At the Window

It feels late. Sleep will come.

Yesterday, I was awakened at four AM by a vapour-being, a ghoulish sort of fellow bent on convincing me I was irrelevant.

I laid awake until the sun came up over my city. Then sat at the kitchen window watching.

May 24 2007 (1)

It was silent. As silent as cities can be. Even the seventh street sirens were quiet for a couple hours.

May 24 2007 (3)

I sat at the open window thinking about the way street dust smells when flicked by a light rain.

Later that morning I walked by one of our shelters, and–besides wondering how I managed to manage this shelter for seven years–wondered how it was that the faces were all different and the same.

May 24 2007 (2)

And there are more faces now. And they are spilling out onto the sidewalk.

Today I told the oneiric story–the one that woke me up–to my "therapist" and she gave me her talk on connections–links in a chain–the necessity each of us has, as link, to carry what was good about the past, add to it and place it into a future of possibilities. In other words the necessity for people.

The talk was good, she tells it better than me. But the foot massage was better.

I’m convinced that if everyone got a foot massage like that there would be no crime, no shortage of help for all the faces. Our faces.

And I’m again pointed to the circle of understanding that I can only know mercy as I share mercy and only share mercy when I’ve been shown mercy myself.

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Going Pentecostal II

If only Pentecost hadn’t been so fleeting, and so quickly misunderstood and misused….can you imagine? Is it too late to re-understand it, and get it right, re-understand all of what happened in that part of the world back then, and experience it as a positive rather than negative force in the world? (A comment on yesterday’s post)

Never too late…we have recent examples and living examples of Pentecostpeople. Every generation is responsible to remember, relearn and rehearse the spirit of Pentecost.

togethernessEven Peter had to relearn the meaning of his own blazing experience. He was given a dream.The contents of heaven were lowered to earth in a sheet and inside he saw all the different species of animals mingled together-in his world the unclean with the clean. It was a reoccurring dream that finally ended with Peter’s face to face receiving of someone culturally, historically, and religiously outside of his circle.

Of this Peter explains, "You yourselves know that it is unlawful for a Jew to associate with or to visit a Gentile; but God has shown me that I should not call anyone profane or unclean."

This was Peter’s time to stand beside his new friend, elated, barely comprehending the revolutionary beauty and possibility of his inclusive act.

Pentecost envisions universal restoration. Pentecost is the dream of togetherness, the dream of the sacredness of all things.

But your right, it is still largely a dream in-waiting. We’ve read the stories but we really haven’t been possessed by them. We still prefer the neat divisions of us and them because it’s easier to be over and above than to love. Easier to manufacture division than to merge with differences and work creatively within them.

It is achingly hard to find our meaning beyond divisions because from childhood we have been candle-dipped in ways of pegging others and identifying with any inside group. Some of us even call this a gift of discernment. Thinking it a skill valuable for staying on the righteous side of some line.

The manufacturing of division pretends to give us meaning. But the story of Pentecost gives us our meaning in love, in inclusion, in beauty, in seeing the earth, our world, as sacred, as one.

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Going Pentecostal

I like to keep track of the liturgical calendar and so I’m thinking Pentecostal this week. This Sunday is Pentecost. It marks the end of the Easter season and the beginning of what’s curiously called "ordinary time." The time, I suppose, when nothing extraordinary happens.

But in thinking about Pentecost the first thing that came was a particular stripe of Christianity and a particular way of being a Christian. And I’m reminded of larger and deeper divisions. The many divisions within protestant Christianity, the greater division of Catholic and Protestant, the division of world faith traditions, and finally the divisions of holy and profane.

Brueghel’s Babel
brueghels babel

And all this reminded me of a knack I had for sorting out the “true Christians” from the non-Christians, or the "carnal-Christians," or the straight up pagans, or for that matter, anyone other than Baptist.

It’s a knack I learned early through a kind of osmosis while growing up in a small town with a big church. But I was willing enough. The knack we sometimes had the gall to call, the gift of discernement.

My discernment, through opening up to other osmotic sources, has undergone some adjustment. (I’m hoping perhaps even a reverse osmosis from my early one.)

I know now for instance, that Pentecost is not a denomination. Pentecost is the story of the undoing of all the hard divisions along these lines.

While the ancient story of the Tower of Babel describes a world fractured through misunderstanding, and scattered by subsequent tribal wars and blood-feuds, Pentecost, rightly read, is the radical coming together of the broken and the undoing of confusion and misunderstanding.

And in this mutual understanding lies the Pentecostal dream and vision of universal restoration. And this is the direction life in "ordinary time" should take us.

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Graffiti I Love

Yesterday we walked across the High Level bridge. At the south end we saw this bit of graffiti on a warning reflector.

Listen

And we did…listen. And just beyond the bridge as we entered the lane bordered by thick spring green caraganas, the traffic quelled and the robins sang.

I listened through the day. Listened to the excited chatter in Starbucks on White. Listened to the quiet shuffle and rustle of feet and pages in the used book store across the street.

And on the way home I listened to the creaks and groans of Edmonton’s old trolley car. I listened to clack of iron wheels on the steel rail joints.

And I listened to the little girl dressed in a Captain Hook costume, unable to contain information as to why. She was off to a birthday party with costumes.

I listened to the streetcar’s stooped ticket master who was full of history and loved the old trolley–this being the opening weekend for another season of crossings–who was telling us all about the car and the bridge as we crossed back over. But who stoped and took time to listen to the little girl’s story, twice.

conductor listens

And this morning as I walk for coffee, the grey of yesterday’s day-long cloud cover lifted and I’m rewarded by more graffiti. The graffiti of reflected light.

Light on brick

Light poetry.

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