Redemption Song: Reflections After Orlando

On Sunday morning at 2:02 a.m. I was restlessly reading in bed. I knew why I was having trouble sleeping. Lisa was away, which I always find disorienting. And J.J. and I had stayed up late to watch television and eat bowlfuls of ice cream with fresh strawberries—not exactly a prescription for sound and settled rest. I read my book and listened through the window to the sounds of the frogs and birds calling to each other on our little lake. As I did so, one of the worst massacres in American history was occurring at a nightclub in Orlando, Florida.

*

The days that followed have brought many words but little understanding. Events like this confuse and confound us, and our language multiplies correspondingly. In the face of the irrational, we are inundated with reasons; in the face of the inexplicable, we are inundated with explanations; in the face of loss and despair, we are inundated with the voices of the aspiring and opportunistic. The cacophonous clamor of our words overwhelms real communication and true communion. A cynic might say: on the eighth day man invented language, and no one—no one save God—has heard anything since.

We cannot even agree on the subject matter of the conversation. Should we be talking about gun control, or law enforcement, or terrorism, or mental health resources, or radicalized religious movements, or our long and ugly history of violence against the LGBT community, or our long and ugly history of violence—period?  Should we be focused on the shooter, trying to understand his motives and methods in our efforts to keep this from happening again? Or should we direct our attention toward the victims, trying to ensure that the magnitude of this tragedy does not reduce them to statistics? Should we talk about the numbers? Or should we talk about the victims as individuals, learn their stories, and say their names?

  As a community of faith, we do what we are doing tonight and have done for two thousand years. We gather; we mourn; we reflect; we comfort each other; we pray. But this response, too, has become a subject of debate. In the immediate aftermath of the shooting, a number of political leaders and celebrities publicly expressed their prayers for the victims and their families and friends. This elicited a bitter response from some people: “stop talking about your prayers and do something,” they said. And how do we answer that challenge? How do we think about what we are doing tonight, right here, right now? Do we view our prayers as an end—an exercise in healing, a confession of our own violent natures, and a plea for guidance from the only One who finally has any to offer? Or do we view our prayers as a beginning—an exercise in recommitment, a promise to work tirelessly in opposition to violence and hatred, and a declaration that we will strive courageously to bring God’s kingdom of peace into this world and to all of our brothers and sisters—every last one, everyone in, nobody out?

And—if we cannot figure out how to talk and think about these things—then how can we help our children and grandchildren do so? Years ago, the brilliant essayist and physician Lewis Thomas wrote an article called “Late Night Thoughts on Listening to Mahler’s Ninth Symphony.” The thrust of the essay was that Thomas had lost his ability to listen with the same pleasure to a piece of music that had previously brought him hope and consolation. The threat of nuclear annihilation—estimates of eighty million dead—had made the music feel irrelevant, disconnected from the current state of things. He wrote:

If I were sixteen or seventeen years old and had to listen to [those descriptions of nuclear war,] or read things like that, I would begin thinking up new kinds of sounds, different from any music heard before, and I would be twisting and turning to rid myself of human language.

The challenges posed to our youth now seem even greater. Talk of nuclear annihilation can feel comfortingly abstract—I remember drills in elementary school where we would be ordered to squat under our desks in preparation for a hydrogen bomb, an exercise that struck us as hilariously detached from anything like reality. But today our children hear stories of people murdered in cold blood as they sit in a classroom, or at a movie theater, or in a Bible study meeting at church. The victims at the club in Orlando did not initially realize what was going on because they were so caught up in the joy, the dancing, and the music. 

So we struggle with the limitations of our words and our language. But struggle we must, because the end of all goodness in the world lies in a quiet acquiescence to violence. If the crucifixion of Jesus Christ teaches us nothing else, surely it teaches us that much. As I have previously observed in this very sanctuary: I do not know many things; but I know that evil has a muscular co-conspirator in silence.

So we go to language—including the language of music—because we must. We can do nothing until we can navigate the language of grief, the language of despair, the language of outrage, the language of justice, the language of inclusion, the language of compassion. “In the beginning,” we are told, “was the word. And the word was with God. And the word was God.”

*

The book I was reading on Sunday morning at 2:02 a.m. is called Letters to Yesenin, by the late author Jim Harrison. In the nineteen-seventies, Harrison found himself in a profoundly depressed state: living in poverty, working on a hardscrabble farm, filled with despair, and contemplating suicide. In an oddly therapeutic exercise, he wrote a series of short letters ostensibly addressed to a Russian poet named Sergei Yesenin, who had hanged himself in 1925. The book is a compilation of those letters.

The book is hard reading: brutally candid; explicit; tortured; and confused. You can perhaps understand why it was not helping much in my effort to get to sleep. But, at the same time, the book is a kind of redemption song. Harrison finds his way out through a combination of language, image, and memory. I suspect that if we are to find our way out, then our path must look much the same.

Let me describe to you two passages in the book that I think may be particularly helpful tonight. In one, Harrison describes a “cold autumn evening” when the impulse toward self-destruction became particularly strong. But then he saw something that brought the compulsion to a full and immediate halt. He writes: “My year-old daughter’s red robe hangs from the doorknob shouting Stop.”

In a second passage, he acknowledges the abundant challenges of the world but also finds a reason to live through a small and isolated act of kindness and caregiving. “To be frank,” he writes at the end of the book, “I’d rather live to feed my dogs, knowing the world says no in ten thousand ways and yes in only a few.” You do not need to agree with Harrison’s math to agree with the point: if we have any chance at all, it is in the yes of love; it is the only hope we have now; it is the only hope we have ever had.

When two or more are gathered in His name then He is there. So we gather tonight in the name and in the presence of the most powerful force in the universe, the One who knows your name, the One who knows the names of each and every victim in Orlando, the one who became a victim of human violence that we might know that He suffers with us, beside us, for us.

We gather to cry: “yes.”

We gather to shout: “stop.”

And the people said: Amen.

Leonard and Dean's Wedding Ceremony

The Marriage of Leonard Poisson and Dean Sanchez

May 28, 2016

Cobblestone Farms

Ann Arbor, Michigan

Good evening everyone and welcome to our celebration of the marriage of Leonard Poisson and Dean Sanchez.

The Vietnamese Buddhist, author, and peace activist Thich Nhat Hanh said: “The present moment is filled with joy and happiness. If you are attentive, you will see it.” This evening, in this present moment, you will not be able to miss it.

Indeed, “joy and happiness” seem like inadequate words. This evening strikes me as bigger than that, as an occasion for dancing in the streets or under the stars or on the tables—well, perhaps when we were all a little younger. After all, tonight we do not just honor a love, but a great love—a love that has endured; a love that has overcome; a love that has prevailed.

Talking about Leonard and Dean poses its challenges because there are so many interesting things to say about such interesting people. Oscar Wilde wrote: “Be yourself. Everyone else is taken.” And I suspect that none of us knows any two people who are more completely themselves than Leonard and Dean. So someone charged with making the introductory remarks before these two exchange vows has lots of good material to work with. How to choose?

Well, let me tell you a story. I was honored when Leonard and Dean asked if I would assist with this ceremony. And I was delighted when they invited Lisa and me to dinner to think out loud about the kind of ceremony they wanted it to be. So we went to their stylish condominium and had delicious food and talked.

Knowing Dean and Leonard as you do, I am sure you will all understand what I mean when I say it was a non-linear conversation. We talked about everything imaginable and in no particular order: home renovation; decorating; dogs; cats; antiques; food; physical ailments and injuries; religion; philosophy; death; some of the times that made our hearts strong; some of the times that broke them. Imagine one of the more abstract Jackson Pollack splatter paintings and think of it as a visual representation of our conversation.

Yet, somehow, in the course of all this chatter three absolutely clear themes emerged. I hope that you will agree with me that they play a leading role in defining Dean and Leonard both as individuals and as a couple. And I hope that you will see why these themes matter as we gather today to celebrate their union.

The first theme is: Tend your flock. Tend your flock.

As I am sure you have noticed, Dean and Leonard gather people around them—a flock of sorts. And then they tend to them, love them, support them, cheer for them, listen to them, make them laugh, preen them, feed them, take them in, nurse them, even see them from this world to the next.

Once you are in their flock it is tough to get out. Their care for you is neither fragile nor fickle. Like their love for each other, it endures, overcomes, and prevails.

So Dean and Leonard are sorry for the absence today of some people they wish could be with us. And they have asked me to call their names as a way of remembering them and bringing them into our presence:

Leonard’s mom and dad, Marion and Lewis

Dean’s grandma and grandpa, Rose and Joe

Morton, Leonard’s dear, dear friend

Karen, a member of Dean’s family

Leonard’s brother Loren

Dean’s good friends Ross and Mo

Leonard’s sister Lisa

Russ, Dean’s cousin who they recently lost

Dean’s uncle Chuck

To paraphrase a famous passage, when two or more are gathered in the name of Love, then Love is there—and so are those we love. So welcome Marion, Lewis, Rose, Joe, Morton, Karen, Loren, Ross, Mo, Lisa, Russ, and Chuck. Pull up a chair. We’re just getting started.

         And, because Dean and Leonard care so much for their flock, it matters a great deal to them that all of you are here this evening. I suspect that everyone here could tell a story about being tended to by these men—how one or both of them helped you out, or brought you in, or nurtured you, or lifted you up when you were down, or fed you, or listened to you, or danced with you, or gossiped with you, or cried with you, or made you laugh so hard you spat out your martini. My, but aren’t we all the lucky ones?

So Dean and Leonard are well versed in the sacred arts of compassion. Think of how wonderfully they have cared for all of you: yesterday, and the day before, and the day before. And now imagine how wonderfully they will care for each other: tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow.

The second of my themes is: Gather treasures around you. Gather treasures around you.

As you all know, these men follow a creed that has a mecca all its own. And that sacred temple is called Treasure Mart.

If you have had the pleasure of touring Dean and Leonard’s elegant condominium then you know that they can recite for you the history and pedigree of each table, chair, artifact, and vase that has found its way into their collection. Everything is, of course, gorgeous and in spectacular taste. And much of it comes from Treasure Mart, where I believe Leonard and Dean direct deposit their checks.

As we walked around their rooms I was struck by how good their eyes are—how easily and perfectly they can see the beauty in things that have been around the block, that may have some visible nicks, that other people—indeed, most people—would pass by. In my view, this special sight they have is a gift more rare than mathematical genius—and far more valuable.

This gift matters, of course, not because of the stunning leather chair or the dazzling glassware or the handsome china cabinet—although that is all lovely stuff that I shamelessly envy. It matters because they also apply that special sight to their fellow human beings. They see the beauty in those of us that have been around the block—and that the block has treated poorly; those of us that have deep scars in our grain—some of which we carefully keep out of sight; those of us that the world has passed over—without so much as a glance backward.

Leonard and Dean do not just gather people into their flock—they gather all kinds of people into it. And they do so because they see the beauty in all of us—even those of us that are gathering dust in some obscure and untraveled corner. Dean and Leonard would say, with Oscar Wilde: “Be yourself, everyone else is taken.” And they would add: “And when you are yourself we will love you for it.”

I have it on good authority that—like the rest of us—Dean and Leonard are not perfect. They have creaky joints and nicks and dust of their own. So how wonderful that they can continue to bring their special sight into this relationship, always seeing the abundant beauty in each other, no matter what.

You might wonder how these two gained the capacity to tend their unruly flock and the special sight necessary to recognize the treasures in their lives. Or, to put it more bluntly, you might wonder how somewhere along the line these two men became wise. I am afraid that the answer is as true as it is hard.

And it brings me to my third theme: Through our struggles, we have found our way. Through our struggles, we have found our way.

Dean and Leonard have faced serious challenges during their years together: illness; injury; the loss of loved ones; and, let’s be candid, a society too backward and boorish to allow them to do what they are doing right now. The same experiences that might have made other people bitter, hateful, and timid have made these two joyful, embracing, and, well, let’s just say “not timid” and leave it at that.

 When we gather to celebrate the marriage of young people, it is conventional for them to promise that they will stay beside each other despite the slings and arrows that will come along. It is pretty to hear. But I think we cannot help but notice that we are getting brave testimonials from the unwounded.

These two, in contrast, have walked through the fire. They do not just know what they are made of—they know what they are made of. I am sure that they would happily have gone without some of the struggles that have come along the way—they might ask, with Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof, would it “spoil some vast, eternal plan” if there had been a little less of that?

But it is those experiences that have brought them here today. And it is those experiences that will allow them to keep what they are making here today. When new challenges come along they will be able to say: “It is all right. We know what we are doing. We have done it before. Many times, in fact.”

In a moment, I am going to pass the ceremony to Supa, who will administer the Buddhist marriage vows to Leonard and Dean. But, before I do, I would like to close with a brief story and a quotation that I think is particularly apt for this ceremony and for these men.

Lisa and I have a favorite movie called Babbette’s Feast. I’m sure many of you know it. In a sense, the film is about fine food and the special magic that takes place between human beings when they gather over it and talk. Our dinner with Leonard and Dean had more than a little of that magic to it.

The film is also, indeed mostly, about love. One of the central characters is an aging general who has been torturing himself with questions about his decision to pursue a glamorous military career rather than remaining with the woman he adored—and still adores. He sees the woman again—after decades have passed—and his initial reaction is one of deep regret.

But then he realizes that, in the end, their love has endured, overcome, prevailed. It is still there—as real and palpable as if they had never been apart. And, at the end of the film, he says this to her:

“I’ve been with you every day of my life. Tell me that you know that. And I shall be with you every day from now on. For tonight I have learned that, in this beautiful world of ours, all things are possible.”

Welcome Dean and Leonard, into this beautiful night, into this beautiful new life, in which all things are possible. Thanks for inviting us along.We will stand by you in your struggles. We know what treasures you are. You are in our flocks, too.

Taking Easter Personally

Scripture: "But the angel said to women, 'Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised ..." Matthew 28:5

From the beginning, the world tried to corner Him. To trap Him. To destroy Him.

When He was still an infant, Herod sent spies looking for Him to murder Him. When that didn't work, the tyrant tried to co-opt the three wise men in their search for Him. When that failed, too, Herod slaughtered all of the children in and around Bethlehem who were two years old and younger.

Not long after He entered his ministry, the religious and political authorities went after Him. They tried to trap Him with tricky questions about doctrine. They tried to corner Him with words of scripture. They tried to provoke Him into denying the power of Rome.

The truth He spoke inspired his followers. But it also made people angry. So sometimes hostile crowds tried to corner Him, to trap Him, to confront Him. But, somehow, He always slipped away.

And then a ridiculous cornering: a betrayal in the night, taking Him as though He had been hiding from the world. We can almost imagine a wry smile on Jesus's face when He points out to them that it is not as though they have trapped Him. He was just there--standing, waiting, knowing.

Then a terrible time of reckoning. Mocked. Tortured. Crucified. Killed. And everyone thought: well, there is no escaping this time. It seemed finally finished, even to some of the disciples.

But when that stone was rolled away, an unthinkable and unimaginable Truth was made known. Even in death He was not cornered, trapped, destroyed. Even death itself failed to capture Him.

Easter brings with it many lessons. I would never presume to tell you how you should experience it. That is something to be worked out in a quiet conversation between you and God.

But I will offer this, for what it is worth. It may be that for you the most important lesson of Easter is that, if you will have faith, then you are never cornered, never trapped, never destroyed.

Perhaps this is hard for you to believe. Maybe some part of your life has you feeling as if there is no exit. An illness. Economic struggles. Bad choices. An abusive relationship. A deep sadness from loss. Loneliness. Depression.

But when the sun came up today, Easter morning had this to say to you:

You are not cornered.

You are not trapped.

You are not destroyed.

The most powerful force in the universe knows your name, knows where you are, knows what you need, and knows your way forward.

Open yourself to it. Listen for it. Experience it. Embrace it. It is the Truth that He promised would set you free.

Good morning, you blessed Easter people.

He is risen.

He is risen, indeed.

And so, by the power and grace of God,

are you.

Amen.