Turns out having a fortune of five billion dollars will only get you to #461 on the list of American billionaires. (Associated Press report October 16, 2020 on the prosecution of a billionaire tax cheat and his associates). No wonder the current occupant of the White House considers himself unfairly treated. He’s nowhere near the top of the heap in the class of elites he aspires to. In fact, with the participation of many millions of “disgusting people” called Americans, he may be homeless after November. Some wish that his new home will have bars on it, but that’s unlikely, given the unfairness of American justice.

The above billionaire is actually not the one being prosecuted. Faced with complicity in the crime of another billionaire, he has stepped up to cooperate with the Feds. Meanwhile, however, the taxes he himself evaded have bought him investments around the world–you know, the kind of dream properties you read about in the back pages of The Economist, after you’ve waded through the news about economic and political outrages, wars, poverty and starvation around the world. To give credit where credit is due, the billionaire stool pigeon has also provided substantial funds for charitable works. But how many seaside condos, ski retreats, and vacation homes can one family occupy in the course of a year?

How to spend five billion dollars? That could keep anyone awake at night, clearly an affliction for our subject and the 460 folks ahead of him in the scorekeeping. After the first billion or so, you just can’t keep the money from rolling in. You can’t get ahead of the accumulation simply with grocery shopping, apartment rent, shoes for the kiddies (even Louboutins), a dependable car, and medical care. It just keeps piling up.

I don’t doubt there may be professional skill behind amassing a huge fortune. There’s usually good luck in the ancestor lottery. Essentially, the extremely wealthy got born on the high side of “fair.” Taxation is unpopular, I know, especially with those who have already collected their billions. So how does a society that wants to lift all boats, including the luxury yachts, make that happen?

I’d like to see tax legislation that aims to close a lot of loopholes, make the rich pay more. Even if you’re only #461 on the list of billionaires, you probably won’t even miss it.

Me? I’m making a list of ways I’m going to spend the $10,000 prize in a poetry contest I’ve just entered—an unheard of reward for poetry. Long odds, but I’ve bought my ticket.

That’s the way the question was framed, according to a friend in a church discussion group we share. Is Jesus God–Yes or No? I’ve been pondering my answer for weeks.

Clearly it’s a question some people use to decide whether or not you’re “really” a Christian. Jesus, when described as part of that ineffable mystery known as The Trinity, IS God. But what if The Trinity is one of those concepts a bunch of people thought up to bolster the separation of their “sect” from its roots? Christianity from Judaism, for instance. Who on earth could describe God in such a way and call it The Absolute Truth?

I’ve just finished reading a short book titled Unbinding Christianity: Choosing the Values of Jesus Over the Beliefs of the Church by Jan G. Linn, a pastor and long-time acquaintance of one of my sisters. As to the question above, Unitarian Universalists (where Linn seems to have settled now) might say, Okay by me if you want to think of God that way, but not a requirement. Linn himself declares, No. He doesn’t think Jesus is God.

So why be Christian? Buddha and Mohammed were historical persons who taught ethical, moral, and spiritual practices which, if sincerely put to use (like the teachings of Jesus) would surely be of benefit to humankind. The Tao Te Ching holds profound spiritual wisdom. Does it all boil down to where you started out–your parents, your country, your culture?

Maybe. I’m happy to go with my Christian beginnings. Spiritual maturity takes time. Hopping from one tradition to another until you find the one that seems to work best would be difficult to accomplish in one lifetime. Sticking with one and exploring it as long and as deeply as you can seems to be the more practical and fruitful decision.

The Bible is the book I know best, study the most, and believe has reliable guidance. In two places in particular: The Hebrew prophet Micah says, “What does the Lord require of you? To do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God.” (No matter who or what your understanding of God may be?) Jesus says a great many things about love (which he may or may not have said.) But I particularly like the long talk he had with his disciples recorded in the gospel of John, chapters 14-16 or so. Jesus talks about love, trust, peace, truth, and more. This talk is reassuring, affirming, and challenging.

As it happens, quite a lot we now call Christianity comes out of the interpretive writings of Paul. After that, the ancient church fathers got together and tried to get everything tidied up in a few creeds, eg. The Apostle’s Creed. This created troublesome arguments right down the ages.

Personally, I cannot speak the Nicene Creed or the Apostle’s Creed (which begin, I/We believe…) without my fingers crossed behind my back. Thankfully we seldom use those in our church. In fact, I looked up what people are required to declare when they become “members” of my Presbyterian church. It’s just this: “Do you trust in Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?” Note: not believe, but trust. The title Savior may be somewhat problematic. Saved from what? However, the promise simply to trust puts you on the right path.

There is a further list of questions for those ordained to leadership. The questions, I was relieved to notice, are all about practices, not beliefs. Presbyterians are notorious for “believing in” stuff like Predestination. But you don’t have to. Even if you can figure out what it is. One question asks, “Do you sincerely receive and adopt the essential tenets of the Reformed Faith…” A conscientious candidate I knew once asked a pastor, “Exactly what are the essential tenets?” The answer: not really pinned down. In other words, don’t worry about it. Good to know.

Because I’ve always enjoyed so many things about “going to church”–especially in the past fifty years at Second Pres–I’m sorry to see that tradition seeming to fade by the numbers. My experience with mega-churches as “entertainment centers” hasn’t been appealing. Also, I love the hymns I grew up with, while I’m pretty much left cold by contemporary Christian music. But among the people is where tradition arises after all, and there are new ones coming along. In fact, we have a group of folks meeting at our church (funded by our church) in a community called The Open Table. It’s non-churchy church for spiritual explorers. It’s very popular, especially since it is founded on an actual table filled with food for anyone who shows up. Jesus clearly endorsed eating and drinking together as a fundamental value of spiritual fellowship.

I couldn’t help noticing in a video about current events at Second that my picture didn’t show up in any of them. I think this is evidence that oldsters like me are less involved in what’s happening now, backing off from our past decades of leadership. It isn’t just pandemic isolation. I confess that I now dodge joining committees and any form of “trying to get people to do things.” I give money, and I look forward to the day when I can be back in the beautiful sanctuary at Second Pres for traditional worship–even with the many novelties that happen there from one week to the next.

So…is Jesus God, according to me? I choose to answer YES. It is wondrous to imagine that I embody what Jesus embodied. As in the gracious greeting Namaste, the God in me honors the God in you. We are human, like Jesus, and, like Jesus, configured to receive and transmit the entire being of God. I can’t say no to that!

P.S. Please note the recent publication of my new book, The Beekeeper and other love poems. Below, you’ll find a link to amazon. This collection, unlike the two previous ones, contains no poems about Religion per se. However, as “inspiration” for poems is one way I experience God, every single one is an expression of receptivity. In that light, you’ll find an entire section titled “What’s so funny?” I sincerely trust that God delivers a sense of humor.

Let’s stipulate that the opportunity to get an education to the highest level of one’s ability and ambition is a value most Americans support. Okay so far? “Free” public education through high school has been supported by taxpayers since long before the living memory of most people. In many communities, the high school is the epicenter of civic life and, even more important, of sports.

Let’s also stipulate that there are many jobs considered essential or indispensable to ordinary American life that are not likely to be replaced by technology. Cleaners. Hospitality workers and servers. Childcare and eldercare providers. Receptionists, call center helpers, and data entry clerks. Many of these jobs offer pay levels far below what would be considered a living wage: that is, enough money to house, clothe, and feed a family, and to provide for basic medical care, insurance, child care, and savings for future security and further education.

Today, even with a basic education, and the willingness to find and perform a full-time job in an “essential” capacity, thousands, if not millions,* of Americans are unable to take the next step up from poverty for themselves and their children. Are we as a nation making the judgment that people performing jobs we consider essential to our quality of life must settle for—be consigned to–everlasting poverty?

Why don’t we as taxpayers insist on wages instead of “welfare”?

A federal minimum wage required of all employers seems like a relatively inexpensive answer to “welfare” in all its acronyms. Such a wage would cover the basics mentioned above, including medical (pay-as-you-go maintenance, personal insurance for catastrophic or pre-existing conditions). Being able to secure a living wage for any and all jobs would permit employees to move fearlessly from one job to another. Employers would seek the best workers available simply by boosting the offered wage. That’s good old American competition, right?

Even entrepreneurs and small businesses should be required to meet the basic wage. Can’t “afford” to pay your servers, your drivers, your clerks? Then perhaps you can’t afford to start a business just yet. On the other hand, perhaps a government guarantee of inexpensive, even forgivable, loans until a new business gets going would promote innovation. Just as “free” education gives everyone (theoretically) an equal start in life, so wage assistance from taxpayers for small businesses would give people with new ideas and leadership ability an equal start with the privileged. A federal scholarship program for higher education wouldn’t hurt when ability earns it.

As for big business: living wages, and profits shared with workers as well as with investors, put money to work fast in a far-reaching way for the everyday economy.

Let’s begin to lift all boats by demanding wages commensurate with the essential, valued labor of our fellow citizens. Unless we want to see (again) our nation’s success built on the backs of the poor, every employer must pay a living wage to every employee. Let’s make it a federal law.

*I welcome the contribution of a source for this claim.

The light just blinked on…a glimmer way out there at the end of the tunnel. It gives me a buoyant feeling I haven’t had in months. I saw it the day candidate Joe Biden finally announced his vice-presidential pick, Kamala Harris. Call out all the political reasons you want for why this is a good choice, or not, for America. The reasons I see, or rather feel, have to do with a transformation in character for the leadership of our country. Because what happens next will derive only partly from policy. Most of it will occur because of the restoration of humanity to the Oval Office.

Never in my lifetime has the contrast been so dramatically drawn, the consequences so horribly lived out, between two political choices. To give it credit with a disgusting spin, the current administration has served as a boil on the face of our nation, bringing to a head all the hatred, corruption, greed, and division which has existed for so long just beneath the surface. We see it now, we feel it now, and we have a chance to lance it so that healing can begin. Needless to say, the process is ugly and painful.

Now we can see that before policy can be made, we must look to the character of leadership. Frankly, I don’t know how to get my head around it all: economics, health care, social safety nets, infrastructure, environmental protection, trade relations, and countless other challenges on the national scene. I do see that the qualities of compassion, the experience of grief and loss, the principles of integrity, the ability to listen, and the capacity to learn from mistakes matter. They are everything. Policies and laws can be rationally argued. We’ll never get unquestioning agreement. We wouldn’t want it. But obstinate lunacy is total darkness.

In John Lewis, we saw the light with considerable purity and impact. Add to his legacy your own list of local, state, and national political leaders, leaders of workers and leaders of business, leaders of non-profits and medical experts—all those you personally know who are striving in self-giving ways to bring us to healing. Yes, we will continue to disagree about the best way to get where we think the city, the state, the nation should go. Let’s begin by choosing the best people.

I’m with you Quinton Lucas, Nicole Galloway, Joe Biden and Kamala Harris. That’s for starters.

I’m adding a poem here which will probably appear nowhere else, being topical and timely. It is a lament for a young man I never knew. I preserve his name. In spite of the ending, I am not indifferent to the nameless young men and women who are dying daily from despair, violence…and indifference. We have healing to do.

FOR TREVION IN THE LOCAL NEWS

So you were only nineteen—funny, smart–
as friends will often say of one who’s dead.
You’d talk for hours, had a troubled heart,
a fearless future swirling in your head
as you stood sometimes on the rocks beside
the local creek, soothed by your bare feet cool
in shallow water. On the day you died
among a gang of buddies out of school
the current took you. No one noticed when
or how you disappeared without a cry,
got swept and trapped beneath a bridge.
And then
the flashing lights, the sisters standing by.

Next article. I click your death away.
How many times, this tiresome cliché.

One hundred thirty-three days and counting.  That’s how long I’ve been enjoying my stay at home. This morning, after my workout in the basement, I swung open the closet door to fish out today’s clean outfit.  It’s the same as yesterday’s clean outfit.  And the day before.  And the day before that.  Comfy pull-on pants.  Soft bra.  T-shirt with a slogan on it commemorating a church connection or a running event or a community action project. Different versions, different colors.  Same outfit. Sometimes, for a ZOOM meeting perhaps, I’ll put on a “nicer” shirt.  But no one besides my husband has seen what I look like below the chest since online took over.

To my right in the closet hang clothes I haven’t worn in one hundred thirty-three days.  Real clothes, as I call them now.  Perhaps I will get an extension on the life of my clothes which are not being worn, like the refund on my car insurance because not driving for weeks on end.  Perhaps I should start using those colorful scarves to make a statement on ZOOM? At least the shoes get a workout.

As the pandemic continues to get worse in the US, life gets worse and worse in countless ways for so many people:  People without jobs worried about rent.  People with children worried about school. People with empty pantries, empty pockets, empty hopes. The historic injustice of America ranges from access to medical care to voting rights to the challenge of everyday life for people without, say, washing machines in their homes.

I can wear the same clothes day after day because I can do a wash in my home. Imagine keeping up with a family, all at home in virus time.  Are coin laundries open?  Do people have coins to use them?  How safe is it to hang out until the whole load is done?

My guess is that no one in the federal administration thinks in terms this small. But “small things” are the reality for millions of people.  Everyday life, even before the virus arrived, is a steep hill to climb for so many.

What’s my point?

Profound gratitude, for one thing.  In my comfy retirement, I can afford to give no thought to “what I shall eat, what I shall wear” while I watch the “lilies of the field” bloom in my front yard.*  My activism now happens at my computer, where I sit tapping out messages to senators and candidates and clicking Donate buttons. Does it count?  I hope it adds up.  However, I feel sad every day, infected with anger, impatience, and shock in the terrible shadow of moral darkness.

What’s the saving grace?  You’ve heard it here before:  Fear not.  Do not be afraid.  God is in charge of this universe.  Not the God I “believe in.”  Not the God someone else does not “believe in.”  But the real One in Whom our little smidgen of time matters infinitely, but only as we add all our lives together in love for one another.

*Matthew 6:25ff.

The poem below has recently won recognition in the 2020 Maria W. Faust Sonnet Contest. It is included in my forthcoming new collection, The Beekeeper and other love poems.  Watch this space for the publication announcement.

OLD LADY WITH NO COMPLAINTS

The outward qualities already met:

the white hair, glasses, wrinkles, overweight,

the random names I’m likely to forget,

the words for things (like icebox) out of date.

The comfy sweats retirees get to wear?

I live in those, with sneakers on my feet.

Do I look puzzled with a distant stare

as though I needed help to cross the street?

I might be lost, but only lost in thought.

The road not taken troubles me no more.

Amused, I sift the clutter life has brought

and shut the past behind me door by door.

My bit in time seems infinitely small,

its prizes insufficient after all.

Lift every voice and sing till earth and heaven ring, Ring with the harmonies of liberty….

As of now, I’m joining with any groundswell movement to make this stirring anthem the national anthem of the United States of America. My Black sisters and brothers have sung this as their own anthem since before the “Star-Spangled Banner” was picked by Congress to represent allegiance to the flag. I hope they would not be offended that white people like me might finally decide to sing it with them, officially as well as individually.

The words were written in 1900 by poet James Weldon Johnson, and set to music composed by his brother,  J. Rosamond Johnson. In my imagination, I hear its soaring notes echo throughout a stadium or an arena as Americans of all descriptions (or in the absence of descriptions) celebrate their unity and community, their common struggle through darkness, their new day of truth and hope: not a military triumph, but a victory of the human spirit we share.

All three verses are suitable to this moment in American history, as we face up to our “gloomy past,” whether as the oppressed or the oppressors. Some might object to the references to “faith” and to that indefinite God represented by the motto In God We Trust, who is “everybody’s” God or “nobody’s” depending on your personal persuasions. No one could doubt that “the blood of the slaughtered”—through war, slavery, and conquest—stains our collective souls and deserves our reverent honor for its victims as well as its heroes. No one could complain that its inspiring music is any more or less “singable” than the anthem we struggle through at present. Replacing a notorious British drinking song with a truly American tune could be nothing but good.

The poet of Ecclesiastes says there’s “a time for tearing down/and a time for building up.”

As some tear down the monuments, the flags, and the forces of division, let others of us build up the spirit, the symbols, and the sounds of “liberty and justice for all.”

If this doesn’t give you goose bumps, check your pulse.

Lift every voice and sing….

On Monday, I received the shocking news that Kim Bridgford had been admitted to hospice.  On Friday, the next news arrived:  Kim Bridgford has passed away.  Wait!  That’s too much too fast. I had no idea! My thoughts immediately flashed to the poem I’ve copied below, which is included in my 2018 poetry collection Windshift. 

Meditating on the brevity of life, and being aware at my age of the relatively short time ahead of me, still does not prepare the mind and heart for the reality: the sudden loss of someone much younger, someone who has been the center of so much vitality in the poetry world, in my poetry world.

I first met Kim at West Chester University in West Chester, Pennsylvania.  She had taken over from the founders as executive director of the West Chester Poetry Conference in Form and Narrative.  This conference, which I first attended in about 1998, was a peak experience in my life as a poet in that and subsequent years. The workshops and friendships I found there affirmed and fostered my craft.  Being among poets “speaking my language” created valuable new connections for me in the poetry universe.  At the end of her stint at that Conference, Kim founded a new conference dedicated to a global and diverse appreciation of voices in poetry.  I was able to attend this new conference, Poetry by the Sea, in Madison, Connecticut in 2019.

Kim was also the founder and editor of Mezzo Cammin, an online magazine publishing the work of women poets working in traditional forms.  I found a home there, too.  Kim kindly provided a blurb (complimentary review) for the back cover of my first book, Road Trip, in 2014.  Needless to say, I remain transformed and grateful to her for her commitment to poetry and to poets like me. Reading the tributes to her on Facebook now, I know I’m not alone.  Her grace and generosity are alive and well in the hearts of many, even as her physical presence on this earth is no more.

Turns out the “immortality” I might wish for as a writer isn’t embodied so much in the words I leave behind.  What matters, as Kim Bridgford–poet, mentor, friend–so beautifully exemplified continues through time unmeasured in other lives touched with kindness, encouragement, and love.  Good to know.

Thank you, Kim Bridgford.

Obituary

So she is dead before we even thought

that she was sick.  She chose. The cancer grew

with no “courageous battle” ever fought,

no patronage, no probing interview,

no Facebook page promoting prayer for her,

no million dollar drugs, no telethon,

no foreign clinic promising a cure,

no holding out for hope. She’s simply gone.

I want to be as definite as that

when my turn comes, ineffably to keep

my final secret like a Cheshire cat,

serenely smiling as I fall asleep.

I wish I would have been there at her side

to say, You go, Girl! just before she died.

Paul Tillich was a 20^th century theologian, teacher, and preacher. One of his sermons* had a life-changing effect on me back in my collegiate days, and I feel forever indebted to him for his enlightening (almost literally—as in, finally the light came on) message about the abounding and unconditional grace of God.

Recently, from our miscellaneous library at home, I pulled out his book of sermons entitled The New Being, copyright 1955. (You could buy a substantial paperback edition back then for $1.35). Every time I pick up this book from my lamp table, I find something timely, relevant, affirming, and insightful related to Bible passages.

In the chapter entitled “Who Are My Mother and Brothers…?” Tillich writes about an incident in the life of Jesus recounted in Mark 3: 31-35.  Tillich wants to illustrate the benefits and limitations of our personal family situations, good or bad, as they serve to shape our relationship with the divine.  Tillich describes the process of becoming independent of those early experiences. What stuck in my mind, however, was not so much the process he was explaining but a passing reference to “doing what the will of God is in a concrete situation, namely, to do acts in which love, power and justice are united.” [italics mine].

Love. Power. Justice. United.

I have a disposition towards trinitarian thinking. How often do ideas, points to ponder, bits of advice, and even theological concepts come in lists of three.  Three ways to make your dog behave. Three tips to improve dry skin. Three foods you should/should never eat. Three Bears, Three Blind Mice, Three Magic wishes!

So I was immediately struck by this flash of truth: the systemic change urgently required in American culture must consist of three things happening at once:  Justice. Power. Love.

Justice without Love is merciless.
Power without Justice is tyranny.
Love without Power is asleep.

In the noisy environment of freedom and democracy asserting themselves, all three of these relational imperatives must be embraced with equal strength and with a transcendent vision–a God’s-Eye-View if you will– of where we have come from as well as where we need to go.

* “You Are Accepted”: The Shaking of the Foundations (1948)

Because it is of the moment, and not likely to appear elsewhere that I know of, I lodge this recent poem here for you.  Thanks for helping me bear witness to what we see, and what we cannot un-see, happening around us every day.

AFTER THE SHOOTING

After the shooting….An ice cream truck played music as it drove past
the growing crowd of observers.            –Kansas City Star 6/14/2020

In the famous remark
which concludes the famous poem
referring to a famous painting
illustrating the famous plunge of
famous Icarus into the sea: they all

Had somewhere to get to
and sailed calmly on.

Here they crowd around to bear witness
point their cell phones
let the ice cream truck go by.

The list of the famous grows
day after day.

No one may
sail calmly on

no one’s forsaken cry
go unheard.

Barbara Loots

*W. H. Auden “Musée des Beaux Arts”

Pieter Bruegel the Elder
The Fall of Icarus c.1560

A personal manifesto.

The Negative

1—Reject propaganda

–consumer advertising

–political advertising, rallies, organizations of hate and discrimination

–educational institutions and materials with non-inclusive aims

2—Reject celebrity worship

–music, tv, movies, sports, religious organizations, online influencers

3—Reject consumerism

–stop buying stuff

–conserve, recycle, restore, share

— support local business above corporate entities

The Positive

1—Get educated and informed

–read and watch a diversity of reports and opinions

–check facts and data

–listen openly to others

–listen some more

2—Study and embrace history and the arts

–take a class, join a study group, get a library card, view the arts online, read

–visit sites like museums, libraries, monuments

–support local sports and play some

3—Determine your deepest values

–connect with a community that shares your values and hopes

–prepare an “elevator speech”—a brief statement of what matters most to you

–contribute money and time to candidates, advocacy organizations, and charities you choose

–VOTE and assist others to vote

…is clearly not a virus, but rot in the soul of a whole country. Today’s images of the president clutching a Bible against his big belly while tear gas and screaming continue beyond the frame must sicken us even further.

This past week, taking a cue from the pastor of my church, I engaged in a “media fast”—that is, I avoided reading newspapers, watching on-screen news reports (we do not do television at our house, but there’s plenty pouring out of the computer), and checking Facebook. I used email to keep up with friends and to note headlines. But mostly I did not torture myself with the relentless repetition of political evil-doings and clashing opinions.

But looking away is not a solution for the longer term. Figuring out how I am complicit in the systemic oppression of other people is JOB ONE. “Am I blinded by white privilege?” I ask. “What is water?” asks the fish.

My little outburst of emotion in response to the most recent murder of a black citizen by brutal police produced a poem, which I will post here. Statistics say that more than 1000 brown-skinned people die every year at the hands of law enforcement. Incarceration, economic inequity, lack of medical care….you know the symptoms of the sickness as well as I do. I might add that uncontrolled gun ownership makes killing a first and not a last resort for people more interested in their “rights” than their responsibilities to the community we call America. I want America to be good again, truly the land of the free. But not free to kill whoever looks or believes differently than “us” here or anywhere in the world.

DEAR DR. KING

It didn’t work, did it, that non-violence thing.
You’ve become the white people’s saint, aiming
to keep the brown-skinned people quiet in their churches.

Now the planet’s meanest thug cowers and rules, golfs
while the whole world burns, turns revenge
into a new kind of war.

But he’s not the problem. He’s just the pimple
on a deep and festering sore. Patience
never made an infection go away.
We can no longer meekly kneel to protest and pray.

I hear the sound of ploughshares being beaten into swords,
like the one blindfolded Justice
holds in her other hand.

Incidentally, in composing this, I happened to look online for images of Lady Justice—you know, the Greek-garbed figure holding the scales in one hand and a sword in the other. As a consequence, all week, I’ve been receiving unsolicited advertising from a discount home décor outfit offering little statues of Justice to decorate my mantel. The answer to the kind of people we are meant to be isn’t in the quantity of stuff we can buy, economic recovery notwithstanding. I don’t need a little statue. We all need the real thing: Justice.