Almost every day there is yet another report of sluggish consumer spending. On the one hand, it's something that seems good. We're saving for the future, saving up in order to buy things, holding back on using those credit cards. We're feeling insecure because of the rocky employment picture, we're feeling poor because of the reduction in value of all our assets, so we're holding back.
According to the commentators, our greater thrift is holding back the economy. They sound as if they wish we would just plunge into that high-spending way of life that went before the financial meltdown that led to this Great Recession.
I say it's not consumer thrift that's the problem. I say the shift is an opportunity. Greater thrift creates an opportunity for the people and institutions who make loans to think anew about what they are doing. This is a time for investment in a new way of life, and the savings creates a funding source. Invest in green technologies, in farms closer to places where people live, in neighborhoods where people can get what they want by walking or riding a bike, in railroads that move things more cheaply, in all those things that will make real a different way of life. Invest in ways to recycle materials and reclaim waste for profitable use.
Let's not go back. Let's make art and put on plays, read poetry and do sports, go walking just for fun, hang out in coffee shops and go to church. Let's fix the equipment we already have so we won't be throwing so much away. Let's build a society where consumer goods are not the be-all and the end-all, but rather tools to enrich our relationships with one another or tools to our enjoyment of our own minds and bodies. Let's go on saving and letting the saving turn into investments that can undo some of the damage we have done to the planetary ecology on which our lives depend. We can have a nice life without so much stuff. A nicer life, even, if we open our eyes and look around at the possibilities.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Thursday, July 16, 2009
From Another Planet?
I've been holding this post for a long time, a bad thing since it is about interplanetary exploration!
Actually, Rev. Mark is not from another planet, he's from Uganda. I met him at the International Council of Unitarians and Universalists gathering a couple of years ago, and here he was again this summer, attending the General Assembly of the Unitarian Universalist Association in Salt Lake City. He has many great connections, but somehow in the course of planning his itinerary, the International Office has routed him through Manchester, New Hampshire, where nothing was happening. I volunteered to help, so I met him at the plane, took him to his hotel, and spent some time sharing sights and food with him. The next day, I took him to South Station in Boston to meet the bus to Cape Cod and his next assignment.
He came to Unitarian Universalism the same way a lot of Americans do, by finding that another church tradition did not work for him. He believed in himself, he said, and in the inner guidance that came to him, rather than in submission to the authority of someone in a higher position in the church. He had found us online, then met us at the International Council of Unitarians and Universalists meeting, which led on to his making this trip to the U.S. to make connections here. Many things he found strange -- he marveled at how heavy so many Americans are, he was uncomfortable in air conditioned buildings -- and it was all very interesting. He liked the highways.
We spent a space of time on the highway from New Hampshire to Boston, and in his company I found myself thinking that if a country were to begin a plan of development right now, they would do well to do it without highways. It is not at all clear how we will transform our highway-based way of life, the one where so many people get up in the morning, get into cars, and drive to work, as the price of fuel rises and its availability shrinks. For how long will this continue to make sense?
I spoke of my feeling that a country could have a nice life without so many of them, without so many cars. Having thought of a country that still had a choice, I began to see my own country in a different way. What will we do with them as we move into the fuel-scarce future? How will we have a nice life without so much driving?
Actually, Rev. Mark is not from another planet, he's from Uganda. I met him at the International Council of Unitarians and Universalists gathering a couple of years ago, and here he was again this summer, attending the General Assembly of the Unitarian Universalist Association in Salt Lake City. He has many great connections, but somehow in the course of planning his itinerary, the International Office has routed him through Manchester, New Hampshire, where nothing was happening. I volunteered to help, so I met him at the plane, took him to his hotel, and spent some time sharing sights and food with him. The next day, I took him to South Station in Boston to meet the bus to Cape Cod and his next assignment.
He came to Unitarian Universalism the same way a lot of Americans do, by finding that another church tradition did not work for him. He believed in himself, he said, and in the inner guidance that came to him, rather than in submission to the authority of someone in a higher position in the church. He had found us online, then met us at the International Council of Unitarians and Universalists meeting, which led on to his making this trip to the U.S. to make connections here. Many things he found strange -- he marveled at how heavy so many Americans are, he was uncomfortable in air conditioned buildings -- and it was all very interesting. He liked the highways.
We spent a space of time on the highway from New Hampshire to Boston, and in his company I found myself thinking that if a country were to begin a plan of development right now, they would do well to do it without highways. It is not at all clear how we will transform our highway-based way of life, the one where so many people get up in the morning, get into cars, and drive to work, as the price of fuel rises and its availability shrinks. For how long will this continue to make sense?
I spoke of my feeling that a country could have a nice life without so many of them, without so many cars. Having thought of a country that still had a choice, I began to see my own country in a different way. What will we do with them as we move into the fuel-scarce future? How will we have a nice life without so much driving?
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Courage to Love a Troubled Country
I remember the Fourth of July of my childhood, a time when our whole neighborhood packed up their picnics and their softball equipment and headed out to a park by the Potomac River, a place of green grass with a nice grove of trees, where there could be running and playing in the sunshine and sitting later in the shade. I remember there were home-grown fireworks after it finally got dark, but before that, there were ceremonial talk and song and food.
The flag was displayed. One of the men, an actual radio newscaster, would read the Declaration of Independence in a strong, confident voice. The adults would murmur their assent in key places, but I had no idea what was so important about all that. We did sing the Star Spangled Banner and America the Beautiful and My Country 'tis of Thee, and it was from that singing that I came to learn all the verses of all those songs. Then of course there were things to eat, of which I only remember the Flag Cake, something my mother made, a normal rectangular cake frosted with stars and stripes. I got to help with the frosting when I was old enough.
We were patriotic, and determinedly so, for it was the time of McCarthyism, which was testing the strength of our little community. The radio newsman moved away to get out of the political heat of the DC area. One of the fathers of kids I knew went to jail. My own father lost his job. And still we read the Declaration and sang the songs and made the flag cake. But in the end, we were not the same. I certainly was scarred by the experience of those times, and I think others were too.
By working diligently in that small community and in the larger one surrounding us, my parents and their friends were able to build an island of good values in a sea of intolerance and selfishness. That island still exists, lo these many years since they did their work. Leaders of my generation are passing the work along to younger ones.
So it was worthwhile. And this most recent spell of McCarthy-like political climate was mostly not so bad as that one, though it had its moments. I'm hoping that little by little our country becomes civilized. Maybe it's really true that reaching out, having conversations on many levels, sharing words and song and food, maybe that's how the world is really changed. We remember the moments of courage, the moments of challenge, victory and defeat, but in a sense what's really important is the work in between, the daily building of the way of peace and freedom within ourselves and among our neighbors.
I don't have a flag cake to share this year. Maybe next year it would be good to do that. Whether I do or not, I will continue to love my troubled country with all its flaws, love it enough to speak truthfully and work diligently to make it better.
The flag was displayed. One of the men, an actual radio newscaster, would read the Declaration of Independence in a strong, confident voice. The adults would murmur their assent in key places, but I had no idea what was so important about all that. We did sing the Star Spangled Banner and America the Beautiful and My Country 'tis of Thee, and it was from that singing that I came to learn all the verses of all those songs. Then of course there were things to eat, of which I only remember the Flag Cake, something my mother made, a normal rectangular cake frosted with stars and stripes. I got to help with the frosting when I was old enough.
We were patriotic, and determinedly so, for it was the time of McCarthyism, which was testing the strength of our little community. The radio newsman moved away to get out of the political heat of the DC area. One of the fathers of kids I knew went to jail. My own father lost his job. And still we read the Declaration and sang the songs and made the flag cake. But in the end, we were not the same. I certainly was scarred by the experience of those times, and I think others were too.
By working diligently in that small community and in the larger one surrounding us, my parents and their friends were able to build an island of good values in a sea of intolerance and selfishness. That island still exists, lo these many years since they did their work. Leaders of my generation are passing the work along to younger ones.
So it was worthwhile. And this most recent spell of McCarthy-like political climate was mostly not so bad as that one, though it had its moments. I'm hoping that little by little our country becomes civilized. Maybe it's really true that reaching out, having conversations on many levels, sharing words and song and food, maybe that's how the world is really changed. We remember the moments of courage, the moments of challenge, victory and defeat, but in a sense what's really important is the work in between, the daily building of the way of peace and freedom within ourselves and among our neighbors.
I don't have a flag cake to share this year. Maybe next year it would be good to do that. Whether I do or not, I will continue to love my troubled country with all its flaws, love it enough to speak truthfully and work diligently to make it better.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Meeting Thoreau in the 21st Century
After he helped his father build an "arrived" house in town, Henry David Thoreau borrowed some land from his friend Emerson and built that cabin where he lived for two and a half years. There he wrote the only two books he ever completed: A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers and Walden. He had the privacy there to observe, remember, reflect, and write. He was living at the cabin when he made that protest against the war on Mexico that landed him in jail and became the germ of his lecture and essay on Civil Disobedience. The cabin was a good place for him just then, furnished with just the barest necessities, and not too far from town.
My own new place, in keeping with the exigencies of having accepted part-time work as an interim minister with a wonderful congregation in Belfast, Maine, is reminding me of Thoreau's cabin. It's better: I don't have to build it myself. The rent is right. It has all the necessities. And even I, who pride myself on a fairly simple lifestyle, will have to pack a storage unit full of all the things I won't be taking to my Walden on the shores of Penobscot Bay. There will be enough chairs to entertain a very few people, and the place is but a few steps from the local food coop, where a larger group could sit for hours and talk. And it's very close to church, indeed. There will be privacy in the evenings to play my flute. I will be able to park my car except for trips to the hospital or people's homes or other suchlike excursions.
Will I write? I will surely keep my diaries, which will not have a record of anything like surveying the contours of the bottom of Walden pond, nor curmudgeonly commentary on other people's habits and beliefs. But what will present itself to be written besides that? I'll wait and find out. I do know there will be good spaces of time that can be devoted to the work of writing or to the mindless moodling that is such a necessary part of the creative process. Still, the temptation to look for other paid work is very real... for the right opportunity, I could surrender to the temptation to get paid for something more than the half-time ministry. Will I have the courage to drive life into this corner and experience the very marrow of it? This remains to be seen!
My own new place, in keeping with the exigencies of having accepted part-time work as an interim minister with a wonderful congregation in Belfast, Maine, is reminding me of Thoreau's cabin. It's better: I don't have to build it myself. The rent is right. It has all the necessities. And even I, who pride myself on a fairly simple lifestyle, will have to pack a storage unit full of all the things I won't be taking to my Walden on the shores of Penobscot Bay. There will be enough chairs to entertain a very few people, and the place is but a few steps from the local food coop, where a larger group could sit for hours and talk. And it's very close to church, indeed. There will be privacy in the evenings to play my flute. I will be able to park my car except for trips to the hospital or people's homes or other suchlike excursions.
Will I write? I will surely keep my diaries, which will not have a record of anything like surveying the contours of the bottom of Walden pond, nor curmudgeonly commentary on other people's habits and beliefs. But what will present itself to be written besides that? I'll wait and find out. I do know there will be good spaces of time that can be devoted to the work of writing or to the mindless moodling that is such a necessary part of the creative process. Still, the temptation to look for other paid work is very real... for the right opportunity, I could surrender to the temptation to get paid for something more than the half-time ministry. Will I have the courage to drive life into this corner and experience the very marrow of it? This remains to be seen!
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Scary Prospect
Last August, a gunman opened fire in a Unitarian Universalist church, upset because we are "too liberal". Last week, a doctor who provided abortion services was murdered as he ushered at the Sunday morning service. And then, a white supremacist opened fire at the Holocaust Memorial in Washington, DC. Gun sales are up. Ammunition sales are so brisk that there are shortages in some places. The Southern Poverty Law Center (SPLC) reports a major increase in hate group websites. It's a scary prospect.
While I was checking the SPLC's website, I looked at the hate-group map of New Hampshire. We're not doing as bad as some other states, or maybe, our haters are more independent... there's a white supremacy group listed in Concord that has its Post Office address in Haverhill and an anti-semitic "traditional" Catholic group in Richmond. But we all know independent-minded folks with guns in the closet and emergency rations in the cellar, people who will talk about "the rising" that will result if the liberals push too far.
So what's a peace-loving liberal-minded religious person to do?
I guess I'm remembering that peacemaking does not wait for war to begin.
We need to talk with the folks we know, the ones with the apocalyptic mindset, and listen to them, too. What is it they fear? Is there common ground? Something to work on together? These conversations are not easy. Not easy to set up and not easy to pursue once they start. But each of us knows someone who needs to calm down about what's happening in our country just now. The TV news they see, the radio talk shows they prefer, and the websites they visit will not help them calm down. Only their real live neighbors, co-workers, and relatives can reach out with the calming effect of listening and caring.
What the shooters in Knoxville, Wichita, and Washington have in common is something that draws them out of the network of grumbling, fact-distorting, right-wing opinion they inhabit day to day into a supremely solitary action, a sense that the mantle of responsibility has fallen on their shoulders, that they must act rather than continue to complain.
There is no way to tell how many degrees of separation there are between us in our liberal cocoons and them in their right-wing ones, but to have any hope at all of reaching the next potential shooter before he (or she) shoots, we have to move toward them with courage, love, patience, and hope. How can we do that?
While I was checking the SPLC's website, I looked at the hate-group map of New Hampshire. We're not doing as bad as some other states, or maybe, our haters are more independent... there's a white supremacy group listed in Concord that has its Post Office address in Haverhill and an anti-semitic "traditional" Catholic group in Richmond. But we all know independent-minded folks with guns in the closet and emergency rations in the cellar, people who will talk about "the rising" that will result if the liberals push too far.
So what's a peace-loving liberal-minded religious person to do?
I guess I'm remembering that peacemaking does not wait for war to begin.
We need to talk with the folks we know, the ones with the apocalyptic mindset, and listen to them, too. What is it they fear? Is there common ground? Something to work on together? These conversations are not easy. Not easy to set up and not easy to pursue once they start. But each of us knows someone who needs to calm down about what's happening in our country just now. The TV news they see, the radio talk shows they prefer, and the websites they visit will not help them calm down. Only their real live neighbors, co-workers, and relatives can reach out with the calming effect of listening and caring.
What the shooters in Knoxville, Wichita, and Washington have in common is something that draws them out of the network of grumbling, fact-distorting, right-wing opinion they inhabit day to day into a supremely solitary action, a sense that the mantle of responsibility has fallen on their shoulders, that they must act rather than continue to complain.
There is no way to tell how many degrees of separation there are between us in our liberal cocoons and them in their right-wing ones, but to have any hope at all of reaching the next potential shooter before he (or she) shoots, we have to move toward them with courage, love, patience, and hope. How can we do that?
Sunday, May 31, 2009
A Pilgrimage of Sorts
I sold myself at the service auction to give a tour of Walden pond, with stories and quotations from Henry David Thoreau. People bought it! So yesterday we went, never mind that the forecast was for showers. The forecast was wrong, and we had a great time. It had been a little challenging to choose what to say about Thoreau's Walden journey to a group that had not, like the Adult Enrichment class I gave a few years ago, actually read the book first. And I wasn't sure I wanted to focus on "Walden" itself. There was a passage in "A Week on the Concord and Merrimack Rivers" that talked about places near Manchester NH -- the village of Amoskeag, the little mountains called Uncanoonuc, the lake above the dam, and the village of Hooksett. So I read that on the way from here to there. But also, we wanted to get to know each other. Several of us had taken different names -- I pointed out that Thoreau had done that, too, having started out as David Henry.
There was the background of his going -- the tragedy of losing his brother to lockjaw, the disappointing stay in New York City, the threat of a particularly stupid war with Mexico, the growing concern that there would be Civil war, and his own father's desire for a nice, big, house, which Henry helped him build. And the idea that this was not all that far from town and dinner invitations and visits from friends, a place more of open fields than it is now, with a stand of pine woods that Emerson had bought and offered him as a place to build a retreat. And the pond, the lovely pond, still there looking placid and inviting.
And some quotations that showed his interest in enlightenment, a spiritual experience about which he and his friends were newly excited, now that translations from the Sanskrit were becoming available. The important thing is to wake up and stay awake (Richardson says Thoreau himself suffered from narcolepsy, so this would have been of interest on more than one level). And to live in constant anticipation of the dawn. The fact that this period was one of great productivity, the period when Thoreau wrote his only two book-length pieces, and grew so much as a writer and speaker, that was important to mention. And that he had gone to spend that famous night in jail from his lodging in the woods.
The personal things drew their attention -- who he loved, how he dressed, playing the flute by moonlight while floating in his boat in the pond, his sister bringing pies from home, his struggle with TB. His last words, prompted by someone asking if he could see the other side of that dark river separating this life from the next -- "One life at a time."
The weather was perfect, the company was engaging, our lunch at the Walden Grill was delicious, and the experience of Concord today was fun. I guess it was a pilgrimage, at least for me, to revisit our holy curmudgeon's places and refresh my sense of him. I was glad of the occasion.
There was the background of his going -- the tragedy of losing his brother to lockjaw, the disappointing stay in New York City, the threat of a particularly stupid war with Mexico, the growing concern that there would be Civil war, and his own father's desire for a nice, big, house, which Henry helped him build. And the idea that this was not all that far from town and dinner invitations and visits from friends, a place more of open fields than it is now, with a stand of pine woods that Emerson had bought and offered him as a place to build a retreat. And the pond, the lovely pond, still there looking placid and inviting.
And some quotations that showed his interest in enlightenment, a spiritual experience about which he and his friends were newly excited, now that translations from the Sanskrit were becoming available. The important thing is to wake up and stay awake (Richardson says Thoreau himself suffered from narcolepsy, so this would have been of interest on more than one level). And to live in constant anticipation of the dawn. The fact that this period was one of great productivity, the period when Thoreau wrote his only two book-length pieces, and grew so much as a writer and speaker, that was important to mention. And that he had gone to spend that famous night in jail from his lodging in the woods.
The personal things drew their attention -- who he loved, how he dressed, playing the flute by moonlight while floating in his boat in the pond, his sister bringing pies from home, his struggle with TB. His last words, prompted by someone asking if he could see the other side of that dark river separating this life from the next -- "One life at a time."
The weather was perfect, the company was engaging, our lunch at the Walden Grill was delicious, and the experience of Concord today was fun. I guess it was a pilgrimage, at least for me, to revisit our holy curmudgeon's places and refresh my sense of him. I was glad of the occasion.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Trusting the Process
I'm in the middle of a strange journey. I resigned as minister at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Manchester, quite sure that my ministry with that congregation had reached its conclusion. June is my last month with them. At the same time, I face a really challenging market as I look to move into intentional interim ministry. I've been trusting the process, and it has become a long, strange trip. A ministry awaits, of what kind, in what location, I am not quite sure. Will it be the interim ministry I set out to find? or something else?
It began gradually about twelve months ago, and went into second gear around January. But no real information was available until April, and no real action was possible until the last week of that month. I had rounded up resources to help me get through it: an interim minister who was not going to be searching this year to serve as a coach, a friend from seminary to serve as confidante, a shrink, just to be on the safe side. And I went to an expensive intensive session of career counseling to get clear about my inner and outer strengths and challenges.
The final list of congregations arrived for Round One, and I did my best to pick congregations that would not be wildly popular with everyone else while at the same time being more or less up my alley. Since this was my first time doing it, I went mostly on guesswork. I have some ideas about advance preparation for next time.
My coach came back from the conference of professional interim ministers with the word: "If you want to work this year, you need a website." I had thought it was an option to do it the old way with a portfolio of documents that could be express-mailed to interested congregations, so I set about to get online. I called a member of the congregation who has been helpful with IT stuff. He showed me the way to a site where a domain name and a website could be set up. "Website tonight!" it called itself, but it took me all weekend and a lot of intense concentration to get a reasonable facsimile of a job search website up and running.
That Monday, we found out which congregations had gotten our records. I took a chance and emailed their contact people to let them know my web address. And waited.
Soon, one congregation called to say I didn't look like the minister they were looking for. But soon after that, others called, and we set up telephone appointments for interviews. I had three nice interviews with three congregations that all looked as if we could make beautiful music together, but ultimately, as Round One was ending, they all called to say they had picked someone else. Deep breath and wait for round two. And start thinking about Round Three, the alternatives to Transitions Office facilitated interim ministries. A nicely-situated half-time ministry. Overseas temporary ministries. And pretty soon, three more listings from Transitions. One quick response and another good interview, but no, I was not their final choice. And now the pace has slowed. One of the new ones is really looking for a consulting minister who might stay. So is the half-time prospect. And the last one hasn't been in touch yet.
Maybe this is my chance to do something really different -- volunteer with some organization that saves the world's forests? -- and so I have begun my inquiries into that. The overseas possibilities are still alive. A friend is interested in one of them for her sabbatical, so maybe I should just chill on that one. A few more pictures on my website, but will anyone be looking at it? It will be perfect just in time for the market to close. My confidante's telephone ear is getting tired, but she's happy to encourage me. My references are eager to speak yet again about my sterling qualities. My coach continues to be helpful.
My little team and I are trusting the process. One of my reference people from inside the congregation said it today, "it will come, and maybe from a completely unexpected place." Tonight, I'm taking a deep breath, looking at the new crescent moon, and remembering to trust. Trust and do my footwork. Along with so many others in this little market and so many others in this big world of recession. The right thing is out there, coming closer. May it be so.
It began gradually about twelve months ago, and went into second gear around January. But no real information was available until April, and no real action was possible until the last week of that month. I had rounded up resources to help me get through it: an interim minister who was not going to be searching this year to serve as a coach, a friend from seminary to serve as confidante, a shrink, just to be on the safe side. And I went to an expensive intensive session of career counseling to get clear about my inner and outer strengths and challenges.
The final list of congregations arrived for Round One, and I did my best to pick congregations that would not be wildly popular with everyone else while at the same time being more or less up my alley. Since this was my first time doing it, I went mostly on guesswork. I have some ideas about advance preparation for next time.
My coach came back from the conference of professional interim ministers with the word: "If you want to work this year, you need a website." I had thought it was an option to do it the old way with a portfolio of documents that could be express-mailed to interested congregations, so I set about to get online. I called a member of the congregation who has been helpful with IT stuff. He showed me the way to a site where a domain name and a website could be set up. "Website tonight!" it called itself, but it took me all weekend and a lot of intense concentration to get a reasonable facsimile of a job search website up and running.
That Monday, we found out which congregations had gotten our records. I took a chance and emailed their contact people to let them know my web address. And waited.
Soon, one congregation called to say I didn't look like the minister they were looking for. But soon after that, others called, and we set up telephone appointments for interviews. I had three nice interviews with three congregations that all looked as if we could make beautiful music together, but ultimately, as Round One was ending, they all called to say they had picked someone else. Deep breath and wait for round two. And start thinking about Round Three, the alternatives to Transitions Office facilitated interim ministries. A nicely-situated half-time ministry. Overseas temporary ministries. And pretty soon, three more listings from Transitions. One quick response and another good interview, but no, I was not their final choice. And now the pace has slowed. One of the new ones is really looking for a consulting minister who might stay. So is the half-time prospect. And the last one hasn't been in touch yet.
Maybe this is my chance to do something really different -- volunteer with some organization that saves the world's forests? -- and so I have begun my inquiries into that. The overseas possibilities are still alive. A friend is interested in one of them for her sabbatical, so maybe I should just chill on that one. A few more pictures on my website, but will anyone be looking at it? It will be perfect just in time for the market to close. My confidante's telephone ear is getting tired, but she's happy to encourage me. My references are eager to speak yet again about my sterling qualities. My coach continues to be helpful.
My little team and I are trusting the process. One of my reference people from inside the congregation said it today, "it will come, and maybe from a completely unexpected place." Tonight, I'm taking a deep breath, looking at the new crescent moon, and remembering to trust. Trust and do my footwork. Along with so many others in this little market and so many others in this big world of recession. The right thing is out there, coming closer. May it be so.
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