us have been endowed and equipped to be a light in a dark world.
The light is alive and well, for every single one of use. No exclusions. Yes, including the poor, the powerless, the desperate, the outsiders, the forsaken, and the forgotten.
Too good to be true? I can relate.
And I settle for less. Because, “That can’t be me,” I tell myself. I confess that I don’t always see the light in myself.
So. Where do I begin? The advice of a mentor, “Do what’s in your heart.”

WEDNESDAY APRIL 1 — ​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​One of my favorite scenes from Lord of the Rings. “I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had ever happened in my time,” Frodo says to himself.
Gandalf responds, “So do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.”

And my mind goes to “A long way gone; memoirs of a boy solider”, Ishmael Beah’s heartbreaking account of his time as a 13-year-old, conscripted to fight in Sierra Leone’s Civil War. At the age of twelve, Ishmael eluded attacking rebels in his native war-torn Sierra Leone. The rebels had killed his family and most from his village. At thirteen, he’d been “recruited” by the government army, a gentle hearted boy, now prompted to do terrible acts. He writes honestly about how easy it was to surrender to what would be abhorrent.
“My face, my hands, my shirt and gun were covered with blood. I raised my gun and pulled the trigger, and I killed a man. Suddenly, as if someone was shooting them inside my brain, all the massacres I had seen since the day I was touched by war began flashing in my head.”
“I was killing just another rebel responsible for the death of my family,” Ishmael told himself.
Mercifully, at sixteen, he was removed from fighting by UNICEF, and through the help of the staff at his rehabilitation center, Ishmael learned how to forgive himself, to regain his humanity, and finally, to heal.

I’ve never been in a real war. (Although I was drafted, and almost was sent to Vietnam.)
Reading accounts of war shake me. Everything we count on feels upside down.
And what happens when our own world is out of control? I can tell you from my experience that when I feel at the mercy of, I allow exhaustion or frustration or emotions on “tilt” to be the final word in my perception of reality.
Of course, I’m not equating the world we live now, with the war in Sierra Leone.
But this is for real: when we perceive the world as dark, and yes, in places savage, we will believe (or take to heart) that selfishness and callousness and ruthlessness are required to survive in it.
And when that happens, we never see the good. Or the hope. We never see the “power of the ring”.
People stop trusting each other, and every stranger (or immigrant) becomes an enemy. Even people who know you become extremely careful about how they relate or speak.
Just look at half my Facebook feed. There is someone linking to a video with the headline: Watch X demolish Y. Or destroy. Or humiliate. Does that sound like civility to you?

So. Where do we find the reset button?
There is a heartrending scene early on (in the memoirs of the boy soldier), when Ishmael and his friends are on the run from the rebels.
“We had traveled for more than six days when we came in contact with a very old man who could barely walk. He sat on the verandah of a house in the middle of the village. His face was too wrinkled to still be alive, yet his dark skin was shiny, and he spoke slowly, gobbling the words in his jaws before he let them out. As he spoke, the veins on the forehead became visible through his skin.
‘Everyone ran when they heard of the seven boys on their way here. I could not run at all. So, they left me behind. No one was willing to carry me, and I didn’t want to be a burden,’ he said.
We explained to him where we were from and where we wanted to go. He asked us to stay for a while and keep him company.
‘You young fellows must be hungry. There are some yams in the hut over there. Can you boys cook some for me and yourselves,’ he politely asked. When we were almost finished eating the yams, he said slowly, ‘My children, this country has lost its good heart. People don’t trust each other anymore. Years ago, you would have been heartily welcomed in this village. I hope that you boys can find safety before this untrustworthiness and fear causes someone to harm you.’
He drew a map on the ground with his walking stick. ‘This is how you get to Yele,’ he said.
‘What is your name,’ Kanei asked the old man.
He smiled as if he knew that one of us would ask this question. ‘There is no need to know my name. Just refer to me as the old man who got left behind when you get to the next village.’
He looked at all of our faces and spoke softly, with no sadness in his voice. ‘I will not be alive to see the end of this war. So, to save a place in your memories for other things, I won’t tell you my name. If you survive this war, just remember me as the old man you met. You boys should be on your way.’
He pointed his staff toward the path that lay ahead of us. As we walked away, he erased the map with his foot and waved us off with a raised right hand and a nod. Before the village disappeared from our sight, I turned around to take one last look at the old man. His head was down, and he had both hands on his staff. It was clear to me that he knew his days would soon be over, and he didn’t bother to be afraid for himself. But he was for us.”
God bless that old man.
And amen to places (and persons) of sanctuary and dignity and compassion and healing in a world that feels dark.
Let us be those places for one another my friends.
This little light of mine, I’m going to let it shine.

THURSDAY APRIL 2 — “I had a choice: I could either let the darkness of the world swallow me, or I could do what I could to help make the world a little bit brighter.” (Thank you, Haruki Murakami)
I love (and highly recommend) “High on the Hog”, a Netflix series about how African American cuisine transformed America. About how inviting someone in, to the table, makes space for presence, and connection. How inviting someone in, makes space for healing. And resilience.
Yes, we shine our light by making space.
And here’s the deal: you never know who may need that space. But you still make the invitation, “Come on in. There’s a place at the table for you.”
In the series, a member of a local community was described this way, “He wouldn’t say it, but his life is really heavy right now.” (Raise your hand if you’ve been there.)
And this did my heart good: the healing power that comes from knowing there is a place at the table.

But too often, we wonder if we have what it takes to offer that space to others.
What if our light isn’t bright enough? What if we don’t have what it takes?
Dr. Irvin Yalom writes about a patient, “(She) described the horrible days of her cancer’s recurrence… She cried when she told me about calling her surgeon, a friend of twenty years, only to be informed by his nurse that there were to be no further appointments because the doctor had nothing more to offer.
‘What is wrong with doctors? Why don’t they understand the importance of sheer presence?’ she asked. ‘Why can’t they realize that the very moment they have nothing else to offer is the moment they are most needed?’” (Momma and the Meaning of Life)

My friends, let us make space to see and to be seen.
Let us make space to welcome, to offer comfort, and reprieve, and hope.
Let us make space that says “NO” to cruelty and discrimination, and intolerance and hatred.
Let us make space to open our heart to care—to risk and embrace vulnerability.
Let us make space to speak out for compassion and justice for the marginalized, for the least of these.
Let us make space to be Sabbath (sanctuary), in a world of disquiet, disruption and unease.

I write this on the first day of Passover, the time when we celebrate and commemorate the Exodus of the Israelites from slavery in Egypt, a story about how God picked us up and brought us from despair to joy, from darkness to light, from chaos to meaning.
I was grateful for these reflections from Debbie Gutfreund, reminding us that Passover encourages, “Responsibility for each other. We invite all who are hungry to come and eat because we are responsible for one another. Some people are hungry for food, while others are hungry for wisdom. Whatever we have we should share as much as we can.
The meaning of freedom. Some people think freedom means being able to do what we want whenever we want to. But the Jewish definition of freedom is the ability to create a meaningful life with authentic values and to create a close connection with our Creator. Freedom is living a life of constant growth and striving to live up to our potential.”
And a friend sent to me this reflection from an unnamed source. “Tonight we remember that we were strangers in the land of Egypt—and that too many are still not free. As we tell the story of liberation, we hold in our hearts migrants and refugees crossing borders and seas, searching for safety and those who are held in bondage. We remember workers whose bodies and time are exploited to sustain an unjust economy. We remember Black, brown, Indigenous, Jewish, Muslim, and other marginalized communities targeted by racism, antisemitism, and hatred. We remember those living under occupation and in the shadow of war, whose homes and hopes are shattered. The plagues of our time are climate catastrophe, state and economic violence, and the hardening of hearts to one another’s suffering. Let this night be a promise that we will not look away. As our ancestors walked together out of Mitzrayim, the narrow place, so we commit to walking together toward a world where all can live in safety, dignity, and self-determination. None of us is free until all of us are free.”
Amen. And Happy Passover, my friends.

FRIDAY APRIL 3 — I am writing this on Maundy Thursday (Holy Thursday), a Christian holy day that commemorates the Last Supper. This is the night, the meal, when Jesus endowed Holy Communion, and washed his disciples’ feet to symbolize humble service.
It commemorates a “new commandment” (mandatum) from Jesus. “A new commandment I give you, that you love one another; even as I have loved you, that you also love one another.” (Gospel of John)
This mandatum is mirrored and employed by foot-washing and Holy Communion.

This we know, and can take to heart. We are on this journey together.
Let me repeat that: We are on this journey together.
Bottom line: Our connection matters.
And in a world where distrust and intolerance are real, we need to make space to remember and honor our shared connection.
I do know this: Jesus took it pretty seriously. As in, the table is open. All are welcome.

In the Gospels, Jesus loved a full table—meaning yes, he loved a party.
And he partied with some very eccentric and outlandish people. And he wasn’t too concerned about public opinion, or impressing the right crowd.
Remember the party with the woman who wasn’t invited, the conspicuous outsider?
When Simon sees the woman “crash” the dinner party, his thoughts are condemnatory, “If this man (Jesus) were truly a prophet he would know who is touching him and what kind of a woman she is—that she is a sinner” (Luke 7:39). Tradition says that this woman was a prostitute, and as she came to the dinner, she wept tears on the feet of Jesus and then she dried his feet with her hair, lastly anointing the feet of Jesus with perfume.
Notice this: Jesus never talked to an outcast or untouchable, because Jesus didn’t “see” an untouchable. Jesus saw only a child of God, that he was madly in love with.
My Oh My. No wonder freedom is not easy.
It scares us half-to-death to be seen, to be invited, and to be loved in this way, and then to share that gift.
Think about the power that this party represents. Everybody is invited. Everybody.
Have you ever felt (or been) on the “outside”?
I know that I have—and most of it induced and fueled by my own sense of shame. I didn’t believe that I deserved or merited that kind of acceptance or love or grace.

So. Here is my invitation to us all this Easter week. Let us create (and make) space for these “meals” of fellowship, support, empathy, communion, inclusion, community. If I were being theological here, I would say that also sounds like the invitation and grounding for Sabbath. And I smile big reading Rabbi Harold Kushner’s reflection about Sabbath meals and the power of community. “And the laughing. The sharing. And the singing. One melody is scarcely spent when another comes forward. We don’t even notice the racket of the children. There is a great holiness in this room. It grows with the sharing. I take a large ceramic Kiddush cup, fill it with wine, offer it to my wife and then to the man next to me, who hands it to his wife with the solemn instruction, ‘Here, keep it going.’ And we do. From hand to hand. Drunk from and refilled. Time and time again.”

A blessed Easter to all. And to my Jewish brothers and sisters, a Happy Passover.
“I had a choice: I could either let the darkness of the world swallow me, or I could do what I could to help make the world a little bit brighter.” (Thank you, Haruki Murakami)
“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.”

Prayer (poem) for our week…
My body, my blood
On the eve of a boldly political action,
an act of nonviolent resistance,
in a boldly political religious ceremony,
the Passover celebration of liberation,
a family meal and a public act
that defy power structures,
intensely political—
Jesus does something profoundly personal:
he offers himself.
He doesn’t say “This is my rallying cry!”
or “This is my belief.”
He says, “This is my body and my blood.”
In the place of honor, dipping bread together,
he welcomes the one who will betray him.
Because only something this personal
will overcome the world.
Only love, and nothing outside the human heart,
will defeat evil.
Our political actions require personal presence.
Our personal acts have political power.
Our salvation is not ransom paid
but presence offered.
Steve Garnaas-Holmes

​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​Photo… Saturday afternoon, my son Zach and I visited the Quad on the campus of the University of Washington, where we took immense delight in the blossoming signature Yoshino cherry trees. The trees are about 90 years old, and were originally set in a grove at the Washington Park Arboretum. I loved this little blossom… And thank you for your photos, please send them to tdh@terryhershey.com

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