Lord, Hear Our Prayers

 

I cried before this service. Not hard and not for long. Just a few tears because my heart has been breaking. 

It's breaking for the country. For those who are being swept up in raids, or taken randomly off the streets for the crime of being Latino or Latina. For those who are getting harassed or detained just because. For those who have been sent to CECOT in El Salvador where they are being beaten and abused and forced to perform oral sex on guards. 

It's breaking for our military, for people who joined to serve the country, and who are being used to be an extra guard for the extrajudicial police force assembled to terrorize cities with large immigrant populations. That's not why these people signed up and some are grumbling that they don't want to do this.

I am sad about Gaza, the starvation and famine because of the Israeli government. For those families in Israel who were traumatized by Hamas and their brutal attack on October 7, 2023, and the hostages who probably are all dead by now that are still in Hamas custody. 

I am upset about the Supreme Court which, like our Congress, has surrendered its role as a check to the other two branches of government and is ruling in ways that clearly have nothing to do with law and everything to do with making sure to achieve a particular political goal.

I am deeply hurt and saddened that with all that has been happening in the country, that our Justice Department has thought it more important to protect child predators...which very likely includes the current president and other rich white wealthy men...rather than children and women. 

And I cried because all of this was in my head and I needed to lead a worship service...and I knew I would be addressing some of these ills in my sermon...but I didn't know if it would make any difference. 

And so I prayed. For strength. For God's wisdom and love to move through me. 

Here's what I had to say.

+++

Texts: Luke 11:1-13, Col. 2: 6-19

“Lord, teach us to pray…”

I remember one of the first times…years ago…when a woman I knew called me up and asked me to pray for her.

I was a little flummoxed at first. I had grown up in the Episcopal Church and the prayers I knew were in books.

And now here I was in my kitchen on the phone with someone who wanted me to just pray off the top of my head for them.

I did it…pulling together the phrases I could think of…praising and describing the goodness of God…petitioning for her particular circumstance…seeking a good and just resolution…and finishing it with the blessing of the Holy Trinity.

And her response to my prayer was…

”That’s it?!”

She had grown up in the world of megachurch…where spontaneous prayers could last the length of a praise song…and my prayer had lasted less than a minute.

My prayer wasn’t answering her need.

But I got better with practice.

When I was doing my chaplain internship for Clinical Pastoral Education…I found that I had to learn many ways of praying…both with the residents of Hebrew Home in Rockville, Maryland…and with their families and guardians.

Sometimes the prayers were songs.

Sometimes they invoked the name of Jesus.

With Jewish residents…I would invoke Adonai for the Name…or HaShem.

And with others…simply using the prayer that Jesus is teaching in our Gospel this morning was the easiest way to connect with another Christian.

However the prayer came out…whatever words or songs were shared…I always found that prayer helped.

It gave a sense of calm and stability both for me as the chaplain…and for the person who requested the prayer.

Our text says that one of the disciples sought out Jesus’ advice about how to pray.

I think this is one of the most basic and yet important requests that anyone can make.

And while we have taken these words of Jesus and turned them into the Lord’s Prayer—probably the most recognized prayer among Christians—I see this as Jesus giving a blueprint…or an outline…for the way our prayers should go.

First…we address God.

We do it in a way that shows an intimate and familial relationship…”Father”…or parent…and then we praise God for who God is… that familiar and loving parent.

Next…we look for the way of God…God’s kingdom come…that mission of building up people…freeing people from the burdens that keep them from knowing and experiencing God’s liberating and life-giving love.

We ask that prayer for ourselves as well.

Feed us…God…both in body and soul…and guide our feet along this path with you.

Forgive us as we forgive others….we’re all human and we make mistakes.

And do not bring us to the time of trial.

In our rendition of this prayer…we have added a conclusion which basically circles back to acknowledging God as the ultimate power of goodness in the universe.

But I think it’s worth thinking about this line:

“Do not bring us to the time of trial.”

Because Jesus is acknowledging what was the reality on the ground as he and his followers kept on this march toward Jerusalem. 

He’s preparing them with this prayer for the real tests that are before them as disciples.

They’re going to struggle against earthly powers…facing  opposition from those in charge of things in the Empire.

There will be those for whom the systems are working just fine—thank you very much—and they have no desire to change.

And there are those who fear that any change will mean a loss of control.

Behind all of it is a greater challenge that pursues both the opponents and supporters of Jesus.

There are the unseen powers at work.

Those forces that will get his disciples jockeying for a seat at his right hand or his left.

They’ll be tempted to seek to be served…rather than to serve.

To be the greatest.

It’s that spiritual element that Jesus knows threatens to destroy the goodness that is inherent in God’s creation: Greed.

Greed has an insatiable appetite…a craving to have more than anyone else…and to have power over…rather than to share in power with people.

It makes sense then… that in this form of prayer that Jesus is teaching the disciple… he ends with that petition to the loving fatherly figure of God to steer them clear from this confrontation with greed.

Because Greed is a formidable opponent to love.

Greed doesn’t believe in sharing…or caring.

It never gives.

It only takes.

And once it takes…it will hold on to whatever power it has and will jealously guard it like a dog with a bone.

That was true then and it’s true now.

Greed preys upon girls and boys.

Greed takes away health care from seniors and children.

And those who are greedy want control over what we read…what we see…and what we think.

And so that innocent question of the disciple…”Lord, teach us to pray…” is the perfect request of our perfect Lord.

Because Jesus knows that in order to face the challenges…both earthly and spiritual…that plague us…prayer is foundational because it’s what will ground us in the real reality.

The reality that God is Love…and Love is the formidable opposite of Greed and its self-centeredness.

I meet usually about six or seven times a year with the women who are mostly members of Daughters of the King to write the Prayers of the People that we use in our worship services.

There is a formula for the prayers that we write…specific groupings that the Book of Common Prayer outlines as the required ideas that must be covered in the prayers.

The language we use is drawn from some of the Scripture passages as well as other prayer sources members of the group have on hand.

Often times…there is a lot of energy when the topic becomes writing prayers for “the Nation and all in authority.”

What is it that we seek in our prayers for those who are the political leaders of our communities and the world?

What we seek is found in our reading from the Letter to the Colossians:

That they follow the example of Christ…”who is the head of every ruler and authority.” (Col.2:10b)

The Christ who is the embodiment of Love….who was filled with the Spirit that fueled the prophet Isaiah:

“To bring good news to the poor… to proclaim release to the captives…recovery of sight to the blind…to let the oppressed go free…and to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” (Luke 4:18).

Bringing good news to the poor…not cages in the Florida swamps.

Or penalizing the penniless.

Or shifting funds meant for recovery after a hurricane or a flood and giving it to private companies to build prisons.

Our nation…and all its institutions…needs prayers.

We need to pray for those who are the justice seekers…the truth tellers…and the peace makers.

And we need to pray for ourselves.

For the quiet confidence and the courage to live into the fullness of life…and turn away from hardness of heart.

What is it that you need today to keep the flame of Love burning inside of you?

Ask for it. Seek it out. Knock loudly.

God’s Spirit of Love is waiting to hear our prayers.

In the Name of our One Holy and Undivided Trinity.

 

Look for the Helpers: A Sermon for All Trauma

I don't feel the need to do a lot of explaining here. Needless to say Ascension Day came and went...and where I lived was greeted the next day with two...possibly three...EF2 tornadoes and 100-mile per hour straightline winds. It was a harrowing experience. And it greatly changed the trajectory of my sermon.

The Collect for the Seventh Sunday of Easter:

O God, the King of glory, you have exalted your only Son
Jesus Christ with great triumph to your kingdom in heaven:
Do not leave us comfortless, but send us your Holy Spirit to
strengthen us, and exalt us to that place where our Savior
Christ has gone before; who lives and reigns with you and
the Holy Spirit, one God, in glory everlasting. Amen.

+++

Sometimes…unexpected things happen.

I had had many thoughts on our readings at the beginning of the week.

But my life…and the lives of countless others in Tallahassee… took a strange turn in the pre-dawn hours Friday morning.

It’s the same…or at least very familiar…experience many of us have been having these past several months...where wind and rain have done more harm than good to us…and those people and possessions we hold dear.

The National Weather Service has confirmed what many of us already knew: we in Tallahassee had lived through a tornado….and it’s associated straight-line winds of 100 miles per hour.

Those of us who paid attention to the weather the night before knew that we were in for some rocky thunderstorms and strong winds.

But somewhere between 6:30 and 6:45 in the morning…the alarms on our phones…and even off in the distance…signaled for us to seek shelter immediately in an interior room.

And so we did.

A roaring sound of wind.

The exhaust fan overhead began rattling.

 Rain pelted against the house.

When it all had finally stopped…our phones starting vibrating with texts.

“We have trees down, no power. We need to recharge batteries for an oxygen machine. Who has power?”

“Huge tree branch cracked through our ceiling.”

“Our house was hit by the tornado. Our back porch is smashed to pieces.”

“I smell gas in the neighborhood.”

“OMG. We’re calling the city.”

Gradually…all of us began emerging from our homes.

We met in the street…the rain still falling…but much more gently…as we stepped carefully over downed wires and branches from trees…some of them from trees we didn’t recognize.

A plastic drink cup here…a roof tile there.

A screen door bent open at this house.

And indeed…our neighbors’ washer and dryer on their elevated back porch now looked like a Salvador Dali design…metal warped and tilted and smushed together.

One neighbor couldn’t join us in the street.

A pile of busted trees limbs and large sections of a live oak had practically barricaded her front door and the lock for the gate to their backyard was on the outside.

Because they’re in the restaurant business…her husband had gone to work hours earlier.

Some of their friends arrived.

I told them she was trapped inside.

One of them climbed over broken limbs and steady himself until he reached the front door.

She was able to slip her hand out to give him the keys to back gate.

Carefully…he retraced his steps over slippery branches and was able to get around to unlock the gate and get her out of her house. 

Smiles…and celebrations lasted for a few minutes.

Then it was back to the reality of this huge and daunting task.

When can we get someone here to get rid of these trees blocking the street?

How can we cut up and lift these heavy limbs?

How can the city get our power back on with all this mess?

Only a half-mile away…the scene was even more bleak.

The growing and eclectic Arts District in a small former industrial park called Railroad Square…had suffered huge losses.

This included the roof of the theater company that has been part of my life since the early 1990s.

My friends….the neighbors whose back porch was mangled….now stood inside this theater that they’d built and developed…creating a creative community of writers and performers.

Now we stood with them…looking up through the trusses where the roof once had been.

The blue theater seats soaked and sprinkled with pink insultation.

It was a lot to take in.

These are moments that any of us can relate to.

The underlying emotion is grief.

Grieving a profound and sudden loss.

It leaves one feeling numb…unmoored from everything else…and plunged into a liminal space of neither here nor there.

It isn’t very often that you’ll hear me…or likely anyone…preach a sermon on the words of the Collect for the Seventh Sunday of Easter.

But the phrase “do not leave us comfortless” has been playing on repeat in my brain since about seven o’clock Friday morning.

In its context…the phrase is a prayer recognizing that last Thursday…the church marked the fortieth day of the Easter season….the day on which we say that Jesus finally ascended into heaven to sit at the right hand of God.

We pray for the arrival of the Holy Spirit…which we will celebrate on Pentecost next Sunday.

So where we are in our church story is also a liminal space.

Jesus’ earthly ministry is over…but we have not yet…in theory…received the Holy Spirit.

At least that’s the story.

But in reality…that spirit is already with us….in us…and moving in and out…and up and down in our lives.

We know that’s true when something like a natural disaster…or any other major disruption happens to us.

When we’re plunged into a liminal space.

Because the spirit of God…is a spirit that doesn’t sit still.

The Holy Spirit of God is a motivator.

It pushes us to move outside of our selves…and rise up.

As the great theologian…and Presbyterian minister…Mr. Fred Rogers told those who hung out in his PBS Neighborhood… these are times to look for the helpers.

Because the spirit moves people to help…to support…to carry us when we feel the weight of sadness and despair pressing us down.

That spirit is present in a guy who climbs through a wet messy pile of moss-covered tree limbs to free a woman trapped in her home.

It’s those helpers…opening a home that is running on a generator to give respite from the heat…a cold cup of water…and a place to plug in battery packs…cell phone chargers…even running an extension cord to a neighbor so they can have a fan blowing in their home.

It’s the loaning of cars to those who’ve lost their transportation…the giving of clean clothes to those who can’t access their closets.

The offers to help clean up debris…run to get water and ice…or simply sit and hold the hand of someone who just needs to cry…and process the grief.

In those times when we want to scream…”How long O Lord, how long?”

Look for the helpers.

Be ready to receive them.

For they are the ones whom God’s spirit has called upon to show up…in answer to our prayers.

In the name of God…F/S/HS.

 

Things Cast Down Being Made New: A Sermon for Proper 28B at Christ the King, Valdosta

 Christ the King Episcopal Church needs prayers. 

They are in the midst of lots of transitions. Their founding rector, the Rev. Stan White, died last year right before Christmas at the time when churches were still navigating how to do their services in the middle of a viral pandemic of catastrophic proportions. The person brought in to steady the ship is my supervising priest and one-time spiritual director, the Rev. Galen Mirate. She was raised up from that congregation and has known them for at least two decades. In the time that she has been with CtK this year, she has steered them through the rough waters of letting go of their old building and moving into another downtown space. She's also had to break the bad news to them that their annual audit uncovered the need for them to tighten up their processes and procedures. 

The Sunday she shared that news I was the scheduled preacher. 

Today, she laid on the assembly at their new dual services of 10am and 2pm the fact that, on December 31st, she is going to say "Good-bye" to them. She has accepted the call to be the Rector of St. Paul's Albany. Albany is not that far, by Georgia standards, from Valdosta. But it is also not CtK. 

And, again, I was the scheduled preacher for the days this news was being delivered to the people. 

Mind you, there is also still a world in which the defense lawyer for the killers of Ahmaud Arbery in Brunswick, GA, apparently complained about "too many black preachers" being in the courtroom (Arbery was the young black man chased and then gunned down by three white men back in February). So there's just lots of stuff swirling in the air. 

And I was called on to preach. And the text was the start of the "little apocalypse" speech from Mark 13...in this case vv 1-8. 

Below is the written form of my sermon. I actually did quite a bit of ad libbing at the start. I have also included the repeat I did of the Collect of the Day at the 10am service. That was my prayer in tribute to the memory of one of my most favorite priests, Fr. Lee Graham of St. John's Tallahassee. Fr. Lee always used these words as his prayer before he preached at the 12:10 Friday services. And he is a priest who endured many challenges in his career, beginning with coming to terms with his own prejudices as a white Southern man from Gainesville who was called to be a priest in Alabama during the early 1960s. The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.'s campaign for civil rights left an indelible mark on Fr. Lee as he stood up to the white supremacist culture at that time. 

On a Sunday when I was so aware of all that was "out there" in the room, I needed the comfort of this prayer...at least for the morning service. 

+++

Blessed Lord, who caused all holy Scriptures to be written for
our learning: Grant us so to hear them, read, mark, learn,
and inwardly digest them, that we may embrace and ever
hold fast the blessed hope of everlasting life, which you have
given us in our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

 Listening to the start of today’s Gospel…I have to wonder if the disciples are EVER going to “get it.”

It seems as if every time I have preached here…the disciples are saying something that reveals how clueless they are.

Today we hear one of them saying, “Wow, Teacher! What big stones and large buildings!”

And I want to say, “All the better to distract you with, my dear!”

To be sure…the Temple in Jerusalem was apparently quite impressive. The stones were really about the size of a Toyota Prius…and this grand structure…which had already been destroyed once in history…was only half-finished at the time that Mark was writing this Gospel.

This brief exchange about the tearing down of the Temple has often been seen as an analogy about Jesus’ own human body, and how his physical body is about to be brutalized and destroyed in the crucifixion.

But there’s even more going on in this passage. The community who would have first heard this Gospel in First Century Palestine was in midst of a massive upheaval…and civil strife.

Non-Jewish foreigners had started moving into areas set aside for the Jews, which led to ugly clashes between the two groups. And the Jewish community was locked in a bitter struggle with each other over how to deal with their Roman oppressors.

There were several people running around Jerusalem claiming to be the Messiah. And some of those Messiahs were agitating and insisting on taking up arms to overthrow the Empire.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that the culture wars of the First Century sound a little bit like our own, don’t they?

And becoming fixated on the building…it’s size, it’s magnificence…helps to distract from what is the central mission of Jesus, a mission that is going to lead to conflict with the ruling class.

This passage…sometimes called the “little apocalypse”…all sounds pretty doomsday.

Wars, rumors of wars, famine.

Things are falling apart.

The world…as they know it…is about to be rocked by earthquakes (there actually was one that hit in that region of the world).

This great huge temple…the center of their worship…and a place of pilgrimage…is going to be destroyed…again.

And even in the middle of all this chaos…Jesus’ message is not so much, “Don’t worry, be happy,” but more “don’t worry, because something new is coming.”

Maybe it’s because I’m slowly starting to put my mind to planning my ordination service, but the phrase, “things that were cast down are being raised up” has been rattling around in my brain and seems to be fitting for this particular reading…and especially at this time for our congregation.

I mean, here we are, in a building that’s not quite finished.

When folks have asked me if Christ the King has moved into its new building, I happily respond “Yes!”

When they ask what’s it like, I respond cheerfully, “It’s rustic!”

The building can become a fixation, but there is more to the life of this parish than whatever issues might be going on with the construction.

This is a time when we are moving from all things that have been familiar into lots of new…and unchartered waters.

There are two basic lessons of hope that I think might mitigate for all the talk of destruction in this passage.

The first is that Jesus is not one of those “Messiah” figures calling for a war with the Roman Empire.

It’s not that Jesus is down with the oppression. He definitely is not.

But the revolution Jesus is leading is not one fought with swords. He’s looking for the deeper more lasting change of hearts and minds. The new thing he has in mind will not happen by brute force, but by steadfast compassion. And in many ways, that’s a lot more dangerous to those wanting to maintain the status quo. It’s easier for an Empire to squash a rebellion that’s led with clubs and spears than one of the Spirit based in thoughts and ideas.

The other lesson I think we can draw out of this Gospel passage is contained in the last sentence:

“This is but the beginning of the birth pangs.”

When we think about birth pangs…we get a sense of the intensity of sensation a woman experiences in labor…and the fear associated with childbirth. It’s not a given that a woman will survive giving birth. And this is serving as the metaphor for what happens during times of unrest in the world.

There is the pushing and struggling and stretching open as the world enters into the white-knuckled strain of giving up on old ways, outdated beliefs to make room for what is new. There is resistance to the changes that are coming…just as Jesus’ Love Revolution faced opposition. But when change is a comin’, it comes with abundance and you cannot push it back.

Once the world has moved through the topsy-turvy toil of labor…with all the huffing and puffing and gritting of teeth…new life emerges.

A calm descends.

Breathing is easier.

The tears shed are part relief, part joy, part exhaustion.

Life is now ready to journey on in a new way, and a new path.

And there is great rejoicing!

The difficulties we encounter through all those birth pangs aren’t necessarily forgotten, but they aren’t a punishment.

It’s a period of refinement and preparation for becoming something even better than what had existed before.

Change is not easy, but just as giving birth results in that breathtaking moment of a new life realized into the world…we can’t lose sight of the fact that the things being cast down now are being made into something new. There is good at the other end of this struggle.

The trick is for us not to get discouraged or give up in the midst of all this change.

God is still present.

May we keep hope for the future even when things might feel strange or unfinished and out-of-sorts.

And now let the church say, “Amen.”

 

I Can't Breathe: Pentecost in the Pandemic

We're on fire in America. In Minneapolis. Nashville. Washington, DC. We're on fire. 

On Pentecost, the story is that the Holy Spirit arrived in the Upper Room in Jersusalem in a rush of wind and settled on each of the people in that room with "tongues of fire." That fire gave them the burning energy to proclaim to the world the glory of God and the story of Jesus and his ministry. That fire drove them out into the world that was no less dangerous for them than it was before the mighty wind gust blew open the windows and doors of their hearts and minds. With that powerful spirit inside them, surrounding them, lighting them up...they went out into the streets, into the countryside, off to distant lands to bring a new way of relating to the God of Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Rebekah, Jacob, Rachel and Leah. They were on fire.

Fire has the ability to rage. It burns. It destroys buildings. 

Fire has the ability also to purify. A welder's fire brings metal to metal to form a bond. The heat of a fire on a stove can melt butter, sizzle oil, boil the water. 

Right now in our country, with a deadly pandemic showing no mercy to anyone and disproportionally taking out those who cannot afford to stay home, we have fires burning inside and out. They are both the fires of destruction and the fires of purification. And they stem from a spark lit in Minneapolis with a white cop kneeling on the neck of a black man in handcuffs. George Floyd was pleading, "I can't breathe." And those were the words of his dying breath. That breath of spirit leaving him has lit up this nation and revived a part of the "normal" in America that I had prayed would not come back.

This spark, this ember, has been burning and igniting fires for centuries in this country...all the way back to colonial Virginia when wealthy landowners figured out that they needed to sow seeds of distrust between indentured whites and African slaves. Bacon's Rebellion of 1676, which burned Jamestown to the ground, was the beginning of the move for the white ruling class to set up legal distinctions between "white" and "black" people. By giving "white" indentured servants land and convincing them that they really had more in common with the ruling class than their fellow poor Africans, they were able to divide and conquer more easily. Aside: Nathaniel Bacon was no hero either as his motive to make a militia of black and white servants was motivated by hatred of the indigenous tribes of Virginia and a power struggle with his wealthy white relative who was Governor at the time. A hundred years later, a Revolution, and a nation was born...but the fire of racism was, and still is, burning.

This new fire...fueled by the taking of George Floyd's life...is destroying buildings. And it is having the power to purify. I am witnessing an awakening of some of my fellow white people to realize that we have always had one advantage: we aren't black. We aren't immediately deemed "suspect" when we walk into a store. We can drive, walk, jog, check out things in our neighborhood without having to worry that there will be some misunderstanding or misread about us. It is a sobering realization. But it is one that, once that fire is lit within, can help to purify the soul to do the work of repairing the breach. 

The Holy Spirit is often represented as the wind or the breath of our souls and bodies. And as long as the George Floyds of America gasp that they cannot breathe and have their breaths taken away, none of us can breathe freely. Time to let that other image of the Holy Spirit...that fiery tongue...rest on white America to call out for an end to this madness of our own making, acknowledge the cries of the unheard, and purify the soul of this country. May I have the courage to do this work.  

 

Hurricane Irma

We are in the final stages of prepping for what many are calling Irmageddon. I have to agree. This is a whopper of a storm like none other that has been seen before. We have bottles for water. We have non-perishable food stuff. Here we go.

Dear God, you know the power of water and you have calmed the seas of chaos, be with all of us who are in the path of hurricanes, especially Irma and Jose. Give us strength to endure. Give us the patience to proceed. And above all, fill us with your love and hope so that we may resist the temptation to fall into despair. Be close to us, O God, and guide us through this tempest. In your Holy Name we pray. Amen. 

Prayers for Those in the Path of Patricia

Merciful God, who has calmed the waters of chaos and led people through the walls of threatening waters in ages past, be close to those now who are hunkered down against Hurricane Patricia. Calm those who are in fear. Protect them from the might of her winds. Grant wisdom and courage to those who serve as first responders in these times of crisis. And deliver all to the shores of safety. In your Holy Name we pray.  Amen.

Paving Paradise

Give us all a reverence for the Earth as your own creation, that we may use its resources rightly in the service of others and to your honor and glory.--Prayers of the People, Form IV, BCP, p.388. 

When I first flew into Tallahassee back in the summer of 1990 for my job interview, I struggled to see the city from the sky. There were some lights peeking up through the darkness, but I really couldn't see a city. The next morning, it would become clear to me why I couldn't see Tallahassee from the air at night. It was a green city, packed with parks and trees, trees, and more trees.  I had never seen anything like this before in a state capital.  Concord, NH, is tiny compared to most capitals.  But it is well lit.  And it has concrete.  Same with Jefferson City, MO. And Boston is full of history... and lots of bricks. So, as capitals go, Tallahassee with its canopy roads and towering wooded areas was truly one of a kind.

Which is why the massive clear cutting of a pine forest at the busy intersection of East Park Avenue and Magnolia Drive was so devastating to behold. I was shocked, saddened and depressed to see large piles of what had been stately pines piled up to be hauled off to a lumber yard. And to what end?  The property owners apparently got five million dollars for the sale of this property. The public will now get another strip mall, remarkably called "Magnolia Grove," to go with the Walgreen's, McDonald's and Buffalo wings place. Gee, thanks.

Is Myers Park next?

Some have said it was inevitable.  We are growing after all. And this property is near lots of shopping areas and businesses. Why should we be surprised, then, that it has been torn up to be paved and built up just like so many other parts of the city? 

Because this is Tallahassee.  It isn't Miami or Jacksonville.  Like me, lots of other people moved here in part because the city had so many green spaces.  But these days, there seems to be an eagerness to tear it up to erect a brand new Whatever shopping center.  Meanwhile, there are countless shopping plazas all over Tallahassee that stand dormant, waiting for someone to love them back to life with a grocery store or a retail outlet of some kind. Why are we not making use of these vacant buildings and pre-paved lots? Why are we insisting on ruining the very thing that makes us different from other cities?

Whenever I pray the words from the Book of Common Prayer that opened this post, I have an image of something in the earth and our environment that I feel needs the prayer. I've visualized the Gulf of Mexico, the sea creatures poisoned by various spills and accidents, even our modest compost heap. Now, I will be visualizing what had once been a lush forest of pine trees at the corner of East Park and Magnolia. Don't be surprised if I cry a little.

Hanging on for Hope

Monday night in America, the laughter left and the tears rolled in.

Robin Williams, the much loved comedian and actor of enormous talent, was dead.  The news hit social media sites and spread quickly with photos, film clips, and the repetition of "No!" or "Say it ain't so!"  A person, an entertainer, who gave us so much to laugh about, to think on, and to find joy in life is not the type of person you ever expect to die.  At least not so suddenly.  And then the added shock: he died because he killed himself.  Now his demise becomes even more complicated for those who knew his on-screen, zany, fun-filled, wise and wonderful personas, and all the amazingly compassionate ways in which he used his fame to work for a better world.  How could someone who is like Robin Williams commit suicide?

I've read the postings and the articles that have pointed to his battles with depression, and his struggles to remain sober and stay off alcohol and cocaine.  He apparently had checked himself into a rehab program when his latest TV series was canceled.  From all accounts, he struggled with addiction, sometimes winning and sometimes losing.  The depression seemed to go hand-in-hand with that.

I was deeply saddened by Williams' death, and his actions that led to his death.  I didn't know Robin Williams, and never had a personal encounter with him on a set, on a street, or anywhere.  But when someone commits suicide, and we learn of their wrestling matches with the demon of depression, it strikes a cord in me.  I may not have known him, but I know that fight.  I, too, was once suicidal.  And so I have an uncomfortable knowledge of what that level of depression looks like.  It is darker than a moonless night.  And it is physical.  I remember the time my mother found me in my parents bedroom, clinging and clawing at the sheets on the bed.  The sensation in my body was that I was slipping away into an abyss as my brain pounded me with messages about my worthlessness.  It was bad enough to have boys on my prep school campus bullying me; to have my brain join in the taunting was cruel and unusal punishment.  My mom recalled that day, too, and her realization of how terrifying things were for me.  Luckily, I had a ray of hope. 

The day that I came closest to actually killing myself, my prep school chaplain intervened.  Her class had ended, and I was supposed to be on my way out the door to Noyes Library for my second year German class.  Instead, I stayed in my seat, eyes locked on the table.  Darkness was descending in my head.  I had spent the last twenty minutes or so figuring out what I could do to end my suffering.  Fortunately, I had forgotten the small pocketknife I sometimes carried, so I could not cut myself.  Instead, I was ready to walk to a footbridge on campus, and jump.  But I couldn't move.  I was frozen in place and I felt heavy.  And I stared and stared at the table.  Ms. Cleghorn inquired as to why I wasn't leaving.

"Talk me out of suicide."

That's all that came out of my mouth.  We'd just sat through a presentation by our headmaster who had told us about how his brother had committed suicide.  And the sickness in my head had already twisted his story around to attack me and tell me that this is what I had already done to my family and my friends.  I had already left them with this heartache...even though I was still alive.  But my brain had already judged me guilty and was piling on the message that I was of no use to anyone.

Ms. Cleghorn didn't say anything immediately.  I felt panic rising inside.  She had made me promise her when she first became my advisor, and I told her that I was struggling with suicidal tendancies, that I needed to come to her first if I ever wanted to kill myself.   She was my hope.  She broke her silence and spoke in words that I don't rightly recall any more.  But her anchor was in God; hence her grace-filled words began to break through the darkness.  Time was suspended.  My ears had a ringing sound.  But I do remember, in the course of all of this, she told me we would get me to someone who would give me more help.  That happened.  I began seeing a psychiatrist outside of Boston.  I was put on medication.

Then another medication.

Then a third and final medication to deal with chemical imbalance in my brain.

I had so many blood tests that, to this day, I look away at the sight of a needle.  The medication stabilized my moods and kept me from teetering on the egde of self-destruction.  I stopped having the nightly dreams of the sensation of hanging myself.  I survived one of the most horrible times of my teenage years.  I'm lucky.

Every time I hear of a completed suicide, my heart sinks.  I know that the person who killed him or herself did not do this act as any kind of deliberate offense to anyone because I have been in that sinking pit of depression which feeds all the wrong messages to the person.  They wrongly have concluded that somehow their existence is the problem.  Without someone who is able to pierce through that darkness, it is a mighty struggle to hang on for hope.

If there's anything I feel we can take away from the death of Robin Williams it's the realization that even those who seem to be having fun and are making us laugh are just as likely to be dreading the day as they are ready to seize it.  We may be called upon at some point to be the one who helps to guide the depressed person out of darkness and into light.  All the more reason for us to act and move from a place of compassion rather than malice because we have no idea what tricks the brain may be playing on the other person to make them believe they are unworthy of Love.

I'm so sorry that Robin Williams was unable to find that Hope which I feel certain has found him and invited him to have a seat at the table, even with tears in the eyes.  May his family and all of us who will miss him be blessed with the memories that he made for us, both on and off-screen.

"All-knowing and eternal God, come to our help as we mourn for Robin, dead by his own hand.  We know only in part, we love imperfectly, and we fail to ease one another's pain as you intend.  But you are the God whose property is always to have mercy, and so we put our trust in you and ask the courage to go on; through our Savior Christ, who suffered for us, and whom you raised to new life.  Amen."--EOW 3, pg.55

(If you or someone close to you is thinking suicide, talk to someone first.  Please call 1-800-273-TALK(8255) and let another person guide you out of the dark.)