Rev. Valerie's Reveries

By their fruits you will know them

2012-01-23T12:03:00.002-06:00

Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep’s clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves. You will know them by their fruits. Are grapes gathered from thorns or figs from thistles? In the same way, every good tree bears good fruit, but the bad tree bears bad fruit. [Matthew 7:15-17]

Living Faith

It’s 2012 and the Mayans say we are all going to die! These are the last and final days for democracy as European countries fall into fiscal chasms. The US is being overrun by illegal terrorist kidnapping drug dealing atheists! Run for the hills! Protect the children and widows! Aaaargh!

Perhaps it is stirred by the silly season of the presidential primaries but don’t you see and hear false prophesy, false confession of faith, ugly condemnations of the “other”, well—everywhere-- these days?

I’ve lived through several decades now and notice that each era does seem to call us forth to make choices, to clarify our basic commitments and beliefs in light of present circumstances. Always there are professions of faith by politicians and televangelists aiming to guide the masses to a better time, a better world, a better credit rating?

Remember 1999 when we were told of potential disasters when the clocks flipped and the computers would not be ready? Some very serious people went stark raving nuts with worry, but many more charlatans and opportunists jumped into the gap to fill in the blanks for vulnerable souls. As a pastor in a small congregation near Chicago, I received a slick mailer exhorting me to bring my flock to a nearby mega-church for an important night of prophecy and preparation. Intrigued and delighted by the potential show, I convinced one parishioner to go with me. The stories I could tell of that night! I could regale you for 10,000 words. The hubris of the “prophets,” the avaricious passing of plastic buckets for the offering, the calls to kill our own parents if they refuse to believe the end times were near, the sale of long guns and pistols in the kiosk on the concourse, the gold bouillon for sale. By the end of January 2000 the mega church had changed its name and started over as though none of the insanity had transpired. Some parishioners were left wondering and wandering, as though awakened from a trance, needing a safe harbor. It was funny at first, but then so very sad.

Of all the admonishments attributed to Jesus in the book of Matthew, his call to beware of false prophets seems the most valuable today. Thousands of false prophets entice us into giving up family fortunes, beckon us into the deadly sweat lodge of their greed, pull at our heart strings to give more and more and more so that we will be rich, rich, rich! Pray for a RED Mercedes. Be specific in your prayers and they will be answered. Vote for me and I’ll set you free!

But what are the fruits of these sheepish wolves? They ask us to turn on our brothers and sisters, they tell us not to be chumps, don’t think about the common good, just get YOUR share of the pie and offer nothing but pity to anyone who has been left behind in the brutal scramble for acquisition of more stuff. What are the fruits of such an attitude? Empty “zen” homes of enormous coldness, lack of trust in others, plenty of toys, but no purpose. No connection to a larger world of beauty—and suffering—where our labors are needed.

A friend showed me a gift she was given: two small pendants meant to be worn together. One is brass melted, pounded and shaped into a little leaf with the word LIFE stamped on it. The other is the bottom of a bullet, left as it was found in the killing fields of Liberia. The leaf is also made from a bullet casing. Lovetta Conto, the young woman who designed this jewelry was helped to build a life outside of a refugee camp by a person who decided to create every opportunity she could for as many children as she could. The proceeds from the sales help the Strongheart Fellowship to help other children of war to rebuild their lives.

No one needs to ask Lovetta-- or Cori Stern who co-founded Strongheart-- about personal faith. By the fruits of their labors in the field of creating goodness and happiness from the worst circumstances imaginable you would know them….

Which brings me to the rest of that verse in Matthew:
“A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a bad tree bear good fruit. Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Thus you will know them by their fruits.”

I am not so sure that goodness cannot come from a bad start. We can re-shape and re-build. We can structure our faith in happiness and we can cultivate a living faith full of wonder and beautiful fruits. We can remake the world by turning away from feel-good charlatans and toward the prophecy of hope born from the hard work of living faith.

Sometimes you really MUST intervene

2011-10-05T15:11:00.004-05:00

My friend Kelly Lee Williams is a very funny man (professional comedian), but he has a very serious side too. Today he posted a facebook status update calling on everyone to intervene when a child is being abused. His call to action resonated with me. It has always been my practice to do whatever I can to stop abuse anywhere I see it. This does not make me popular with abusive people.

Kelly's admonition brought me into reminiscing about a few interventions I have executed and thinking BIG about intervening in abuse of power.

When I was a young mother, my brother and his wife were separated and headed for divorce. Their daughter was a little younger than mine and had already had a very challenging life before they adopted her. To try to punish his wife for her decision to leave the relationship and to control the terms of the separation, my brother "kidnapped" my niece, refusing to return her to her mother. I found out about it, went to my parents home, where brother and niece were "hiding," picked up my niece and started for the door. Everyone made a big fuss and told me I had no business intervening. I just kept going, drove my niece to her mother's house and that was the end of the game=playing by using the sweet child as a pawn. I will not stand by when people use children as pawns in their relationship struggles--someone should stop it!.

Over 20 years ago I was shopping at a mall for a long day. I kept running across a multigenerational family: grandmother, daughter, three pre-schoolers. Over and over I witnessed the two women berating, scolding, smacking and slapping the youngest child, an adorable little boy. Eventually I decided I had to do something. i walked up to the young mother and tried to engage her in a conversation about something, babbling on and on. The grandmother quickly faced off with me, saying, "Don't think I don't know what you are doing. You are trying to distract my daughter from doing her duty as a parent to scold this child. This is necessary to break him so that he will not grow up to be a rapist--your worst black nightmare." I responded, "Actually by treating him with such disrespect you are creating a potential rapist by teaching this child to hate women." I then knelt down to see the child eye to eye and said, "You deserve a better life. No one has the right to treat you this way." The women advanced and raised their voices, but I wasn't listening, I was walking away, having made my position clear to the little boy.

One day when I was in seminary, walking down a Chicago Street (in Barack and Michelle Obama's neighborhood actually) I saw a young man in the street struggling with two elderly women over possession of a purse. Without thinking, I ran across the street waving my arms and screaming for him to leave them alone. He did it! Dropped the purse and ran off, calling me crazy. Maybe it is foolhardy to intervene in robbery, but someone needed to do something to stop this!

I cannot even count the number of times I have called the police when I witnessed men abusing women, boys beating up other boys. And I will get directly into the fray when necessary. Someone has to stop abuse!

People only do what the community permits them to do. If the community stands by and watches, the violence and abuse rolls on and on and on. Of course, as I said, this does not earn me friendships with abusers--except when they are jarred into realizing that they want to be different. I am gratified to know that a few times the person I called out has taken my intervention to heart and made better choices in the future.

Last week Officer Bologna blasted pepper spray into the faces of several young women protesting in the Occupy Wall Street actions and was videotaped by many passersby and protesters. He and the NYPD are defending his abusive actions--as too often happens when people in authority find endless justification for their abuse of power.

Although various media had failed to find any reason to cover the burgeoning Occupy Wall Street actions, the NYPD helped to give them a reason by abusing their power. And that is exactly why the people are protesting. Too many abuses of power are going unanswered in our society--most significantly, abuse of economic power.

Financial abuse by the rich (and consequently powerful) must stop! We already have the collective power of the 99% who are not ridiculously rich.

Here are a few things the average person can do right away to stand up to the mega-rich and corporations who are abusing us all:
1. Stop watching any television show entitled with "The real housewives...". Crazy rich women act like fools to make you think the rich are harmless clowns. They might be clowns, but not harmless. Same with Kardashians, etc. Maybe watch only Current or Link, or Freespeech TV!
2. Stop shopping at Wal-Mart. Yes, you are addicted to the low, low prices, but you can find ways to get by without spending your money on THE WORST abuser of workers and consumers ever to populate a big-box store. The owners OWN YOU if you shop there. After we get rid of Wally world, we'll start in on Target.
3. Refuse to vote for any politician who does not show you where their campaign money originates. Vote for a write-in, vote for a flakey third party, vote for none of the above. Turn in a blank ballot if necessary, but show up and vote in the most radical way you can.
4. Refuse to buy ANYTHING with a recognizable corporate logo. You'll probably need to start small and work your way up to this one. Sometimes, I resort to buying the thing I want/need and then I remove, disguise or cover the logo. OH! that reminds me, my car's logo is still very visible. I was more highly motivated to cover up the Cherokee insignia of my last vehicle.
5. Join or start an Occupy _____ in your community.

Lets see where American Autumn can take us!!

What are your ideas of how we can stop abuse everywhere we see it?

Debut of daughter and granddaughter in music video

2011-03-23T21:03:00.001-05:00

AynRandians are astonishing

2011-02-25T19:07:00.002-06:00

While progressives nd other hopeful world citizens send pizzas to the protesters in Madison, WI, the apologists for the super-libertarians are explaining why organized labor must die. The first reason they cite: unionized workers, especially public employees are overpaid. Astonishing BS! To make this citation they must use incalculable calculations which leave out the entire upper-class cohort who don't actually earn salaries, but instead OWN the country.

Then, they assert that public employee pensions MUST be eliminated because, wait for it, pensions are unrealistically generous! They say that the workers should suffer through a 401K just like the non-unionized workers! The same people who claim that social security should be eliminated in favor of "privatizing" retirement investment because private investment is better, now claim that defined benefit pension plans are too good for middle class workers.

Gov. Walker of Wisconsin was duped into telling a prank caller posing as the ultra-rich David Koch that his plan to kill unions was unfolding as planned and spreading to other states ruled by Repugnacrat governors. He bragged about taking down unions as part of a scheme to make the rich richer. So refreshing to prove that we are not paranoid about the intention of these puppets--or their puppeteers.

The greed-is-good AynRandians must be feeling a tad pressed to justify their position. They have consistently argued that people should not band together in cooperative ventures, that people should instead only be judged as individuals and thus step on the neck of anyone they need to vanquish in order to gain market position.

As Rachel Maddow points out we are at war now--a culture war that is being run with military-precise planning. The generals are super-rich funders of astro-turf (fake grass-roots) organizations. Disaffected down-trodden forgotten people (the troops) get riled by the likes of Glen Beck about the loss of jobs, foreclosed homes, dried up pensions combined with abortion, gay sex and other unpleasantness. So now actual grassroots folks throw themselves in Tea Partying and other such self-hatred.

It is all so astonishing to me. But it shouldn't be. All it took was removing liberal educational goals about 25 years ago. No need for classes such as logic and humanities, no encouragement to read and reflect, think and analyze. Rote memorization is now favored over creative thinking and careful analysis. If you make sure a couple of generations are cultivated into good automatons with an appetite for televised drivel, there will be no need to use forceful means to control the masses.

There are people left with intact intellectual capacities, but they are seriously suspect as elite and out of touch. Astonishing I tell you, that the super-rich AynRandians have succeeded in flipping socialism on its head. Now the proles do the bidding of their oppressors and gladly.

Astonishing. Truly Astonishing. Drinking the Kool-aid a la Jonestown while believing they are actually going to end up in Nirvana/heaven/the promised land.

I hope they wake from their stupor soon enough to join a union to protect what little solidarity that could be left.

But today I am not optimistic. Hopeful is hard to find too.

2011-02-18T23:10:00.002-06:00

If a movement does not get any press does that mean it isn’t moving? The Wisconsin labor uprising got no national press for the first two days—except from Rachel Maddow on MSNBC. Now the Green Bay Packers have joined the team to support public employee unions in Wisconsin! That’s smart politics for them since the NFL players are rising up against their owners to demand a bigger slice of the cheese. I hope they succeed but that isn’t a middle class fight, just more rich guys squabbling, but I always side against “the owners” of anything when they think they don't need to share their wealth.

Seeing actual public servants and teachers getting their knickers in a twist should give me hope that middle class people are finally realizing that their solidarity has been misplaced for too long. Instead of identifying UP the economic ladder and defending the right of corporations to enjoy the civic benefits equal to humans, we need to rise up and FIGHT THE POWER. (OK I just heard Chuck D talk last night so forgive my re-radicalization.) No time for dreaming of the day when we too could step over the down-and-out man sleeping on the grate. Soon enough if the Republicans and DINOs have their way, we will BE those down-and-out grate-sleepers. First the banks took homes, now they’re after our jobs…what else can we give to the oligarchy?

Now we know what else is wanted---our very freedom from oppressive intrusive laws--we can give them control of our wombs! Now the dignity of the American woman has been taken. Finally, though they have tried in vain for decades, the forced- pregnancy politicians have de-funded Planned Parenthood.

The President’s proposed budget takes money out of the heating assistance program: HEAP. What does he expect? For Hugo Chavez to send more money from Venezuela to keep impoverished Americans from freezing to death?

The Repugna-crats new budget eliminates WIC subsidies that boost the nutrition of poor children AND PREGNANT women, while it tears away at Social Security and Medicaid and every other “entitlement” program designed to keep the poorest Americans alive (but not well).

America as a great nation is over. That ship has sailed. We are now in full class-warfare. Perhaps if the middle class and those in poverty build solidarity we can salvage something of the dignity we once enjoyed. But if we do not stand together, we are toast.

Take away the annual $330 million from family planning support for Planned Parenthood when we are spending A BILLION DOLLARS EACH WEEK ON THE WAR IN AFGHANISTAN? How can any thinking person accept this? They can’t. Only thoughtless automatons and robotically equipped heartless bastards can.

In the past 25 years I have marched on Washington for reproductive rights several times and a couple of times for housing rights; more than ten times for peace and once for gay rights. I would go again in a heartbeat, but it gets harder and harder to believe that marches on DC help.

I’ll go back to Washington and protest when---
--the college students rise up against unconscionable tuition and lousy loan programs,
--and small farmers protest a lack of effective subsidies and policies that do not give agri-giants an unfair advantage
--and Wal-Mart workers unite to demand the right to unionize (and bring their brothers and sisters from Target along too)
--and nurse’s aides explain that wiping your grandma’s ass for a poverty wage is not sufficient job satisfaction
--and the 10 million discouraged workers who stopped hoping for a job and who have nothing better to do anyway
--and the officially unemployed take an interest in their own plight
--and women in the military are ready to fight back against universal rape
--and women of all ages and backgrounds throw off the shackles of mandatory pregnancy without mandatory child support

Maybe then we can ALL go together and TAKE BACK OUR COUNTRY.

Upcoming preaching dates

2011-02-10T22:14:00.002-06:00

Just wanted to let my readers know that I have two preaching gigs coming up...both on Sunday Feb. 13.
At 10:00 I will be a guest at All Souls UU Church in Brattleboro Vermont. (Thanks to Rev. Barbro Hansson, for the invite!)
At 4:30 I will be the guest preacher for an emerging congregation: Two Rivers UU Congregation in Clifton Park, NY (meeting at the YMCA)
Call me crazy, itinerant preaching in two locations three hours apart in February in the snow belt.
And maybe you can offer a prayer that conditions allow safe travel.

best,
Valerie

When is a rosary not a rosary? When it could be a gang symbol.

2010-06-10T20:41:00.002-05:00

Public school officials in Schenectady believe they have a gang problem and they believe they can quell gangs by regulating accessories and items of clothing worn by children. No caps or hats of any kind may be worn indoors. No display of handkerchiefs or scarves, no wearing of beads, no obvious religious symbols. Those are the rules and no exceptions are accepted. Period. Last year my granddaughter wore a hair clip shaped like a tiny hat and was made to remove it. Laughable when you think about it. An iconic hat as well as an actual hat is considered dangerous in the 6th grade.

Regulating symbolic clothing (beads, hats etc.) does nothing to make Schenectady schools safe or serious learning environments. Gangs are not effectively deterred from recruiting new members through regulating school-aged children’s garb. No matter which rules the school imposes, determined gang members develop a new set of images to suit their purpose. One gang now uses Sponge Bob Squarepants as their symbol. Others use athletic teams or Disney characters.

The media have been reporting on a specific case in which a middle schooler has taken to wearing a rosary as a necklace (rosaries have beads, thus COULD be a gang symbol). Rosary Boy has reportedly said that it makes him feel protected and close to two dead relatives to wear the rosary over his clothing. He could not be persuaded to wear the rosary under his clothes. His parents support his desire to wear the rosary as he sees fit. So does a right-wing civil liberties foundation from Michigan—they have swept in to protect the youngster’s religious rights.

While the Rosary Boy and his family are not Catholic and thus do not feel compelled to use the Catholic rosary in the same way a Catholic might, they still feel that it expresses something profoundly important to them. Who is to argue with them? Religion is in the heart of the believer, not in the eye of the beholder. If the kid feels tied to this symbol as a way of feeling a deep connection to dead relatives, who is to say that his commitment is invalid? Developmentally it is entirely appropriate for a child of that age to experience a concrete connection to god through a physical item. If he thinks his relatives are with god and believes this rosary connects him to them (the dead and god), I think we should all support his right to wear the rosary.

The official position of zero tolerance for potential gang symbols is bunk. Schenectady schools tolerate all sorts of bad behavior through impotent inaction when it matters most (trust me, I’ve been on the front lines of this for two years of watching my granddaughter experience severe bullying). The zero tolerance is directed solely at symbols rather than actions. If it looks like a duck squash it, but if it ACTS like a duck, well then the duck’s right to be a duck must be protected. It is facile to write down a rule about clothing and then enforce it to the letter, but how do you write down a rule about behavior that can’t be abrogated by nuance and he said/she said arguments. Enforcing civil behavior is simply more difficult than enforcing symbols, so the schools go with the easy path.

What looks like a religious argument, it turns out, is really just an argument about a child whose parents back up his right to be an individual in the midst of an institution that fears groups. We tested this out. My granddaughter began openly wearing and flaunting religious symbols in the same school as the Rosary Boy. If I had a rosary handy, she might have worn that to test our theory, but alas, all I had were Unitarian Universalist Flaming Chalice symbols. No one even noticed. So it seems that the more obscure your religion, the more you can flagrantly show it off! This is NOT about religious symbols.

There is a tendency for public schools to follow a path of adamant consistency when deeper understanding would pay off bigger dividends. Rosary Boy misses his dead relatives. The more exercised the school became the more determined the parents became. The parents will win this fight with the backing of well-funded religious zealots. There is no doubt about it. But what becomes lost along the way is common sense. Stopping a boy from grieving his own way will not stop gangs from operating in the school. Is anyone paying attention to common sense in Schenectady schools? Anyone? Anyone at all?

The Social Benefits of Being Ugly

2010-06-08T22:42:00.002-05:00

Maureen Dowd's recent column about a woman who got fired for being too attractive caught my attention. She points out that there is plenty of evidence that attractive people reap social and material benefits from their beauty, thus it is especially ironical that some one could get fired for being so attractive that she became a workplace nuisance.

I once got hired for having parts that the boss found attractive, but I didn't know it until later. I would have taken the job no matter what, but it is disgusting that a nice ass was my most important asset (no pun intended) when I was 18.

My friend Chris ages beautifully and is not afraid to utilize medical science to assist her. Her red hair might be enhanced chemically, but you can't tell. One of my favorite things about her beauty is that she lives and dresses for herself, to please herself, not to make an appearance that is for the gazer, but rather to perfect and enhance what she was given.

My friend Linnea was also given great beauty and it has provided for a life of great adventure. At age 70+ with the lines one might expect in a Scandinavian face that has seen many sunny days she still stops traffic. At dinner recently we walked up to a table to claim possession as a man of a certain age was leaving it. He looked at Linnea and blurted: You are VERY attractive!" Grocery clerks young enough to be her grandsons openly flirt with her. She's the Betty White of her community! Her inner beauty contributes to this phenomenon, no doubt; her spirit exudes tranquility and envelopes anyone within 30 feet.

My daughter, similarly, was blessed with great beauty. People have been known to cause accidents while being distracted by her beauty. More than once I have witnessed a man run into a stationary object while craning his neck to continue to look at her as he passed. Perfect strangers snap her photo as though she COULD be a celebrity whose name they can't place. One time as we arrived by limo at a relative's elegant wedding in a ritzy part of NYC (was it The Ritz?) tourists clogged the sidewalk gawking at the guests disembarking from the row of limos. When Heather slid her perfect 18 year old self out of the car and onto the sidewalk, the crowd pressed in and camera flashes exploded the twilight. When she stood to her 5'9" + four inch heels height (probably weighed about 100 pounds then) audible gasps could be heard.

As I followed out of the limo a woman pulled me aside and said, "I know her, I know her, who is she?" No, I retorted, "You don't know her, that's just my daughter."
"Yes, yes, I understand but WHO IS your daughter? I can't come up with her name."
"Seriously you don't know her, she isn't a celebrity."
"Well," the woman shot back, "when I figure out who she is I am going to send a nasty note to her because fans have the right to be acknowledged!"

Heather meanwhile remained completely oblivious to the chaos spilling into the evening all around her. At the wedding the photographer persisted in finding reasons to take pictures of her. So many Heather photos showed up on the proof pages that the relative negotiated a partial refund for the photog's failure to focus on the important people--the bride and groom!

No one would mistake me for anyone beautiful. It is possible to see that Heather and I are related, but clearly she was given (thanks to her father's genes!) a perfected canvas--eyes set the right distance apart, jaw line crisp and well formed, the perfect oval face with apple cheekbones and a full-lipped smile. Eyebrows that arch just so and a nose that sits perfectly symmetrically in the center of her face (her maternal grandmother's nose for sure). Smooth milky skin with no lines even at age 35. The camera loves that face. The face opens doors of possibility. With sleek almost-black hair, she could be Latina, Or Italian? Greek maybe, or Native American? (Answer: Welsh, English, German, Irish, Dutch, Native American)

Take similar features and pull them apart like silly putty: squeeze the eyes close together, elongate the face, add a too-prominent brow bone, an oddly masculine hairline, a nose that flares too widely and then really bad skin--and you get me. I am not complaining, just describing an average to homely face with ambiguous ethnicity. It is a face that makes many people comfortable (homely after all can mean unpretentious), or it used to. People who have known me a long time deny this, but I am definitely starting to look increasingly masculine. I can read it in strangers' eyes--has she had a sex change? Or just cross dressing? I can hear strangers think this, I swear.

But my face has always looked at least a bit masculine. My five brothers and I sat for only one family portrait--in 1968. I had three dresses I could have worn. Two had lace or ruffles or embroidery details conveying femininity. But my mom thought they were too dressy and the brothers were going casual for the sitting, thus I wore the third one: a shirtdress with a button down collar and placket. My haircut: a side parted bob--just like my brothers' Beach Boys style longer locks. so there in the center ("a rose among thorns," my daddy said) is just another smiling Mapstone boy!

Recently I had the opportunity to spend an extended time in close proximity to an extraordinary number of intelligent and attractive women of various ages. Almost to a person, I found that they couldn't readily make eye contact with me until after they had a reason to speak with me. Did they think ugliness could be a contagion perniciously poised to leap onto them? It almost never is.

I try to smile almost constantly as a mater of spiritual discipline and self-defense against my naturally aging ugliness. Should I forget to smile, someone who does not know me will likely take it upon him or her self to remind me to do so. Smiling evinces the joy that is always available should I choose to pay attention and the smile mitigates against the universe's need to send messengers to remind me to find that joy. The bell of mindfulness can ring internally.

The older I get, the more contented I feel in being alone with my thoughts. As I become less and less attractive, I can almost disappear. I have become so good at disappearing, that sometimes I have to wave and get noticed--here I am --like when I am in the front of the line, but the clerk asks the person behind me if they need help. Probably I wasn't smiling just then. Disappearing means, one can listen and observe unobtrusively. Disappearing protects one from interruptions. No one says to me "do you come here often?" or "don't I know you from somewhere?" when really they mean "Please! I want YOU to notice ME!" People don't want to be noticed by people they don't notice. I like it this way much more than I would have imagined I might. I have always preferred introversion to extraversion. Now it is easier to be left to my own devices.

Working title: Cooked Goose

2010-06-08T19:17:00.003-05:00

This is a piece I wrote in about 15 minutes as a freewriting exercise to begin to find "rabbit holes" that might lead to clarity on how I want to write about my brief career in ministry. The "rabbit hole" concept came from my workshop teacher Susan William Silverman at the Bear River Writers' Conference. Names have been changed but little else.

Lesson: I am not entirely comfortable making fun of people about whom I have feelings of care and concern, but finding humor in the predicaments of ministry does feel better than the bitterness I also feel. Writing helps and apparently I am guilty of good comic timing when I read this out loud. Who knew? I thought my spouse was the funny one.

Cooked Goose

I should have known my goose was cooked when a member of the search committee who had just weeks earlier so enthusiastically recommended me to the congregation came up to me on a bright fall Sunday after church, leaning close to whisper in my ear, “ Just so you know, I am an avid birdwatcher. If the sermon is good, I’ll tell you so, but if it isn’t, I’ll just tell you the number of species I saw out the window over your shoulder. Today it was 12.”

While the sermon might truly have been less than adequate, in my defense I ask you, who could work optimally in such conditions? The worship space had backward acoustics. Every scratching chair scoot and each whispered commentary assaulted my ears while the congregation could barely make out my carefully crafted words, no matter what we did with the microphones and speakers. To make matters worse, the minister emeritus had gone nearly deaf but deeply desired to remain in close community with the congregation and so each Sunday he would take up residence in the front row, dutiful wife by his side. “Please join me in a moment of silence,” I would say. Felicia echoed, shouting into Andrew’s ear “VALERIE WANTS US TO ENTER IN TO A MOMENT OF SILENCE!”

If all the shouting and whispering weren’t enough, people would blandly and blithely get up and wander about the worship space, refilling coffee, tinkling the spoon against the side and tap tap tapping the drips back into the cup. And why was the enticing aromatic coffee IN the worship space anyway? Why so no one would have to leave the service just to refill their cups of course!

Besides Felicia’s fidelity to repeating each word to Andrew, we were blessed with ever-present member Marcus who deemed it his divine right to challenge my ideas and reflections, in place, during the sermon. “Whaddya mean by that? Where did that stupid idea originate?” And he expected—no demanded a response—Now!

One Sunday after I told a children’s Hanukkah story and gave each cherubic child a piece of chocolate gelt to take to Sunday School classes, the service moved on to a contemplative prayer. Hazel, our senior female curmudgeon (there is also a senior male curmudgeon and several junior ones of every gender) loudly proclaimed to the woman next to her, “When is she going to get over this Jewish shit?” I continued my prayer as though nothing at all unusual had transpired but Myrtle, a board member, slapped Hazel--hard-- on the arm. Hazel hit back and a scuffle broke out. The newcomers sitting behind the pair intervened and separated them. We never saw that family again..

Glenn Beck gives a shout out to Unitarian influence over Obama's childhood

2010-04-08T20:50:00.000-05:00

Reverie defined

2009-10-10T08:35:00.002-05:00

From Dictionary.com

Word of the Day for Saturday, October 10, 2009

reverie \REV-uh-ree\, noun:

1. A state of dreamy meditation or fanciful musing.
2. A daydream.
3. A fantastic, visionary, or impractical idea.
4. Music. An instrumental composition of a vague and dreamy character.

Walking seems to have become Rousseau's chosen mode of being because within a walk he is able to live in thought and reverie, to be self-sufficient, and thus to survive the world he feels has betrayed him.
-- Rebecca Solnit, Wanderlust: A History of Walking

He was pulled out of his reverie by the buzzing of his cell phone.
-- Robert O'Harrow, No Place to Hide

From reveries so airy, from the toil
Of dropping buckets into empty wells,
And growing old in drawing nothing up.
-- William Cowper, The Task. Book iii. The Garden. Line 188.

Reverie is from Middle English, revelry, from Old French, from rever, to dream.

My email letter to Max Baucus (D-MT) extended play version

2009-09-20T12:07:00.007-05:00

The current state of the health care debate is unacceptable to me as a tax-paying, freedom-loving American. How could we have excluded a single-payer system? And now excluding a public option? We burden American businesses unduly by expecting them to be the funders of health insurance. It is absurd and it makes our country less competitive in the world economy. In addition it stifles entrepreneurship by small businesses who can ill-afford to figure the high costs into their plans for start-up or expansion. At root of the controversy is an understated acceptance of the "right" of wealthy medical industry corporations to continue to make exorbitant profits. If health care is a human right (which it is in the rest of the world) then how can we justify putting profits over people? And how can we justify burdening one sector of the free-market economy while padding the profits of another? Every time we justify the profits in the medical industry we squeeze the profits from another sector of the economy. How does this make sense to any capitalist?

Here ends the e-letter and this is what I really wanted to say:

I believe I have officially become a socialist. The arguments over the medical industry reforms (they are not about health care in any way that is recognizable to me) puzzle me as a humanitarian and thinking, compassionate person.
By deciding up front to eliminate the possibility of universal coverage in a single-payer system the Congress has made it clear that the only principle guiding the debate is this: money matters more than people. The money spread through Congress by medical industry lobbyists pad the politician's pockets and sway them away from any humanitarian concerns.
The rhetoric of freedom and responsibility and fear of lawsuits belie the fact that the medical sector of the economy is favored over all others. This is done even at the expense of basic capitalist tenets such as the right to be able to trade without undue fetters of government intrusion. The current regulations and haphazard system favors the profits of medical industry sectors over other industrial and information or service sectors. Thus the government has already decided that it will no longer support capitalism.
Instead it has quietly moved into oligarchic imperialism. The "rescue" of the mega-corporations last fall and winter should have adequately signaled this shift to anyone paying attention. By ignoring the financial crises of the poorer and middling classes and smaller business entities, to favor corporations "too big to fail" our government decided to shift away from capitalism. Now the government assumes the risk for corporate ventures into unwise and unsound business practices. The only people who do well in such circumstances are the already wealthy.
When the wealthy own the means of production (capitalism) AND control all regulations (fascism) by electing men and women they "own" to be guardians of their purses-- we have imperialism. The wealthy now control all relevant sectors of the society.
Under imperialism (nee feudalism) anything owned by "the public" is subjected to massive cuts in collective support giving us an astounding state of deteriorating infrastructure. Roads and bridges become increasingly unsound, public school buildings lack basic maintenance, public school students must buy their own school supplies (thus ending a free public education) and are fed barely edible low nutrient "food". Formerly public services are privatized- from trash collection to the military. All in the name of wealth production for the already wealthy couched as increasing "efficiencies". The next time you hear a capitalist or elected official speak of "efficiency," translate that as "private profit" and you'll understand the primary motivation of any proposed change from public ownership to contracted services and you'll understand the reluctance to move toward a publicly funded system of health care.
When my late grandmother put on a starched white uniform, sensible shoes and a hair-net to go to work each day as a "lunch lady" she left her home knowing that she would find crates of fresh fruits, vegetables and meat in the cafeteria larder that she and her co-workers would soon transform into nutritious and delicious meals for the youth at Norwin High School. She and her co-workers would wash every stainless steel pot, melamine tray, china dish and stainless fork after lunch and put these re-usable items back into service the next day. My grandmother knew she would be rewarded with a living wage and reasonable pension to sustain her when her body gave out from the hard work. As a young widow the cafeteria job helped her to finish raising her two youngest children and gave her the ability to save and invest. Now, contracted minimum-wage, no benefits, part-timers populate the cafeterias of our nation's public schools, serving up high fat, high sodium packaged re-heated "meals" from mass-production factories where other workers are paid unsustainable wages to transform agri-business commodities in something to feed kids. And it is all presented on "disposable" cardboard or styrofoam and eaten with plastic ware all of which go to privately owned and operated landfills also employing people at the lowest possible wage.
At every stage of the public school feeding game from field to cardboard serving tray to the dump, formerly lower middle class jobs have been eliminated in favor of poverty level part-time, no-benefits, at-will employment. This newly "efficient " system is efficient only at transferring dollars from the working men and women of society into the off-shore accounts of the super wealthy.
If wanting to go back to a day in America when working people could cover their basic needs by, well, working, then call me a socialist. If desiring to return to a time when people paid taxes knowing that government services would be made available in return, then go ahead and call me a socialist. If I wish for a time when Americans understood that the commons was commonly owned for the benefit for all (notwithstanding old traditions of racism and sexism) then please call me a socialist.
I will proudly wear the label socialist from now on because I care about the common good of this nation and every person on earth and I refuse to believe that the only way to care for all of us is to allow the wealthy to skim the profits from the top of the heap while leaving the dregs for the masses. If I am a socialist because I think providing health care for all MUST be the important driving factor in this debate and because I refuse to believe anyone should become extraordinarily wealthy by investing in systems which limit access to actual health care interventions for the ill, then so be it. I'll take the label. If refusing the believe profit-making companies of any size will put the well-being of patients before their own remuneration makes me a socialist, OK. If insisting that people paid using governmental taxation should work for the taxing authority and not for contracted corporations, then I guess the label socialist fits. If believing that some things should be provided by society as a basic human right supporting the common good, fine. I want A SOCIALIST HEALTH CARE SYSTEM AND I WANT IT NOW.

"How to Name Your Farm"

2009-05-13T22:12:00.002-05:00

As promised, here is the reading I did at the Memoir Project kick-off at The Arts Center of the Capital Region in Troy, NY on 5/11/09
This essay also won first prize in 2005 from the Friends of the Tulsa Library.
And it was published in an anthology: In Time of Need, published by Meadville/Lombard Theological School

I wrote it to mourn my dog, and maybe some other things. I really miss my Oklahoma home when I re-visit it.

“How to Name Your Farm”
by Valerie Mapstone Ackerman

The big red dog is gone. He sat in the sun near me all day that final Monday, basking in the warmth, checking in with an occasional lick to my ear and then settling back into the turf. Young red dog Lydia scampered in the next field challenging the cattle to a dance in which they had no interest. If I had known it would be our last day together, I would have dropped the pecan gathering to spend the afternoon stroking Big Guy’s ears and scratching his chest just the way he liked.

As the sun set and the chill wind rattled the branches, I decided to pack up and head inside. Along the way I filled the dog bowls with cheap food and checked the water. If I had known this would be his last meal, I would have taken a moment to break an egg on top of Big Guy’s bowl. Makes a dog’s fur shine, I hear.

But I didn’t know. How could I know that his front porch straw-padded house would be empty the next morning? How could I know that I would spend Tuesday walking the fields then driving up and down the back-country roads searching for his familiar tail and baritone bark. “Maybe,” I thought, “He’s gone off to his previous home just down the road.” No sign of him there. Perhaps he was insulted and indignant after being teased with several nights spent indoors when the temperature plunged only to be locked out onto the front porch for the warming trend.

My husband assured me that he was fine. “He can take care of himself. He was a stray when he moved in. He probably went off with a pack of dogs to hunt,” Bill insisted.

It was true. There were packs of dogs roaming the hills. I’d seen them skirt the edges of the fields. Once a tangle of them tumbled into the front yard—beautiful white shaggy types and sleek yellow dogs with curled tails and black and tan mongrels. Big Guy and Lydia welcomed them, sharing favorite chew toys (empty soda bottles mostly). One white dog seemed especially tame. Tail wagging, almost grinning, he approached me near the farm gate. Out of nowhere Big Guy barreled in growling, shoulder fur standing up. He nipped lightly at the white dog’s front paws. “It’s OK Big Guy. He’s a sweet little fellow,” I said, patting Big Guy’s head. But that was it. Big Guy had established the parameters for further visits: play with my comrade, play with the toys, but no touching my human.

A couple of times that week I spotted wild dogs in packs. My heart skipped a beat as I recognized Big Guy trailing with one pack, but as I slowed my chili pepper red Jeep and looked again, I found that the tail wasn’t right. Too curly. And what would I do exactly if it WAS Big Guy? I already knew he wouldn’t get into the Jeep. How many times I had tried to lure him in, shove him in, cajole, sweet-talk, or entice him with treats? He was too big and too independent to be forced. Usually I could reason with him, but never about the Jeep. Didn’t I know moving vehicles were the enemy? One shouts at them, occasionally chases them, definitely sprinkles the tires, but NEVER does one ride inside.

Many times I sat Big Guy down to have a discussion about his health and well-being. “See, if we put this purple flea collar on, you’ll scratch less.” Nothing doing. No sooner did I get it on than he ran away across the fields and stayed away the whole afternoon. He came back at dusk sans flea collar. OK, so no flea collar. Next I tried to talk him into spray-on treatment. He won that struggle by rubbing it all off on the grass in a frenzied wriggle. How about the veterinarian-recommended skin penetrating treatment for fleas and ticks? I won that battle the old-fashioned way—I made my husband do it.

When we brought Lydia home last Memorial Day Big Guy established his dominance with one big growl. Not that there was any question about top-dog status. We picked Lydia as an act of kindness; drove all the way to Poteau then up into a rutted holler road to find the breeder. Sleek champion-bred five month-old redbone coonhounds strutted and romped all over the yard. The lone little girl dog trembled slightly, holding back. I came there with no pre-conceived idea of which dog to pick. I didn’t even know if I wanted a male or female. But this little dog needed us. Her big brothers dominated her, pushed her around, cut her off from meeting the new humans. Having grown up the lone girl with five brothers, I immediately felt an affinity. Besides, no way was this frightened puppy ever going to be a good hunting dog. Clearly she needed to be our pampered pet. The ride home confirmed her delicate nature. She drooled and peed and even threw up for good measure. By the time we got home she had a name that came from my desire for an elegant historic name combined with Bill’s love of puns. “Lydia” for Ralph Waldo Emerson’s wife and “Lid-ea” for the fact that Bill first spotted her carrying a lid from an ice cream bucket.

Without a doubt Big Guy was top dog. Not just the boss-- he was Lydia’s teacher too and her disciplinarian. When I’d scold Lydia for pulling clothes off the laundry line, or chewing the porch furniture, Big Guy would rush in, put her down by the neck and bark ferociously. As long as Big Guy was around to reinforce the message, Lydia quickly learned the family rules. Sometimes we would translate Big Guy’s barks. “Hey you silly mutt, we’ve got a good thing going here, don’t blow it!” or “How many times does she need to tell you this?!” or “Listen bitch. Do NOT EAT the furniture!”

Big Guy came with the farm. He had moved in when the previous owners’ Weimaraner bitch had gone into heat. They told us that the folks down the way had begun feeding him about 5 years ago and then last fall he made his opportunistic relocation. Mr. Gray said he’d surely try to shoo him off if we liked, but by then I was already in love. And it was mutual. Big Guy and I bonded from the first moment our eyes met--maybe not quite the first moment. He always barked fiercely at any vehicle entering the property and he did intimidate me the first time our realtor brought us by to look at the land and house. Later, in the spring after the sale was set up and I came by to visit before the final exchange, Big Guy and I had a moment of mutual understanding in which I gave him permission to stay and he gave me permission to move in.

As bossy and scary as Big Guy might seem, he was also the most gentle and intelligent dog I have ever met. When our equally bossy and scary super-intelligent 6 year-old granddaughter came to visit for the whole summer, Big Guy sensed he had met his match. He both protected Keegan and gave her a wide berth. He even allowed Keegan to give him a special name: Clifford The Big Red Dog. She called him Clifford, or Red, or Big Guy. It didn’t matter. He would come when called and sit on command and let Keegan, whom he outweighed by at least 20 pounds, hug his neck and scratch his belly. Though she probably earned it a hundred times, never once did Big Guy growl or raise his hackles at her.

And now he’s gone. Just gone-- as though he never existed. Since he wouldn’t wear one I can’t take his smelly collar and tuck it away in a box like some sentimental fool. I can’t bury his broken body with prayers and readings, singing and a special marker. He didn’t die of illness or old age. He didn’t just run away, I know it. Somewhere in these hills or valleys he intruded upon the wrong people, spooked the wrong livestock. How could they know his bark was (mostly) a big attitude earned the hard way? How could they know his dog-soul held secrets of love and affection.

I have my memories and a few snapshots. Lydia is still here, as sweet and graceful as ever and adjusting well to Molly the Manic Black Lab we adopted from a shelter on New Year’s Eve. Lydia showed us that she needed a companion by ripping off the front screen door then breaking into the house the night after Big Guy had disappeared. Bill can’t bring himself to admit Red (as he called Big Guy) is really gone. Our FedEx lady and I cried together the last time she came by, ready to hand out dog treats for Christmas.

For months we’ve been trying to figure out what to call our farm. A while ago Bill suggested “Red Dog Farm.” I thought it was just silly. Now though, that name feels fitting, like the memorial I never got to have. Red Dog Farm it is—for Big Guy.

Public reading: Memoir Project

2009-04-29T05:30:00.004-05:00

Hello Friends-

I am pleased to announce that a piece I wrote about my dogs "How to Name Your Farm" was accepted for the Arts Center of the Capital District Memoir Project for their public reading series kick-off. It is a great opportunity to have local writers read from their work as a way to launch others into writing too.

If any of you are in the Albany-Schenectady-Troy, NY area... Please attend!

May 11 at 7:00 pm at the Art Center on River Street in Troy.

"How to Name Your Farm" was published in an anthology of writing by Meadville Lombard Theological School: "In Time of Need" (available on Amazon) and I won a writing contest in Tulsa with this piece also. I'm pretty sure it is in this blog archive too, in case you want to read it and don't want to buy the book. I get no royalties from the sale of the book but my alma mater does get a few pennies for every book sold.

I hope I don't turn out to be a one-hit wonder. But so what if that's the best I ever produce?

babyrush

2009-03-07T05:09:00.001-06:00

The Morning After the World Changed—for Real this Time

2008-11-05T09:01:00.002-06:00

11/5/08

I cried myself to sleep last night. This is not a habit. Perhaps I’ve done it before, in the depths of grief over a personal loss, but never have I cried myself to sleep with tears of joy. Until last night.

Hope. Change. Faith in the power of the people. All of these mingled with utter disbelief that this could really happen. After two stolen presidential elections would I be a fool to believe that a black man-- let lone THIS black man-- could become President of the United States of America? I tried to keep my emotions soft and subtle throughout the election. And I am not known by anyone to harbor soft and subtle emotions. It’s just that the fragility of hoping for a better future for my country kept me cautious. Holding hope in my hand and grasping it too tight could smother it like a soft baby chick, its feathers tantalizingly tickling my skin. And yet, here we are glowing with the knowledge that we took our country back from the radical forces bent on robbing us of every last twinkle of hope.

The café where I sit is buzzing—not with words so much as pure joy. I am a stranger here, now, but once was a BWOC (Big Woman on Campus). I lived in Ann Arbor for 15 years and have visited regularly for ten more since moving away. I was a politician and activist and lecturer at the University—but that was a long time ago. So this new generation is walking, no--floating, through the café, grins showing teeth and contentment. Some of them are too young to fully realize what has happened-their joy is fresh and frolicky. Several of us weathered ones nod knowingly at each other as if to make this happiness seal the bonds born of efforts that failed too many times before. But I am basking in both kinds of joy; truly letting the collective glow bathe me this beautiful morning.

As soon as I thought she’d be waking, I sent a text message to my 11 year- old granddaughter to tell her the election results. She texted: “Oh Hi Grandma. What were the scores? At school Obama won 287 to 59.” She attends an “inner city” school in Schenectady, so she was a bit underwhelmed with the results of 51% to 48%. I texted: “Oprah cried at the rally in Chicago. So did I.” She texted, “Ha Ha Ha…that’s kind of funny.” What did I expect? My parents kept me up very late the night “man” landed on the moon so we could watch the live feed from Mission Control. I remember thinking it was cool but not all that novel, just mildly interesting. At 12 I had come to expect great scientific progress. So Keegan expects that men who look like her friends’ fathers and her family’s friends can indeed easily become President. This is the world I wanted for her-- a world where race simply doesn’t matter so much as does character and community and striving for a social context perfected by our greatest efforts merged with our greatest aspirations.

Yesterday I spent thirteen hours on my feet in front of a polling station in an economically depressed mixed neighborhood in Toledo, OH. My daughter Heather and I volunteered for the Election Protection coalition to inform voters of their rights to cast an unencumbered valid and counted ballot. Such a simple thing, one would hope, might not take Herculean efforts to accomplish. But this is an American electoral system built upon voter suppression. We had some small success climbing over a stupefyingly complex voter registration system that is the IMPROVED version Ohio adopted since the last presidential election was stolen from the people. We also failed miserably at times because the powers-that-be demanded that we stand so far away from the entrance that we practically had to chase voters to give them information. Sheer numbers trumped all of the cynical ploys to stop the people from having their way. Hurray for the human spirit of progress!

I am done with being subtle and soft in my emotions. Crusty from battles lost and so few won, I am inspired more than I ever thought I could be again. I feel that all of the dreams I have harbored then buried without appropriate mourning can come back to life now. Miracles are possible once again in MY America—of whom I am, for once, truly proud.

After Knoxville

2008-07-28T23:45:00.003-05:00

July 28, 2008 after the killing in Knoxville TN

I wasn’t there. All I know is what I have read online and a little snippet here and there on broadcast media. I don’t pretend to know the thoughts or intentions of the people involved in responding to a violent intruder at the UU congregation in Knoxville, TN.

It is hard to grasp the horror of the events, it is tempting to stop paying attention, but to not pay attention would be to fail to honor the dead and the living too. Terror was intentionally inflicted on completely innocent people by a twisted and damaged suffering soul.

Still, I feel as though I witnessed something precious: compassion and love brought fully to life. A force of goodness stood up to and confronted a force of perversity.

The man with the gun wrote a four-page letter in which he admits that he planned a horrible murder/suicide like so many murder suicides we have seen before. But this time, the targeted people said, “No!” to the planned bloodbath. One man is said to have stood in the way of the gun and took a full blast from the shotgun. People acted quickly and calmly pulled loved ones to safety. Others confronted the man with the gun and stopped him from further killing. He did not succeed in committing suicide that day—he was not permitted to kill his body—though one wonders of the condition of his soul, his metaphorical heart, his very sense of self—these he lost some time ago it would seem.

Commentaries on news blogs immediately began to include messages calling for more armed citizens to be ready to respond violently to such attacks. Media coverage following the shooting in the Colorado Springs New Life Church last December lovingly fawned over an attractive volunteer armed security guard. On one occasion she stated, “It seemed like it was me, the gunman and God.” She claimed that god steadied her hand and helped her to shoot the gunman, who then shot himself to death. She praised god for helping her to shoot the gunman. She claimed that fasting and praying for three days just prior to the event led to her ability to do what god wanted her to do. In one news conference she even hinted that god would now find the perfect man for her to marry. I am not making this up. (google Jeanne Assam to learn more about this)

This, dear reader is the difference that liberal religion can make in the world: when confronted with violence, respond with nonviolence—a force greater than a gun, and more reliable than a bullet because you can take it everywhere you go and you never have to stop and reload.

Did the shooter deserve to be saved from suicide? Yes, he did, because he is a human being-- a human who has done a horrendous thing—he willfully and deliberately took two lives, wounded several other people and harmed hundreds psychologically. And yet, the loving thing to do, the compassionate thing to do, was to stop him as soon as possible. And there were men who did just that.

I marvel at the courage it took to accept the force of the blast, the cool wit to spring into action at the first moment, to put the gunman on the floor and hold him there. Was there a temptation to pummel him? To act out of rage and grief as raw as rage and grief can get? Perhaps. Or perhaps, “god” was truly present this time—as opposed to the pseudo-deity invoked when the desire to kill a killer is strong. If the word god can be invoked here at all, it is in the sense that each one of us has divinity inside of us, an absolute an inviolate piece of the wisdom that makes the universe vibrate with the force of life. The men of the TVUUC tapped into the life force and used it for good, for ending the violence, not for the continuation of suffering and misery brought to their sanctuary.

For this I honor and thank them. May we always remember that dignity and love prevailed that Sunday in July---and that hate cannot win when the force of fierce love is given full expression.

May your life be a testament and a blessing.
Valerie

Can Condi!

2008-04-16T14:35:00.002-05:00

Rice must go! She personally advocated torture in the name of the USA. Haven't we had enough? Why are the American people allowing this administration to continue their unlawful, immoral and unethical behavior? They want to be seen as icons of Christian love when nothing similar to Christian love or any other positive moral code guides them.

2008-03-16T17:28:00.001-05:00

Update from Upstate

3/16/08

Rumor has it that winter does not actually last all year in upstate New York, but I am not yet convinced. The ground has been covered in snow and/or ice since late November. Even with a few days in the 40s and lots of recent rain, there are still mounds of ugly muddy ice in our back yard and along the easement between the sidewalks and roadway.

Yesterday Bill and I went to check on our sailboat in “dry storage” at the Great Sacandaga Lake, just 30 miles north. The snow is piled even higher! Dozens of boats nestle together on the shore like schooling fish, each one draped in tarps or custom made canvass covers; a few in dazzling white shrink-wrap. Snow mounds on top of them and between in peaks like tiny Everests. The sunmelt creates deep holes where the deck drains exit the hulls. Buckminster Fuller (Bucky), our new dog, revels in the snow, wriggling around on it the way our farm dogs used to roll in the carcass of a dead armadillo. In his enthusiasm Bucky drags me through the mountains of snow forcing me to step into mounds higher than my boot tops, taking on slushy wetness. After falling to my knees, I decide that though he’s terrible on-leash, he is well-enough trained to come when we call, so I release the leash. In a flash he’s beyond our reach traversing huge drifts we could never navigate on foot—and then he’s on the frozen lake, but the lake is melting at the edges and is too thin to support him. We call his name encouraging him to shore but he chooses the most dangerous path and is soon crashing through the ice and then pulling himself up and crashing through again. I think of the polar bears drowning at sea due to human arrogance. I think of our last dog, Petey, dying in our arms just before Thanksgiving after darting in front of a car. I think I am the stupidest human companion a dog could have. I should have noticed the thin ice edges and should have known he’d be compelled to run. We call his name to encourage him and scream for him to come to us. I think I should jump in to pull him to safety, but quickly enough I realize that’s not wise either. He makes it to shore, shakes the water from his coat and shivers his way back to the car on-leash again while we trudge along in stunned silence. I try not to think about an alternate ending to the little drama at the lakeside and feel tremendous gratitude for the feisty attitude Bucky brings to each moment. Because we were planning to do it anyway, we shop at Target later to buy Bucky a pad for his crate but we also buy several new toys and a much more elegant, lofty bed than we would have purchased before “the lake incident.” Neither Bill nor I talk about our fears, grief over the loss of Petey being still tender and raw. But the charge card total tells the story: guilt money.

I stay away from the Unitarian Universalist milieu except that I preached a couple of times in December. Before Christmas a colleague invited me to her church on Long Island but I showed up at the wrong place, eventually arriving at the correct location just in time to deliver the sermon. What sweet and patient congregation and minister they were! Then after Xmas another colleague accepted my solicitation of an offer to preach at his church in Carbondale, IL. Nathan, our 23 year-old, lives in Carbondale right now, so I figured I’d make an excuse to visit him. It was good to touch base with an old buddy from seminary and to see where our kid lives. (He still has the messiest bedroom I can imagine!) The added bonus to that trip: a visit to the actual honest-to-goodness geodesic dome R. Buckminster Fuller built and inhabited while teaching at Southern Illinois University. Boards are rotting and the fence is leaning over, the whole house is encased by a second dome of plastic sheeting to keep the weather at bay, but for my money, the visit was better than seeing the Sistene Chapel or the Taj Mahal!
I made one trip to DC last fall for anti-war mobilization and saw Huti Reynolds there! There is a lovely small peace group here called Schenectady Neighbors for Peace, part of Peace Action. They create unique demonstrations and hold regular vigils, but as many of you can imagine, I prefer institutional peace-making. At a recent planning meeting I floated the idea of a Peace House, which generated some interest. We’ll be looking into the possibilities.

After months of searching for a job in social work or chaplaincy and finding nothing promising, I recently accepted an entry-level position (I have three more college degrees than the job requires) as an advocate for domestic violence victims with the YWCA. It is good work to be doing despite earning the lowest income of my entire work history- in constant dollars, less then I made straight out of HS. The YWCA is only two blocks from our house and has been an important community presence since the 1930s when single women were entering the workforce at GE and American Locomotive in great numbers. They still provide SRO rooms at very low cost to women in need, as well as providing a wide range of community services. Last fall the YWCA tried to garner neighborhood support to use one of their buildings to house a cutting-edge prison deferral program for women nonviolent offenders with children. Concerned neighbors began producing angry fliers and letters to the editor condemning the idea of female “convicts” living among our historic homes. I spoke in favor of the program at a public hearing and was quoted (accurately!) in the local paper. (Maybe that’s why the YW hired me to work for them?) Unfortunately the Zoning Board of Appeals voted to refuse the occupancy permit needed.

We joined a CSA again (community supported agriculture) to practice living on local food, continue to explore alternative energy options for heating and powering our drafty old house, joined the Neighborhood Watch to take a bite outta crime and the neighborhood association www.historicstockade.com to learn about and protect the intriguing history of our area. We have season tickets for the 260- seat Schenectady Civic Players in the neighborhood (housed in an old Masonic Temple) and can walk to a Broadway level theater and a multiplex.

AND politics in NY has suddenly become quite lively now that we found out our governor Eliot “Mr. Clean” “Eliot Ness” “The Sheriff of Wall Street” Spitzer had a zipper problem. But hey! in the morning we will inaugurate the fourth black governor in these United States and perhaps the first blind person to rise to such a high office. I’m actually looking forward to the fall general election but crave a respite from the mud-slinging Democratic Primary. It is almost enough to make me think about voting for Nader again. Just kidding.

Peace, love, abiding friendship,
Valerie

How to reach me directly

2008-03-12T05:55:00.002-05:00

To send me a personal email, you can use the comment feature of the blog to reply to any post. None of the comments you write get automatically posted to the blog--I moderate them first and decide if the comment can get posted (read back into the archives if you are curious about why this is necessary). If you would like a direct reply to your comment, include YOUR email address, snail mail address, or phone number in the body of the the comment you write and I will correspond with you that way.

I hope I'll hear from more readers!

Thanks,
Valerie

A Favorite Rabindranath Tagore Poem for Sheryl

2008-03-12T05:49:00.002-05:00

congratulations!
And if this isn't the poem you were looking for...let me know.
I hope the wedding (and the marriage) is a dream come true, enjoy!

It is for the union of you and me
that there is light in the sky.
It is for the union of you and me
that the earth is decked in dusky green.

It is for the union of you and me
that night sits motionless with the world in her arms;
dawn appears opening the eastern door
with sweet murmurs in her voice.

The boat of hope sails along on the currents of
eternity towards that union,
flowers of the ages are being gathered together
for its welcoming ritual.

It is for the union of you and mc
that this heart of mine, in the garb of a bride,
has proceeded from birth to birth
upon the surface of this ever-turning world
to choose the Beloved.

—RABINDRANATH TAGORE
(tr. INDU DUTT)

Reactivating the blog

2008-02-02T13:18:00.000-06:00

For those of you who sometimes check my blog, I thank you for believing that there might be something there to read. It is not that I have been too busy to write, quite the contrary, I've been too idle to have anything to say! But I am back on track now, re-energized, getting out more and am ready to write. I will be posting from time to time again. Thanks for checking in.

Nice to see that Rudy gave up on his run for the presidency. Saves the USA a heap of embarrassment! But of course the crazy season is still on and will only get worse as the year unfolds. I mean when ANNE COULTER essentially endorses Hilary Clinton, you know politics is fixin' to be fun again!!! If only Molly Ivins were alive to make a comment on that development!

peace,
Valerie

A little motivation for 2008

2007-09-06T13:28:00.000-05:00

Here's a clip of Brave New Films' new film about "The Real Rudy Giuliani." This is a must-see to motivate your active involvement in the 2008 elections.

US Empire-building 50s style

2007-07-27T07:11:00.000-05:00

I ran across this video and thought you might also be interested in knowing more about U.S. history---especially the history that never gets taught in our public schools. I'll bet the people of Guatemala remember.

The Revolution Starts NOW

2007-04-26T09:19:00.000-05:00

This post is an outline for a powerpoint presentation I have been developing and presenting for congregations interested in enhancing their social justice mission.

THE REVOLUTION STARTS NOW!
April 13, 2007 (last date presented)

OVERVIEW
> “Saving the babies in the river.”
> Keeping the babies safe and warm.
> Assessing your programs.

THE PARABLE OF SAVING THE BABIES IN THE RIVER
Saving babies = social service
- Necessary and compelling
- Tangible results
- High satisfaction, high recognition
- Work never ends
- Results can be measured
- Grant money available
- Partnering with other groups
- High profile for congregation
- Low conflict, usually
- …….what else?

PREVENTING THE BABIES FROM FALLING INTO THE RIVER
Prevention = social justice
- Need to understand big picture, systems
- Ongoing assessment, adjustment
- Coalitions necessary
- Disagreements frequent
- Potential congregational conflict
- Dangerous political waters
- Pure victories rare
- Results may or may not be tangible, measurable
- Transformation results when conditions of justice are achieved

ASSESSING YOUR PROGRAMS

Service or Justice? (both!)
- Individual / Group
- Crisis / Systemic
- Private / Public
- Bandage / Cure
- Few active / Many needed
- Present / Past & future
- React / Plan

Moving Toward Justice
(without giving up on service)
- Process, process, process
- Action-reflection cycle
Plan > Act > Reflect > Adjust plan > Act
- Learning to follow
- Spiritual reflection to deepen
- Personal growth strengthens
- Allies, collaborators, partners, cooperatives, community

QUALITY INDICATORS
INCREASED…..
¸ Frequency of reflective assessment
¸ Discussion of spiritual underpinnings of actions
¸ Turnover of leadership
¸ New activists
¸ Staff support
¸ Success!
DECREASED…..
¸ Conflict avoidance
¸ Xenophobia
¸ Hierarchy of oppressions
¸ Hoarding of power, resources
¸ Isolation
¸ Demand for single-focus
¸ Hopelessness

Child Soldiers

2007-01-22T08:26:00.000-06:00

Following a story about the building of a local version of the Young Marines program in the Sunday Tulsa World paper, I sent this letter to the editor. I'll let you know if it gets printed.

Dear Editor;

Reading of the indoctrination of young boys and girls in the Young Marines program (Tulsa World, January 21, 2007) assaulted my religious and civic sensibilities. Of what use is engaging children in paramilitary training? Why, to prepare them to be the next generation of holy warriors of empire-building! Get them young and train them right. At a time when adult men and women are rejecting the overtures of military recruiters en masse, there is only one refuge left for the recruiters, stealing the gentle hearts and minds of the children. And to name the brigade after a dead soldier---so much the better. This way we inspire not analysis and interpretation of the geo-political context of the death of that soldier, but rather persuade the children toward a desire to emulate the glorious mythology of war—that you will be remembered fondly after you are sacrificed--- and for what? Weapons of mass deception? Make no mistake. Capturing the hearts and minds of vulnerable children is necessary for the making of crusades and empire building. Should our society truly wish to build character and discipline among our children we might instead choose to teach our children well in the arts of mediation, conflict resolution, self-respect and honoring of the sanctity of all life. When Americans view child conscripts among the many world conflicts we shudder and feel revulsion, but when we see the same on the pages of our hometown newspaper we are expected to utter cooing words of affection for the glowing ruddy cheeks of the tiny soldiers. Preparing children to become potential killers who blindly follow orders and vow to protect each other at any cost is nothing less than despicable. Now that we know where the new warriors are being trained, tell us, where are the bands of peacemakers being trained?

Rev. Valerie Mapstone Ackerman
Director, Peace House-Tulsa

The Baby and the Bathwater: How the Dalai Lama Brought Me Back to Jesus

2006-12-16T22:48:00.000-06:00

Because of a disagreement over tithing (couldn’t afford to tithe AND feed the kids, my Dad told the pastor), my parents resigned their church membership sometime after my 3rd birthday. My brothers and I were permitted to attend Vacation Bible School with our cousins or with friends. We could go to any church anytime we were invited, but my parents would never step foot in a church except for weddings and funerals. At home there was no mention of God or Jesus. So wounded were my parents by their dispute with an unkind Brethren minister that it would be over 35 years before they attended a Sunday service--- and that would be to hear me preach.
In my eleventh year, I began attending the United Church of Christ when the minister, my kindly next-door-neighbor, invited me. I attended faithfully absorbing the lessons and enjoying the fellowship of my classmates. The Rev. Strine baptized me as I sat on our family’s worn-out couch because my parents wouldn’t go to church and he wanted their participation. At the last minute four of my five brothers squeezed in and received the sacrament with me. After two years of catechism classes I joined the church. I never missed Sunday worship, volunteering to serve as acolyte every chance I got. There was something deeply soulful in the process of choosing the least tattered burgundy robe, pulling up the whispering cloth-covered zipper, then slowly carrying the flame forward to light the candles as the organist softly played the processional.
Adolescence and Vietnam ruined it all. I no longer trusted ANY authority figures, argued constantly about politics and religion with my father—sending my mother fleeing from the kitchen in tears. My dad, no intellectual slouch, challenged me to read the Bible to prove my points. So I did. And so ended my relationship with Christianity.
I picked up my mother’s leather bound zippered Bible on the last day of school in early June, read straight through from Genesis to Revelation, finishing on Labor Day around dusk. Labor Day was THE holiday in our working-class home. Friends and relatives gathered at our house for the local parade, eating, drinking, and reveling at the Manor Volunteer Fire Department fundraising fair. And so with a large audience I walked into the kitchen carrying that Bible, zipped it closed with great force and slammed in on the table proclaiming that the messed up world was proof enough that Christianity was a bunch of BS.
I spent high school advocating atheism and condemning all organized religion. One day during a social studies discussion on world religions a sweet fellow struck me on the head with his Bible, shouting for Satan to leave me. David’s display of faith only gave me a forum to claim that atheists were morally superior to Christians since I would never strike him for any reason. My Christian friends would invite me over to listen endlessly to the soundtracks of “Jesus Christ Superstar” and “Godspell” hoping this would have the effect of conversion.
Perhaps hundreds of well-meaning students and teachers in my public high school regularly prayed for me but it was of no use. I could no longer read the scripture and accept it literally. I was not yet ready to understand the power of metaphorical language. I knew nothing of biblical scholarship. I knew only the intellectual inconsistency of the language of faith and the actions of the self-proclaimed faithful.
Not until I landed in the basement of a Unitarian Universalist church many years later did I have any hope of finding a pathway to a mature faith. As a devoted activist for women’s rights, economic justice and anything else liberal, I had several times attended meetings hosted at the UU church in Ann Arbor. Usually we came and went via a door leading directly to the social hall, thereby avoiding contact with “the church” itself. One day I had occasion to pass by a pamphlet rack and saw “The Faith of a Humanist.” I read that pamphlet as a thirsty person would drink. I brought it home to my spouse. He had the same reaction. We had been married by a humanist rabbi in Pittsburgh but couldn’t find a similar connection in Michigan. Here it was in a CHURCH!
As I tentatively explored religious life once again, I still bristled at the language of faith. Little by little a transformation took place allowing me to set aside generational pain relating to Christianity, opening my mind and heart to the use of metaphorical language. The figure of Jesus, still a problem for me, sometimes afforded a good laugh. My Jewish spouse didn’t always recognize the guy. Bill collected carved wooden folk art during his travels. Once, on a business trip to South America, Bill brought back a beautiful bust of a man with long hair and a beard. When I pointed out that this was a bust of the Christ he was flabbergasted. “Is not! It’s just a hippie!” he insisted, annoyed. “Trust me on this. The crown of thorns gives it away every time,” I replied.
The crown of thorns, Jesus on the cross, the suffering death and resurrection provided no sustenance to me. Trying to reconcile my nominally Christian upbringing with the Humanist/Jewish/Unitarian Universalist household in which we raised our children plagued me. I felt that I had to throw the baby Jesus out with the bathwater.
Silly idea throwing the baby out with the bathwater, but it is full of richness for an understanding of my struggle. The trappings of virgin birth, singular human perfection, bodily resurrection—all of the supernaturalism, dogma and doctrine resided with Jesus in my mind and all of it had to go. Imagine me washing my hands and dusting off my sandals.
Then I met the Fourteenth Dalai Lama. By virtue of being on the board of trustees of my UU congregation, I obtained several tickets for excellent seats in a large auditorium to hear two talks by His Holiness. (The congregation was given the tickets to thank us for allowing monks in the entourage to sleep on the church floor.) My spouse and I were seated front and center so it took quite some time to weave our way out of the building and onto the now empty street following the lecture. Walking back toward our car, we stopped to wait for a black car to exit a driveway. As the car approached our spot on the sidewalk, the rear window lowered and the Dalai Lama appeared, leaned out of the window, smiled and waved at us. The details of the words he had spoken earlier fell away from me and were replaced by the most amazing sense of well-being and peace-- an intense embodiment of his words.
The next night, the second session was to be devoted to an elaborate ceremony—the primary reason a local Buddhist group had invited the exiled Tibetan leader. The Dalai Lama spoke for some time both via his translator and directly in excellent English when he gently disagreed with the translation. Eventually he settled in a section of the stage elaborately arranged with thrones and pillows. He placed a silk scarf around his neck and raised his arms as if to begin the ritual. Abruptly, he dropped his arms and sighed. He apologized to the host Buddhists (all seated far away in the back balcony) explaining their desire for the ceremony was so strong that he felt he would be doing them a disservice by presenting it. Their intense desire for the ceremony was the antithesis to the practice of Buddhism, he told them. One could hear the sounds of disappointment— waves of gasps and sighs and even some crying out. After a brief exposition on the ritual His Holiness proceeded to offer a teaching that became the source of my faith restoration. He said outward displays of religious sentiment are meaningless. Real faith, he told us, resides within our hearts and is expressed singularly through our acts that relieve suffering for all sentient beings. He told us to practice faith, however derived, as a method of deepening one’s commitment to living an honorable life. Use ritual as a means to sustaining one’s faithfulness to ending suffering, he cautioned, NOT as an end in itself.
Over those two evenings, I had nothing short of a conversion. I was not converted to Buddhism, nor was I converted to Christianity. I was converted to a living faith. As months and years passed I remained free to reexamine the stories from the Christian Scriptures listening for the teachings of Jesus rather than the worship of him. And the teachings flooded back into my consciousness. Practice love. Practice kindness. Withhold harsh judgment. Return love for hate. Honor elders. Spread hope. Care for the poor and the oppressed. Visit those in prison. Keep a pure faith. Worry less about “the law” and more about the practice of compassion. Do not mistake worldly goods for worthiness. Be ready for good things to happen. Love life.
Behold! The universal language of living faith had been there all along, obscured by accretions of religion abused through centuries of oppression, misused power and stifling patriarchy. The bathwater of dogma and doctrine swirled down the drain. Baby Jesus, the icon of hope remained. The Great Teacher, Rabbi Jesus, an incarnation of lovingkindness, remained. The stories men say he told held hidden wisdom if only I would pay attention. Now I am free to explore again.
Recovering Jesus from fundamentalist and literalist reading liberates me to open my intellect, my heart and my spirit to deepening practices of faith. Ritual no longer seems contrived or trite, but holds promise as the practice of lighting the candles on the altar of my childhood church had so many years ago. There is no need to limit the soul’s inquiry.
The message the Dalai Lama offered those two nights was not a new message. He has written about the same ideas repeatedly as have others such as Thich Nhat Hanh and Marcus Borg. I am perhaps late to be getting the message, finally, but I will always remain grateful for the presence of absence the night the ritual didn’t happen. The night that faith became real and freedom entered my soul. Meeting the Dalai Lama on the street was like meeting Jesus again for the first time.

Election Protection

2006-10-31T08:47:00.000-06:00

Coming up to the mid-term elections, I thought you might want to read my abridged journal entry following a two-day volunteer stint with Election Protection in Ohio in 2004:

2004 Election Protection in Toledo Ohio

I REALLY dislike driving, especially alone for long periods of time through heavy rain, but this was an important election and I was not about to sit at home while poor folks had their right to vote questioned so I signed up for a People for the American Way Election Protection assignment. After a drive of precisely 1000 miles over two days, I arrived at the Toledo Ohio Election Protection Coalition (EP) headquarters (HQ) occupying the gymnasium and a classroom of the New Life Center of Bethlehem Baptist Church on Bancroft Street at Auburn in Northeast Toledo. Within sight of the gleaming new building boarded up businesses and homes dotted the neighborhood.

I found about 8 men and women keeping busy with various tasks. The usual campaign chaos spread around the room: computers and phones, newsprint checklists and grids, boxes of t-shirts, stacks of paper fresh from the copiers at Kinko’s, piles of office supplies, used take-out containers, discarded cardboard boxes. Training for 150+ loomed in just 3 hours and the gym had no chairs or tables set up. T-shirts needed to be sorted by size, a check-in table organized, poll volunteer supply boxes needed to be completed, and stacks of handouts collated. In spite of these pending tasks the Site Leader said, “Oh there really isn’t much work I can offer you, you might want to go tour the city or take a nap somewhere.” This was a BAD sign. Just looking around I knew there was more work than the crew at hand could possibly accomplish. Thankfully, more experienced organizers arrived and sent us forward to get things in place. We finished just as the first volunteers arrived.

“Training” was disjointed, reflecting that the leadership group had been perhaps too busy to coordinate well? Or couldn’t agree? Or just didn’t plan well? It became clear that the Lead Lawyer was a little too full of self-importance and also clear that the African American women organizers carried the weight of considerable experience compared to the young white woman assigned to be the Site Leader. The Site Leader refused to allow everyone who wanted a poll shift to sign up, insisting we had more than enough volunteers. The volunteers to be trained were restless and a little annoyed, but in the end they ate lots of donated pizza and departed with sheaves of paper and heads full of cautious optimism for Tuesday.

I caught a few hours of sleep in my granddaughter’s bed an hour’s drive away in Ann Arbor. By 5:30 AM I was back at HQ. Off into deep rainy darkness through Toledo city streets approximately 50% of the street lights didn’t function. Funny thing, when we passed through an upper middle class neighborhood, all of the lights were working. Andy, a sweet Jewish woman, my partner for the morning, begged for a coffee stop since for some reason the HQ workers had only purchased decaf. I don’t use caffeine and don’t drink coffee, but I am pretty sure this was a terrible mistake in planning!

As we pulled up to the Keyser Elementary School on Hill Street at 6:10 AM we could see a parking lot already full of cars, two entrances (the EP HQ had planned for only one entrance) and about 40 people in line for the 6:30 opening of the polls. By 7:00 there were 100-150 in line and by 7:15 voters reported chaos inside. People were leaving without voting, needing to get to work and not knowing whether or not they’d have another chance to vote. The scanners had ceased working and voters were being encouraged to leave their marked ballots in the “emergency slot” trusting that poll workers would scan them later. Three precincts (6N, 6G, 6H) vote in the gym, but few voters knew which precinct line to get in. In addition, the signage was terrible so people were standing in long lines only to be told they were in the wrong place. Sometimes the voter interpreted this to mean that they were in the wrong location altogether, not just the wrong line. We began intercepting disgruntled voters and helping them to figure out where to go. A volunteer from Kerry’s campaign had a magic book that located precincts and voting locations. The school employees arrived, directed by the school principal to park on the soggy lawn. Teachers handed out voter guides to school tax issues and offered hot drinks to the partisans and to us, the officially neutral. We spent almost an hour on the cell phone reporting trouble to our mobile lawyer team and pleading for extra volunteers to work both entrances. I couldn’t help but recall that so many willing and able volunteers were turned away the night before. The only sign of Republican advocacy all morning was the mid-sized sedan with a Bush bumper sticker that crept slowly through the lot while the passenger snapped pictures of everyone.

The principal and vice-principal began helping to direct voters and eventually helped to post signs inside that would clear up some of the confusion. At one point, the lawyers asked me to go into the polling area to assess some details. I found out that the poll workers were in over their heads, that they also thought that the set-up was abysmal and that they resented that they were not permitted by the Election Board to do more to fix the problems. They said they felt under-trained and under-supported. Voters reported inconsistent handling of ballots among the three precincts and this made folks very nervous about the legitimacy of the election. We needed to stay in frequent contact with both HQ and our field lawyers to answer voter questions. Roving volunteers showed up regularly to offer us supplies, to take our complaint forms back to HQ and to do coffee runs.

A middle-aged black man had tears in his eyes as he walked past us. One of us asked if everything went OK inside (that was our standard approach). He came back and asked if we could hear his “confession” I joked, “well I AM a minister.” He said he wanted us to know that he had voted for the first time in his life---could have voted for Carter the first time, he told us—making him at least my age (47). He said this was the first time he realized that someone would make sure his rights would be protected and thanked us for being there.

One of our approaches to the voters was to offer a voter’s bill of rights guide. Several black men and women of a certain age laughed and said things like, “Oh don’t worry, there is no one who can prevent me from voting ever again.” Unfortunately it is possible to intimidate and at least inconvenience others. Several young black women with children in tow had to leave because irate employers would not be understanding about being late due to voting problems. We estimated that 25+ left without voting at this precinct in the morning. Many said they knew they could not return as this was their only chance to vote. Some said they would return. We have no way of knowing if they came back. Because I was at the same poll again in the evening I can tell you I didn’t see any of them at the entrance I worked.

Relieved by a troupe of (temporarily) dry younger men and women, Andy and I took off to HQ. Andy joined her spouse and went home but I was ready for more, so I got busy with important things like appointing myself OSHA inspector. There were massive extension cords traversing the gym floor waiting to trip some little old lady to offer up a broken hip so I dug around in the trunk of my husband’s car and found some duct tape. (Bill always sends me off well-prepared for emergencies!) Cords secured, my next assignment was much more interesting. Would I be willing to go to a nearby polling place to investigate a “situation”? Sure I would! Seems that a county election board worker named Ray physically assaulted one of our volunteers. Police had been called, but we needed to know more.

Five minutes drive away I arrived in a “transitional” neighborhood. Well-kept homes intermingled with well-worn ones. A beautiful park and stately homes sat within view, probably NOT in the same precinct, my guess. The church polling site provided excellent access to voters as they arrived. Everyone on foot or in car had to run the gauntlet of Kerry supporters on one side and Election Protection volunteers on the other. I found the young woman who had the much too close encounter, introduced myself and asked for her side of the story. She was a European American from the neighborhood who has lots of friends of other backgrounds. She specifically chose that polling site and was well-known to the folks coming to vote, primarily young black voters and elderly white ones. Because Ray was well-known in the neighborhood as a racist, several first-time women voters had expressed concern for their safety at the poll. One woman asked for assistance inside and so our EP volunteer went in as is appropriate and allowable by law. A poll worker named Ray told her she had to leave. When she protested he shoved her hard enough to cause her to lose her footing. She claimed he was spouting racist bile all the while. She was not physically hurt, but she and the other young white EP volunteers were very angry and somewhat belligerent.

Taking off my NAACP Election Observer baseball cap, I went inside asking for Ray and was directed to an older white man in a plaid shirt. Our conversation was not the easiest I ever had. I introduced myself, apparently impressing him with the Rev. part because he seemed very willing to offer a confessional attitude. He admitted that “these” people acted as though voting was a cause for celebration, that they brought cell phones and answered them and talked loudly and greeted each other raucously. Didn’t they know that this was serious business? And that woman I pushed, you know, the well, really big blonde? That’s how I want to say it, really big. She had no business partying with “these” people.” Asked more about the partying remark, Ray went on, “They were laughing and talking too loud. So I threw her out on her a__. But I let that woman, the negro woman vote.” I murmured some words of compassion, “Must be hard to do this work…” “Oh I have been doing this for 20 – 30 years so has that woman,” pointing to a tiny elder white woman, “And we never had any trouble until they came and changed everything about 10 years ago.” At some point in the conversation, to emphasize a point, Ray starting jabbing his finger into my chest. Actually into my breast. I moved his hand higher up without pushing him away and still he didn’t take the cue that he might want to stop poking me. I kept listening to him vent about how horrible “these” voters are. When he seemed ready to slow down and grow calmer I asked if he thought it would be possible for him to be more welcoming to the voters even if they weren’t his kind of people. “After all, “ I said, “Election day should be a cause for celebration. It seems the church encourages that by having the bake sale and rummage sale right in the same room as the voting booths.” “Oh, yeah, they shouldn’t be allowed to do that either. The “old church never did.” (formerly a mainline Christian church the space was now home to a Pentecostal congregation) More commiserating, “Things change.” “Yeah, well I don’t have to like it.” “No. you don’t but you do have to behave with a certain amount of tolerance.” More poking, escalating again. This time I stopped him and asked if maybe poking people might be considered offensive and I poked him on the shoulder as I said it. He said, “I poked you and you weren’t offended.” “Well I’ve been trained not to react to such things. Most people would be more than offended. Some call the police.” “Well the cops didn’t cart me away,” he trumpeted, “They’re stuck with me now and I am not going anywhere.” The whole time we talked, my line of sight took in Ray’s co-worker who pleaded with her eyes and with hand gestures to get him out of here. I asked if he could step aside to talk with me more, but a third election worker insisted he couldn’t leave. Ray then said “Hey, I’d be happy to leave if there was a replacement for me.” I apologized for the interruption and thanked the workers for their time and effort to make a free and fair election possible. The woman rolled her eyes and shook her head. I told Ray I’d see if I could get the Lucas County Election Board to help find a replacement.

The Republican and Democrat Site Challengers followed me to the exit where we conferred about Ray. The Republican was not willing to suggest that Ray was acting from a racist point of view, but he was willing to say he was too aggressive and then he agreed he’d watch over things. The Democrat went outside with me and thanked me for treating Ray with respect even though he didn’t earn it. “I couldn’t believe you let him poke you!” Oh yeah, takes more than poking to get to me.

Back outside I conferred with the EP volunteers and asked them to do two things: take their NAACP caps off when they re-enter the building and find a way to have compassion for the racists. This was not well-received by the belligerent white women. I tried to explain that THEY weren’t the ones who would suffer the most wrath, their black friends and neighbors were and until we could neutralize the “Ray effect’ he would continue to find reasons to harass voters. Their righteous indignation was justifiable, but not helpful in the short run, I told them. The compassion comment was completely outside of their spiritual understanding. My suggestions that compassion has the power to heal was laughed at and then ridiculed. Oh well, it takes two to act up I guess.

Feeling that I didn’t necessarily help much, I went back to HQ and reported to Cheryl and Willa Mae from NAACP. Willa Mae got on the phone to Lucas County Election Board and reported that Racist Ray was willing to be replaced. Wheels were set in motion, but it turned out that no one was able to persuade him to leave the premises even after extra workers were sent in. (Apparently it is hard to find local Republican poll workers in some neighborhoods and balance IS required by law) Even the Mayor paid a visit to the site and couldn’t get action. On a later visit, I found some more seasoned EP volunteers in place and found that they thought things had settled down quite a bit.,. though Ray was still there.

Early afternoon at HQ, I answered some phones, did some problem-solving and helped enter a list of complaints in a database
Among the list of complaints Toledo Election Protection and NAACP fielded;
• Ballots ran out, voters being asked to use provisional ballots instead.
• Machines not scanning ballots (many sites reported this and several reported repeated problems)
• Insufficient #2 pencils available, and voters being told to use anything therefore voters unsure if votes were recorded by scanners.
• Ballot tabs being handled improperly (throws off tracking of spoiled ballots vs. recorded ballots, we discovered.)
• LONG lines up to four hour wait, voters leaving before voting (estimated in the hundreds in Toledo alone)
• When scanning machines are reset after breakdowns, the number of votes recorded starts at zero. (What happened to the votes previously recorded?)
• Because most voters only know where to vote and don’t know their precinct number and letter, confusion and frustration ensued when multiple precincts vote in same building. No employee was available to help people get into the correct lines.
• No parking available within reasonable walking distance.
• People being told to change clothes or being ejected if they had “political” shirts on, even those without candidate names (“No war” “Vote or Die” “Gay Rights” )

I finished the afternoon with another assignment from Cheryl from NAACP who asked me to fulfill a request from the Lead Lawyer to take on a “wild goose chase” (her words) to obtain a filing of a lawsuit somebody (we didn’t know who) filed against somebody (again, who or what?) on some urgent election matter (don’t know) in Federal District Court (that we knew!) I inquired about the law students I had heard were in the midst and quickly found Carla, an impeccably dressed stately African American woman in black alligator cowboy boots. Her online research skills being excellent, Carla quickly found not only the names involved but how to obtain the paper copy and also the precise location of the courthouse, photo included. As we left the courthouse with the filing in hand, lawyers were running up the stairs, prepared to argue the case. As tempting as it was to turn around and listen in, we headed back to the HQ. I will always treasure listening to Carla read the brief out loud with dry and sometimes biting analysis thrown in as I drove us back to HQ.

Back at HQ again, I tried watching CSPAN but couldn’t sit still. Eventually I got hungry and couldn’t eat the food provided at HQ (food allergies) so I went off in search of a decent salad, which I found in a funky coffee house in an unlikely strip mall. CNN on TV and sitar player in the corner. Good vibe.

Returning in plenty of time for my evening shift and finding the AKA ladies (a black sorority) serving dinner I took pictures of them with their cameras. By this time the full ruling from the afternoon lawsuit was available but I noticed poll watch volunteers were already deploying to the polls without having been briefed about the changes. I asked the Prima Donna California Lead Lawyer if she was planning to inform the volunteers. No, she said, I can’t get them organized (that was SO true). Eventually she deigned to allow me to organize the remaining volunteers into a circle to hear about the late breaking court ruling and a rule change by the election board. The court allowed that those who had attempted to vote absentee but who had not received the requested ballot COULD go to their regular polling site and cast a provisional ballot. The County Election board had no mechanism for alerting their poll workers of this development. Although EP media people tried to get the word out to voters through radio and TV, it was unclear whether this had taken place (estimates were that 60,000 Lucas County voters had not received their duly requested ballots). In addition, in a rule change, the Lucas County Election Board had agreed to stop forcing provisional ballots on people who had changed their address within the precinct or within the county. Instead they would simply fill out a change of address form and vote with a regular ballot in the precinct where they currently reside. This meant that hundreds if not thousands of the provisional ballots already cast COULD have been cast on regular ballots.

I finished out the evening witnessing a much slower rate of voting at the same chaotic poll I worked in the morning. Apparently the shift change at the nearby Jeep Assembly Plant caused a huge influx of voters from 3-4pm. By our 5:00 arrival things had slowed to a trickle making the lines manageable. While the rain continued as it had all day, Democratic Party volunteers arrived with food and hot drinks for their volunteers. They offered us the same. Earlier we had been admonished to refrain from “being too friendly” with the Democrats but hey, there were no Republicans to fraternize with! By dark, we were in a festive mood and had lots of fun chatting with voters before and after they voted. Even the poll workers and the sheriff had become friendly by evening and took their breaks by visiting with us.

At 7:25 a woman came dashing out of the building saying she needed proof of address. She arrived back at 7:32, two minutes past the closing time. Against the advice of the Democratic Party lawyer then present I pounded on the door begging that she be allowed to cast her vote. The poll workers relented and allowed her to go back in, but it turned out that she had moved between counties and couldn’t cast a vote anyway. She promised to make sure she had her registration in order for the next election, thanked us profusely and asked if we could explain the electoral college system which had always confused her. American Civics lesson over, we packed up and headed back to HQ.

Election Protection helped countless people access their right to vote in Ohio. So did the Democratic Party. Although we know of hundreds of pre-emptive voter challenges prior to November 2, I observed only one incident of an official direct Republican challenge of a voter on election day. Jimmie and Jay, European American brothers, one a gang member, the other fresh from Federal prison, were first time voters at ages 19 and 20. They were both doubtful that they were duly registered mainly because they never received confirming registration cards. They lingered so long outside I finally asked if they were ready to vote. They admitted that they needed help and so I agreed to accompany them. After the poll worker affirmed their registration and gave a cursory lesson in filling out the ballot, they were both still confused. I asked if I could take them aside to show them the sample ballot. We got the OK. Jimmie was so excited to learn that he could write in votes he almost threw away the chance to vote for his favorite presidential candidate in favor of writing his brother’s name. Both said they didn’t plan to vote for any of the questions on the ballot since they hadn’t studied them. I urged them to just read through the language and then decide. Jay said something mumbled. I gently moved in close and asked if either one needed help with reading. Jay said, “I don’t understand what I read. Only got to the 7th grade and have been in jail mostly since then.” I then approached the poll worker to ask how to obtain reading assistance for Jay. By this time the Republican and Democratic challengers noticed my presence and the Republican politely but firmly objected to me helping them or even being in the building. My training and the law supported my being there, but I was more interested in assuring that Jay got help rather than BEING the help. The poll worker firmly stated that the protocol suggested that two poll workers from opposite parties would sit with Jay to help him. The Republican insisted that it was impossible that this young man was illiterate since he had signed his name. I thought about arguing, but instead simply stated, “Well, you need to do what you need to do. And the poll worker gets to decide, right?” I carefully bowed out at that point. Later the Democrat came outside, with tears in his eyes to thank me for handling both the young men and the Republican “with such respect.” Jimmie and Jay practically floated back out of the building, shouting, “Kerry! Kerry!” We had to admonish them from advocacy in front of other voters so close to the poll entrance. They kept chatting for a long time, sharing so much of their lives with the two ministers at the door (me and an Episcopal minister from Boston). Both said they really were afraid that Bush would send them over to Iraq to kill and perhaps be killed. Jimmie revealed that he voted to ban gay marriage. Jay loudly admonished him, saying, “I don’t care who loves who. Don’t hurt me none.” Jimmie said he hadn’t thought too much about it and now wished he had just left it blank because though he was raised to “hate queers” he really agreed that gay marriage doesn’t hurt anyone. Then Jay said he wished he HAD voted on the questions to cancel out his dumb brother! Good brotherly ribbing. I felt deeply grateful for the time spent listening to these young men; men trying hard to find maturity and hope in the face of poverty and war.

Do I trust that everything was done in accordance with the law and with concern for ethics? Do I believe that Bush really won this election? No, I don’t. Previous experience as a poll worker informed me how easy it is to corrupt the vote counts accidentally---and that was BEFORE the electronic methods we use now. I know that having fewer ballot scanners than the number needed is a way to frustrate and offend voters especially those who live in the hardship of economic deprivation, people who earn hourly wages under oppressive bosses. Who can assure us that when machines break down, the final count is correct? How do we know that the unscanned ballots left in the emergency slots were in fact counted?

More than anything else, I will take away hope for the future of liberal activism in America. Hundreds of fine and committed people from all over the country converged in Ohio without any compensation other than the knowledge that we tried to save our democracy from corruption. Again.

In hope for peace, with justice,
Valerie Mapstone Ackerman

Progress on making my sermons available.

2006-09-06T00:37:00.000-05:00

So, I acquired the iPod and the microphone that allows me to record. I successfully recorded a sermon. And it automatically transfers to iTunes. Now I just have to figure out how to post it to my blog.
Sigh. Technology boggles my mind.
Stay tuned!

OUR WORST FEARS REALIZED?

2006-09-02T16:26:00.000-05:00

XMAS 2005

[Another little missive from my journal.....What would it mean if we decided that our worst fears were being realized? This question posed by a colleague got me on a rant which I share below. See I told you I'd rant!!]

If we realized that we were unconsciously or neglectfully or distractedly or (perish the thought) willfully complying with the degradation of liberty and justice for all via seamless cooperation between political and corporate power (the new and improved fascism) then maybe, just maybe we would forgo re-runs of Desperate Housewives, remove the earbuds connected to our iPods, turn off Fox News, recycle the Victoria's Secret catalog, step outside the Starbucks, cancel the reservation at Chez Ch-Chi, foreswear another junket to yet another exotic land, donate the SUV to the Girl Scouts, avoid The Mall, renege on the contract to build or buy a McMansion, renew our membership in ACLU, The Interfaith Alliance, Greenpeace, the Sierra Club, PETA, NRDC, Religious Coalition for Reproductive Choice, Pastors for Peace, etc. etc.

In other words, if we noticed that we were supporting and perpetuating astonishing injustice, through inaction and inattention perhaps we would decide to make whatever sacrifices were necessary to change the course of events. Further, if we realized that changing history requires cooperation, concerted effort and deep commitment perhaps we could teach ourselves to follow leaders and teach ourselves to become leaders and learn to recognize the log in our eyes more frequently then we spot the mote in the eye of the other. And then perhaps we could find the necessary compassion to awaken and act in the face of the juggernaut of destruction apace in Washington and our state capitols and our courthouses and city halls. Just a few days ago Congress finalized the game plan for not just shredding the safety net (that began long ago, before the safety net was even off the loom) but replacing it with a wet paper towel. As a nation we have abandoned the young, the poor, the elderly and the disabled systematically, intentionally, heartlessly. We have "channel[ed] all the treasure to the chosen few" (Eliza Gilkyson) by means of worshipping the false idol of "the free market."

Whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, we have abdicated our responsibility to BE the prophets we wish to follow. If we allow ourselves the luxury of concern for the poor and the weak, we sit waiting for Gandhi or King or Jesus or Joan D'Arc or Jane Addams to return. We assail any reasonable facsimile of these great men and women of history (or legend) because we always see first shortcomings or imperfections or weak analysis or pitiful idealism. Too many parish ministers self-censor with one eye on the budget and the other on the wealthy curmudgeon in row two.

UUs love to play the game of naming the great men and women of our history while forgetting that they paid a dear price at the hands of their U or U contemporaries and while also forgetting that the price paid was ALWAYS worth it because nothing good comes of compliance with oppression. Read again MLK's "Why We Can't Wait" and "Letter from the Birmingham Jail" if you need a refresher course in being called to make history happen.

How did the story go?....Thoreau is in jail for nonpayment of a poll tax when his friend (Emerson?) asks why he is there. He says, "The question is why are you out there?" Do we know where we are and why? Are we choosing to see what is before us? And if we have seen, can we still defer doing the grassroots organizing that always has and always will be the source of all change for the better?

MY 2005 TRIP TO CRAWFORD, TX

2006-08-12T09:17:00.000-05:00

Since I can't get away to hang out in TX with other anti-war folks this summer, I thought I'd post my journal entry from last summer. Camp Casey has it's own home now on 5 acres Cindy Sheehan has purchased. This entry reflects the first days of the first encampment--before the neighbors shot at the protesters!

August 19, 2005
(Listening to “Freewheeling Bob Dylan” and “Jerusalem” by Steve Earl)

Last week I sent an email to some peacenik friends to solicit company for a trip to Crawford TX where Gold Star mother, Cindy Sheehan is camping outside the ranch of our vacationing President. No one was available. Friday arriving home late in the evening I found a message waiting for me from Becky B. inquiring whether or not I might wish to join her and Robert on a weekend excursion to give Cindy some love. They would be leaving at 5:00AM, driving the 6-7 hours and then staying over if it seemed appropriate.

Naturally I jumped at the chance but couldn’t sleep much, fearing I’d oversleep. Ever supportive, Bill agreed to drive me to a drop point to meet the B family. Like people much younger than our mid-century ages, we excitedly talked about what we had been doing, making the 7 hour trip fly by (perhaps it seemed longer to Robert who drove all the way.)

Pulling into the thriving metropolis of Crawford, population 705, we immediately spotted both peace supporters and counter protesters. A huge replica of ten commandment tablets sat on one corner of the main crossroads. Across the street a skinny woman in a big sun hat held a sign and pointed the way for “Cindy Supporters.” Just a mile or so down that road we encountered a campground and hundreds of cars, mostly very nice sedans and other middle-class-mobiles. (we were in a Volvo) Peacekeepers waved us to a parking spot just outside the gates of the campground where a rally was underway. As we walked toward the opening we couldn’t help but notice the red truck driving slowly back and forth blaring music which we supposed was meant to annoy us, but it just sounded like any other country song.

We reached the rally just in time to stake out a spot on the grass opening our umbrellas against the scorching Texas sun when a speaker welcomed us to Crawford and apologized for the fire ants and the heat and the president. Sure enough, looking down I found that I was standing among some red ants. Perhaps the ants were pacifists. They didn’t bite. Robert went off, camera in hand to do what he does-take great photos.

The words of the speakers washed over me as I scanned the crowd looking for familiar faces and reading slogans on t-shirts and posters. The crowd included lots of gray hair and lots of hair dyed in exotic colors. I saw two people dressed in ministers’ collars, making me regret that I had not donned mine. Soon that thought passed away as I sweltered in the heat.

Jarred out of my reflections and discomfort, I heard the words of the mother of a soldier named Torres. She was reading his last letter home, a letter to his young wife urging her to take good care of herself and the baby she carried. “Take your vitamins and stay away from smokers.” Soldier Torres’ family stood on the stage in stoic splendor. A little baby perched on a woman’s hip. They thanked US for being there. Thanking us seemed unbelievable until I realized that the only people truly supporting the grieving are the peacemakers. Warmakers keep their distance. After all it is the only way to keep doing what they are doing.

Folksinger Eliza Gilkyson sang some of her searing emotionally powerful songs. She made a detour to Crawford while on tour. (To thank her for that I just bought a couple of her CDs and sent her an email too.) Her song “Man of God” should be the theme for this movement. I called my friend Joni who couldn’t get away and held my cell phone up for her to hear some of the rally and the singing.

Two soldiers, members of Iraq Veterans Against the War spoke about their regret for the acts they were ordered to commit. One young man broke down as he confessed that he can’t live with the fact that he knows that many of the artillery rounds he launched killed children. His buddy placed a tender hand upon his shoulder to lend him the strength to go on. Our soldiers who live are not safe from their own shame and guilt. Killing does that to decent humans. It makes them sorry, but there is no way to undo what was done. I pray that they find peace in their lives again some day.

The pre-rally ended with a speech by a mother of a soldier from New York. She read from a prepared text because her friends said she could get a little out of control without it. After reading the text she said something really funny and yet nasty about the president. I used to like hearing such things, but lately I get uncomfortable turning anyone into the enemy.

We started off to join the caravan over to Camp Casey. But our buddy in the red truck had other ideas. He blocked the road to keep the caravan trapped. Undaunted by his attitude, Becky tied a little yellow ribbon to a tie-down ring on the back of his truck. He tried engaging the crowd in banter and succeeded in attracting one man over to argue with him. Very quickly and quietly a Code Pink woman with a Peacekeeper armband drew the man away from the red truck. Soon after that, the red truck made a really nicely executed three-point turn and disappeared in the opposite direction. We got in the line and apparently bring up the rear, we followed a long line of vehicles sporting peace messages out to the encampment. But we weren’t the rear. Autos continued to arrive the whole time we were at the camp. Sheriff’s deputies enforced very strict rules regarding parking off of the roadway. They even helped to push a woman’s minivan which perhaps died of heat exhaustion. Of course first they threatened to have the vehicle towed because one wheel touched the pavement slightly.

Camp Casey (named for Cindy Sheehan’s son Casey who died on 04/04/04) is located in the ditches lining the country road near Bush’s ranch. 846 crosses, Stars of David and Islamic crescents have been planted along the ditch leading from town toward the camp. The camp consists of tents and tarps, signs and sound trucks strung along a curve where a narrow lane meets Prairie Chapel Road. The curve makes an inviting triangle of green between the roads and one would expect that folks would gather there, but we were prohibited. Supposedly a local woman who owns the swath of land asked the sheriff to keep the peacemakers off of it. I guess the alleged “owner” (clearly this was public right of way space) didn’t ask for the counter-protesters to stay off of it, because the officers didn’t shoo them away or ask them to obey the no-pavement-touching-a-tire rule. For some mysterious reason we were allowed to occupy the narrow lane. We did spot some port-a-johns down the road. Didn’t need them since all of the water we drank was sweated away. Somewhere I read that the Texas Civil Rights Commission put them up as a signal of support for freespeech (I could be wrong about this) I also heard that Air America’s Randi Rhodes sent money to the Crawford Peace House to buy food for the campers.

Code Pink organizer Medea Benjamin paced around the roadway talking into her Bluetooth headset. Ms. Benjamin along with 1000 other women from 150 countries were nominated for the Noble Peace Prize in July. I didn’t recognize anyone else--quite a surprise to me. I was just sure that some of my rabble-rousing friends from around the country would have been there.

Cindy Sheehan spoke in her pleading way, asking the president to justify the death of her son and the children of other mothers. She vowed to camp anywhere Bush vacations or works (that got some laughs) and expressed her hope that he’d go to Bermuda soon. (more laughs) As she spoke a videographer and reporter for NBC stood in front of me deriding her, disparaging the cause and mocking an interview she gave to them that morning. At some point Cindy said something that touched me and I started to cry. I guess I sobbed or something because the reporter turned around and saw me crying. She also started crying and then walked away. I guess the reporter doesn’t have empathy for Cindy, but her humanity could be touched by another crying mother who does have empathy. So sad.

Bill Mitchell whose son was killed on the same day as Casey Sheehan spoke as did other parents of dead soldiers and parents of soldiers who have not yet died. Seemingly without warning the speeches ended and the organizers asked us to disperse. We decided to go home and got a little lost looking for the right road so we detoured back to Crawford. Buying gas in Crawford seemed like the right thing—spread a little cash around and make them happy that they have oil products to sell. The counter protesters kept the corners occupied with motorcycles and trucks and signs that made little sense. My favorite was the one that said “Support the Troops, Not the Kooks.” How ironic. The kooks are clearly those who think supporting troops includes letting them die for lies and avarice.

After gassing up Robert went off to capture some photos of the ten commandments flanking the Liberty Bell replica (which got clanged at random intervals) and the giant angel sent by an artist to commemorate Sept. 11. Becky and I decided to check out the “Yellow Rose Gift Shop” which touts its support for W on the side of its building. As we approached, a fellow with a hand-lettered sign challenged me to read his sign, printed in Latin. All I could get was “If you see (or seek?) peace, _____ war” He said, “It says ‘If you seek peace, prepare for war.’ What do you think of that?” I said I couldn’t agree because I had devoted my life to Jesus and Jesus just would not support that statement.” He and his buddies sputtered a little but we just went into the store. Seems like they hadn’t heard “The Word” in Crawford for a good long while. Come to think of it, I don’t recall seeing a church there. Once inside Becky reminded me that I’m not actually technically a Christian. She’s right, but professing Buddhism wouldn’t have been so snappy a comeback.

My quest for the visit to The Yellow Rose was to find the tackiest W stuff. (A desire brought on by a long-passed visit to that mecca of memorabilia: Graceland.) I almost bought some postcards with Laura Bush’s recipes for cookies and such emblazoned on them. but after I ran into two cardboard cutouts of GWB’s smirky goofy face, I just figured W’s war was tacky enough and I’m already paying for that.

My sermons might be available--someday

2006-07-31T11:03:00.000-05:00

From time to time requests are made for copies of my sermons. Unfortunately, I usually don't have copies.

Nearly all of my sermons are preached in the oral tradition--extemporaneously using limited notes.
There is no text to send. Sending the notes would be useless as they are an amalgam of venn diagrams and flow charts. Even I don't always know the original intent when I look back at the page. And there are always tangents that don't show up in the notes. I try to record my sermons on tape, but the quality is poor. Creating transcripts is time consuming and I just can't use my time making them. Sorry.

Perhaps it is time to invest in a digital recorder---great excuse to buy an iPod!!! Then I could post them somewhere online? or send audio files? or podcasts? I don't understand the technology!

Stay tuned. I'll do my best to reproduce the sermons in accessible form.

peace,
Valerie

CHANGE: COMMENTS WILL BE MODERATED

2006-07-25T07:58:00.000-05:00

Due to the disturbing nature of recent posts by "anonymous" (which have since been deleted) I've decided, sadly, that comments to this blog need to be moderated. For those of you not technically literate (like me!) that means any comments you make will be read and approved by me before they get posted.

I started Rev. Valerie's Reveries as a forum about my ideas, ideals, experiences and hopes for a better world. I do not expect every reader, or any reader, to agree with everything I write. I am happy to read thoughtful disagreement and will post such comments.

Further, it would be most informative if all commenters would have the courage to sign a real name. Of course the internet being what it is, I now understand why so many people feel the need to post with an obscure name. One never knows when someone who appears to be obsessed about a relationship that existed only in his fantasy life (25 years ago!) might decide to google your name, find your blog and post seriously disturbing "memories" (inaccurate as they may be) to your blog! Creepy!

peace,
Valerie

Rev. Valerie's itinerant preaching schedule

2006-07-21T16:27:00.001-05:00

Some of my friends have asked me to post a list of preaching dates, so here they are:
July 23-- Stillwater OK (on contract for the 4th Sunday)
July 30-- Wichita KS
Aug 27-- Stillwater OK
Sep 24-- Stillwater OK
Oct 15-- Lawrence KS
Oct 22-- Stillwater OK
Nov 26-- Stillwater OK
Dec 10-- Houston, TX: Bay Area UU (tentative)
Dec 24-- Stillwater OK

I'll travel far and wide on Sundays to spread the gospel of peace,
justice, equity and compassion---that is if I get paid and travel expenses are covered! I still gotta eat.

peace,
Valerie

Reveries blog parameters changed

2006-07-21T16:25:00.000-05:00

dear reveries reader-

As I am new to blogging I still don't know the finer points of set-up. I THINK I have changed the parameters so that you do not need to become a member of blogger to make comments about my posted writing.
I appreciate knowing your responses which unfailingly expand my view and challenge me. Type away!

peace,
Valerie

2006-07-12T02:17:00.000-05:00

Please indulge me a bit of shameless self-promotion. AND a bit of promotion of my Unitarian Universalist ministerial colleagues as well as my alma mater.... Meadville Lombard Theological School recently published its inaugural edition of an annual reader featuring writings by students, faculty and alumni. My essay "How to Name Your Farm" was included, officially making me a published author! For the record I received absolutely no remuneration for the essay, nor do I receive any royalty payments for the book sales.
The book is called "In Time of Need"
You can buy a copy through amazon.com or the UUA Bookstore.

ALSO, because I patch together income from many sources, I thought I'd mention here that you can take an online course I am going to offer from Sept - November through the Unitarian Universalist Church of the Larger Fellowship. The cost is merely $40 per person!
Check it out!
Go to uua.org/clf
select religious education
select online courses
select enter online learning center
select Becoming the Change You Want to See in the World
you'll need to create an identity with the CLF to proceed and get further information.

I hope I'll see some of you online and I hope you'll buy the book!

peace,
Valerie

2006-07-05T08:56:00.000-05:00

Never once in all of my days as a dissenter from the policies and proclivities of our national government have I ever been tempted to stomp upon, burn or otherwise mutilate an American flag. Lately I've been wondering why I have not considered engaging in this symbolic act. Now that we are one Senatorial vote away from having an amendment conferring sacred status to an icon of American patriotism (virtually every state legislature is already on record of support for such an amendment), I've been reflecting on my emotional relationship with the symbology as well as the republic for which this particular symbol stands.

Sometimes I get a bit queasy when the iconic cloth (usually made from polyester and made in China by VERY poor people) is flying in close proximity and I feel edgy when I see them draped across caskets and dangling from large buildings. Post September 11th flag-flying--an emotional outpouring of angst at the horrifying actions of the terrorists (using terrorist in its ultimate and proper sense, not the new term which carries the meaning "anyone who disagrees with me") seemed appropriate in the short-term. Sensitive people needed a way to identify with the victims and flying American flags provided a substitute for tears.

In the 10th grade I decided to stop engaging in the dutiful ritual of standing and saluting the flag in my public high school. My three older brothers were merely lottery numbers away from being drafted, of becoming cannon-fodder in Vietnam, and though I was unaware of the nuances of the politics of the day, I was aware that this was not a good way to lose three brothers. This fateful decision gained me the ire of homeroom teacher Mrs. Simmons who then black-balled me as was her right as the sponsor of the National Honor Society, precipitating a disengagement from my former scholarly ways spinning me into depressive teenaged ennui which developed into some less-than-wise decisions regarding birth control and voila! by the end of junior year I was pregnant, married and in grave danger of dropping out of high school. I got married to Mr. Wrong on June 14, 1974-- which dear reader you surely know is Flag Day. (I am NOT making this up)

Thus I started young adulthood already bound in this rather sickening relationship with the stars and bars. The beautiful and brilliant Mrs. Simmons never gave me the chance to explain that my loyalty to the country was not in question (though it is now) and she never let me explain that I held the Constitution in great esteem and found the Declaration of Independence pretty darn inspiring and that I had memorized the Gettysburg Address in the 5th grade and could recite that on the spot though not without crying. She never let me assert my constitutional right to NOT believe in the God tacked onto the Pledge before my birth (other gods might have worked, but not THAT god). Mrs. Simmons had no interest in hearing my logical argument against the wording which requires one to pledge allegiance to the symbol first and the entity it represents second; never mind the fact that the pledge is in fact a sham most days, when liberty and justice are clearly not available to ALL.

Allied to the anti-war sentiments fueling my difficult relationship with patriotic gestures is a struggle with the nature of using symbols when the real thing would suffice. When the symbol becomes loaded with connotations of an either/or conflict I have to ask, what is the content that we are avoiding? If I can't burn a flag as a way of resolving a teenaged conundrum (an honest therapeutic action perhaps in my case), then what does such a flag actually represent? Or, to get to the core, if I can't burn a flag as a political statement of dissent (I still place flag stamps upside down on my letters) then may I dissent at all?

On the day that the USA proudly announced the slaughter by bombing of a particularly inept (symbolic?) bad guy in Iraq I was preparing to do my patriotic duty of spending money as urged by our president after 9/11/01. In other words I was in my car at an ATM. Suddenly I hear a voice calling out, "Hey tree-hugger lady, aren't you happy they got Zarquai?" [interesting epithet considering I have several peace-related and religious bumper stickers but no ecology-related ones. hmmmm] Craning my neck and looking behind, I saw a man craning his neck out of his car window and gesturing at me. Through my rear-view mirror I saw that he had a cross dangling from his rear-view mirror. So I shouted back, "You need to go to church mister." I finished my transaction and pulled away to finish a phone call with my daughter. Preparing to leave the parking lot, I noticed the car was still at the ATM so I pulled up on the passenger side and gestured to open the window, which the reluctant female passenger did. I then asked the driver where he went to church. He gave evasive answers. I said, " I just want to know because I wonder what Bible your minister preaches from because apparently he hasn't told you that the Bible states that vengeance is the Lords' not man's." My interlocutor sputtered something about planes flying into buildings. I said, "So didn't Jesus tell us to turn the other cheek?" More sputtering about not letting them get away with it. I said, "And Jesus taught us not to return violence for violence. Sir, your disagreement is not with me. Your disagreement is with Jesus." And I drove away.

Somehow the RELIGION of patriotism (as my friend Gay pointed out on Sunday) has taken precedence over a shallow form of mis-labled Christianity in the hearts and minds of many Americans. The words of the man upon whom the religion supposedly is based hold no power among the "believers." They have turned their secular anger into religious zeal. While holding onto the Christian symbol of the cross (an instrument of torture I'd like to point out) this "new" Christian has thrown the baby out with the bathwater. A new form of Christianity has been adopted in the churches in this strand of the Bible Belt: Christianity without the inconvenient teachings of Jesus. All the symbols are intact: the flag draped over the cross, but now the meaning has shifted toward the vengeful angry god of old--the one who smote with joy and impunity--and away from the Prince of Peace. Damn. and just when I was starting to warm up to JC again. Prostituting and bastardizing the symbols of democracy and faith is ugly, ugly business.

Oh god! I have such an overwhelming urge to go burn something!

This time I'll burn some incense on my prayer altar and light the candle in my smiling Buddha's hands. Maybe that'll work. Symbols of peace, tranquility, compassion and love. Yep. That'll work.

2006-06-21T23:18:00.000-05:00

Early on September 11, 2001 while at the gym working out on the elliptical trainer I saw the NBC live coverage of the second plane flying into the World Trade Center tower. Like many millions of Americans, I knew immediately that the utter horror we just witnessed would be followed by very unpleasant reactivity. In an instant my mind flooded with knowledge: thousands were dead--terrorists from the Middle East--retaliatory strikes--protracted war--all of it seemed inevitable. A flood of grief followed and then fear that my loved ones were not safe. By that afternoon the church I served had a sign on the lawn that read: "...Dwell Together in Peace..." a partial quote from our Sunday morning covenant.

By October there were calls for my resignation after I made a public statement against militarism, offered a critique of false patriotism and followed with a sermon urging pacifism. Soon I found allies in the community, we traveled to DC for a march in April 2002, we came back and started a weekly silent vigil in front of Tulsa's Federal Building--just me, John D., Janet and Mikey. Eventually others joined us and the movement built, other locations were tried, other actions ensued, films were shown, an organization founded: Tulsa Peace Fellowship.

When I moved to Lancaster Pennsylvania summer of 2003, I took up a place on the line with Women in Black and found myself utterly alone again as the singular pacifist preacher in a sea of "Peace Churches"--even the Mennonites and Amish and Brethren refused to speak up for peace. The world had become curioser and curioser.

Back in Tulsa, in the spring of 2004 I found that the peace movement continued to grow. Dozens stood on the corners and dozens more attended rallies and education programs. Hundreds signed up for an email list. I began to feel a though I was living in slow motion, seeing the impotent words on our signs, feeling the powerlessness that comes with a society's wholesale moral abandon, realizing that hundreds of names on an e-list were potential and nothing more until there was a way to mobilize them.

And yet... Oklahoma City has a Peace House and so does Crawford TX..goodness knows neither community is a hotbed of progressive thought. So why should Tulsa not have an institutional presence for peace?

Now we do. We signed a lease on an old Church of Christ building. The money will find its way to the coffers to keep the doors open of that I am ridiculously certain. If you're in the Tulsa area, let me know and I'll put you on our e-list (announcements only) and if you aren't--go start a peace house in your community. Peace ain't likely to break out unless we build strong movements. Let me know how it's going where you have planted your seeds of peace.

2006-06-14T06:40:00.000-05:00

Welcome to my blog.

My friend Leslie long ago urged me to set this up...sorry it took so long!

With the world going to hell in a handbasket---hell being a human condition designed by human mendacity, avarice, vanity and fear-- it is no longer acceptable for compassionate and loving beings to sit on the sidelines wringing our hands. Or worse yet: turning our faces away from suffering to gaze at the beautiful places and beautiful people within our tight circles of care. Should we simply redirect our gaze we will stare into the bald face of human evil. There is too much work too be done, too many people to reach, too many organizations to found to allow silence or comfort or lethargy to win our souls. But you already knew all that.

Some years ago I briefly served as pastor to a church caught in an entrenched dysfunctional system of deceit. When I turned my gaze away from the beautiful trappings of a comfortable life as a well-paid minister only to be confronted by the depths of congregational illness and hatred, I nearly gave up on my calling. I left my version of pastoral life and moved to a farm in rural Oklahoma to fulfill my spouse's version of pastoral dreams. On our 20-acre slice of heaven at the end of a dirt road, he hoped to raise communities of bees and I hoped to avoid seeing how truly awful human community might be. I watched flowers grow and made friends with dogs and cattle. Each evening I lounged on the front porch swing drinking in a westward view of sunlight filtering through oaks leaves, casting inspiring beams of hope and contentment onto the hay field across the road. I dreamed of creating a retreat center where other wounded souls would find the healing I had found in solitude. Then the trailer park moved in.

I've got nothing against trailers as living quarters per se and nothing against people whose meager finances require them to live in houses which WILL blow apart in this tornado alley---it is just a matter of time. As a child I would have gladly moved into such a trailer park and found it luxurious if it had hot water and a bathtub. But last year I simply was not ready to substitute the tranquil verdant view from my front porch for incessantly barking dogs, dozens of perpetually-burning street lights and wounded children who find amusement in throwing firecrackers at cats.

Jolted back to reality by the very social conditions that pulled me into ministry---a socio-political system which punishes the poor and enriches the few, I sunk deeper into a depression that threatened to take me out permanently. Because the only way out is through the pain that's where I went, grudgingly. On the way I found that I could do yoga and meditation without the guilty feeling of self-indulgence I used to experience and I discovered a deeper spirituality than I had ever found in comfortable times.

On the other side of the pain I found hope again, not in swinging on my front porch, but in joining my fate to the oppressed and forgotten people of the world. So that's what this blog will be about for me: bringing a vision of compassionate possibility forged in the crucible of disappointment and annealed through attention to spiritual growth and community ties.

Oh yeah, and I plan to rant too.
I look forward to your responses.

peace,
Valerie