When I “came out” clearly in my support of gay ordination and marriage, I was serving as pastor of a conservative, small town church in South Texas. Mind you, I never trumpeted my views from the pulpit. I never used this issue – or any other – as a litmus test to determine the faithful. I abhor fundamentalism.

However, this article circulated widely on the internet. A couple mornings later, one of my favorite members of that church walked into my office with a stricken look on his face.

‘Krin,” he said, “I read your article. I think what’s hardest for me is that even though I disagree with you strongly, I have already grown to love you as a friend. Now, somehow, I have to put those extremes together in my head and heart.”

He smiled ruefully and shook my hand. We remain friends to this day.

The truth hurts, especially when it’s rooted in love.

Our country’s recent elections were the most rancorous I’ve experienced. I heard truths that hurt PRECISELY because they came from people I love. I’m not naïve. I’ve always known that the cultural fault lines in our country zig-zag through my circle of family and friends. Until now, I’ve delighted in the dialogue that has marked these relationships. I like to think I’ve grown from them.

But there was something brutally naked about this latest election cycle. It pulled back the cloaks from ALL OF US. I’m afraid it has underscored our divisions rather than offer a healing path forward.

Why does this hurt more than ever? Because with some of my closest relationships, it’s like living in different worlds. We don’t speak each other’s languages. There are niceties, politeness, but no real connection at the deepest level of our world views. Agreeing to disagree feels like drifting apart.

I struggled to find an analogy, and what came to mind – oddly – is a scene from my youth. I share it with this qualification: I love my father deeply, and I know he loves me.

I was always an avid reader, far more attuned to the humanities than math or science. This confounded my Dad, a successful corporate career man, who would have loved to groom his son for a place in the business world.

One night I was reading The Country of the Blind, a brilliant short story by H.G. Wells. I don’t recall the exact passage that enraptured me, but it gave me wings! I had to share it with someone.

I made my way to Dad’s office. He was seated in front of a ledger and his adding machine, intent on complicated problems.

“Dad,” I said, “you’ve got to read this!”

He looked up, distracted, took the paperback from my hand, then speed read the page I pointed out.

“That’s good writing,” he said, his eyes straying back to his calculations. “Thanks for sharing it.”

Even as a young man, I felt the fissure. What did I know of elegant algorithms or the intoxicating air of high finance? What did he know of the power that words have to transport us into realms of imagination?

And yet, there is love, and it remains…

I took the book back, touched him on the shoulder, returned to my room.

(The torch of faith passed on to me from childhood has illuminated corners of existence my family never imagined. Still, early lessons can be powerful! I first shared this in a weekly column I wrote for the “Alice Echo,” then later in a collection of meditations called 52: Weekly Readings for Your Journey)

We all have favorite school teachers who taught us more than subject material; they imparted lessons about life. Yet in the cradles of our journeys, parents remain our earliest, most potent tutors. Their words and actions mold our outlooks from infancy.

Clearly, this can be positive or negative. In decades of working with people, I have seen both kinds of parental legacies. Learning to claim the best (and leave the rest) from our families is a healing journey many of us have taken. Some of us still need to.

On this Mother’s Day, I celebrate my Mom. Our relationship hasn’t been easy. Thankfully, over time we discovered a grace that is the cornerstone of our faith. This faith has been my mother’s greatest gift to me, a priceless heirloom. Let me share a memory that clearly highlights this.

My childhood neighborhood swarmed with kids, evidence of the Baby Boom. Like typical children, we often took sides and fought with each other. One day the conflict moved from taunts and posturing to rock throwing and BB guns. On the other side, I could see one of my “enemies.” His name was Gentry and he was a Goliath, heads taller than the rest of us. He was also mean as a snake, channeling anger from a severely abusive family.

Under a bright sun, we lined up in two gangs and advanced toward each other like fronts in a medieval battle. When fists started flying, Gentry singled me out. He had a board with rusted nails that he hurled like a lance. It struck my head, leaving a gash that gushed freely down my neck and onto my shirt.

The sight of so much blood drained the fight from all of us. We halted and scrambled back to our homes.

That night, my stitched head wrapped in Ace bandages, I lay under the sheets. My mother came to my bedside for prayer, a ritual she kept with all her children.

“We have something special to pray for tonight, don’t we?” she asked.

“We sure do,” I replied. “That God would take the pain from my head.”

“That’s not what I’m thinking,” she said. “We should pray for Gentry, that God would take the hatred from his heart.”

I felt an instant wave of resent. Why pray for that jerk? He was the guilty one. He was my enemy.

But with a sudden flash of wisdom beyond my years, I thought about the daily dysfunction Gentry endured in his family – the lack of a love I took for granted. My resent morphed into compassion. My mother waited silently, hoping this would take root in my heart. Finally, I took her hand and we prayed for Gentry and his kin.

One of the core teachings of Jesus is to love our enemies. Do not return evil for evil, but pray for those who persecute you. That night my mother illustrated one of the greatest elements of the faith she was passing on to me. I carry that torch to this day.

Mothers and fathers, your influence is incalculable! Raise your children with love and encouragement. Most importantly, pass on any faith you have that calls us to a higher plain.

And Mom, thanks for doing this with me. I love you!

I have friends who are Buddhists, Hindus, Catholics, Jews, Baptists and Sikhs. Others are atheists or agnostics. Still others hate labels of any kind. We are multicolored, multi-talented, multicultural, gay and straight, from all hues
of the political spectrum. I try to understand their journeys and cultivate mutual respect.

Most of us agree that I Corinthians 13 is a Himalayan peak of world literature. Written by the Apostle Paul 2,000 years ago, it is a lofty call to love.

Thankfully, it is not some ethereal standard impossible to emulate. What we find here is deeply practical, a chance for ALL human beings to choose this character trait in our daily lives.

Throughout February – a month long associated with love – I’ve invited friends to reflect on this sublime passage. Please take the time to hear them. Together we’ll get a view from this Everest of Love.

There’s a Benedictine tradition called Lectio Divina. It’s a way of reading and meditating on scripture as living words, not just objects of scholarly study. It requires deep listening and can be applied to the sacred writings of any tradition. Consider Paul’s words again. No matter how familiar they are, let them burrow into your spirit.

If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part; but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end.  When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known.

And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

To show how just a few words of this poetry can challenge us, I choose “Love is patient…”

I’m sure I’m the only one who struggles with patience.  🙂 Perhaps that’s why God deemed me (un)worthy of fathering a special needs son.

Every day, I must draw on subterranean founts of forbearance. Doing so, I now consider Kristoffer my resident guru. He unwittingly teaches me patience on a daily basis…

• His speech can be hard to decipher. I have to listen carefully, and if I need to hear him again, I gently ask for rephrasing.
• He perceives reality from a unique vantage point. It takes painstaking effort to enter into his world.
• He has the autistic trait of repeating his words and actions. I try to accept each version with new interest, or gently redirect him.
• Though he masters some activities quickly, there are basic skills that take him forever.
• He moves slowly, oh so slowly…

Patience! Just one aspect of Paul’s lofty call to love,  worthy of a lifetime’s cultivation.

Please check back here and see how others are climbing this Everest of Love in their own lives.

Carpe diem, friends!

“Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.” – Pablo Picasso

Many years ago, while strolling through the Sacramento Zoo with my granddaughter, Lola, we stopped at a playground. She clambered on top of a frog statue, and I snapped her picture. What still strikes me about this photo is the wonder in her eyes.

She gazes at a world full of possibilities. More importantly, she’s ready to vault into the next adventure with all her attention.

When does this childlike wonder begin to wane? When does it get ironed and pressed out of us? When does the stirring of a breeze lose its tantalizing invitation? When do colors begin to fade to black and white? When do the tyrannies of should and ought cancel the allure of leaping into the full-blooded present? When do we become part of the living dead?

Is it from taking on the harness of duty? Is it the stain of watching countless evils on the evening news? Is it the weight of too many sorrows? Is it our unwillingness to heal from wounds inflicted by others? Is it fear of our own mortality?

Or do we just get jaded?

Some of you remember The Logical Song by Supertramp.

When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful,
A miracle, oh it was beautiful, magical.
And all the birds in the trees,
Well, they’d be singing so happily,
Joyfully, playfully watching me.
But then they send me away to teach me how to be sensible,
Logical, responsible, practical.
And they showed me a world where I could be so dependable,
Clinical, intellectual, cynical.

Part of the problem is that we let wonder remain a noun while it longs to be unleashed as a verb. Instead of a passive, fleeting emotion, it wants to be our standard bearer, leading us on a journey of discovery!

I affirm Picasso’s quote. There’s an artist in ALL of us, no matter our Meyers-Briggs Type or Enneagram number. ALL of us. I know so many…

Engineers whose algorithms explore the edges of reality. Parents whose canvas is a nurturing home. Coaches who are Michelangelos of motivation. Travelers with trippy itineraries. Preachers who tell stories that keep us rapt. Quilters with uncanny eyes for color. Photographers who make our jaws drop. Gardeners who turn backyards into oases. Note writers gifted with encouragement. Rembrandts of random kindness. Nurses who exercise the healing power of touch. Cooks with tantalizing recipes. Animal lovers who speak the languages of horses, dogs, and cats. Architects, teachers, musicians, community organizers…I could go on, but I’m breathless!

Haven’t found yourself in this list? Then ask your spouse, a family member, or your closest friend, what do you think I’m good at? They’ll have an answer. Why? Because you, too, are an artist! Use their response as a springboard and let your giftedness vault you into a new life. Begin to wonder just how far your unique abilities can take you!

What if each of us was to test the boundaries of our own creativity in 2023? What if we did so without regard for the criticism of others, simply daring to be fully ourselves.

To all you artists reading this – yes YOU! – let’s turn wonder into wondering!

Two young girls organize a life-changing ministry, bringing clean water to more than 90 villages and cities. Click on the blue “Paper for Water” link to read my article in the current issue of Presbyterians Today. These girls are remarkable!

Paper for Water

If you’ve been able to strut through life with unyielding confidence, impervious to criticism, don’t read this. If, instead, you’ve allowed damaging messages to occupy your head, hear me out.

I believe in original innocence, not sin. In ways that matter most, each of us is born a tabula rasa, a fresh soul launched, as Lao Tzu says, into this world of “ten thousand things.” And some of these teeming influences are destructive.

We get placed on a social pyramid based on our looks, intelligence, or aptitude. We may have parents who project their untamed demons onto us. We may become the target of bullies. We may possess a tender spirit that observes the evils of this world and recoils into self-defeating isolation. We may struggle with depression, addiction, or some other malady that makes each day unduly burdensome.

If you, like me, have ever wrestled with doubt, self-judgment, or limiting thoughts, my heart goes out to you. I ask you to whisper a simple prayer with me: “May 2016 be a year in which we learn to be gracious to ourselves.”

This isn’t a new sentiment. It’s just hard to make it real.

I heard a woman teach about “the two great commandments,” Jesus’ summation of the copious Hebrew laws. One, love God will all your heart, mind, soul and strength. Two, love your neighbor as yourself. She focused on that kicker at the end. If we have not learned to love ourselves, our treatment of others will mutate. Our inner incrimination spills over like poisoned wine from a dirty cup.

“By learning to love ourselves,” she said, “I don’t mean pride, egotism, self-flattery, or insistence on our own way. And we can love others even when we don’t treat ourselves kindly. But let me ask you? Do you believe love is our highest calling? (Everyone nodded). Do you believe that grace and forgiveness are a needed balm in this world? (Again, unison nods). Now, do you consistently apply this love, grace and forgiveness to your own soul?” (A deep silence).

While in treatment for alcoholism, I met a cadre of broken men still fighting this disease that doesn’t discriminate. Like flowers in the dustbin, not all their suffering was wasted.

One of them, a prominent lawyer, said to me: “Krin, every day it comes down to this: Who do we let have the microphone in our head? Will it be the Critic, the Doubter, the Deceiver, the Comparer? Or will it be the Encourager, the Affirmer, the Gracious and Loving Voice of our Creator that lives inside ALL of us? Take back the mic!”

Do you still cling to regrets, nurse resentments, or allow the limiting voices of others to rent space in your brain? Are you still unconvinced of your splendid and unique beauty?

If so, may you find the disciplines to dispel these self-defeating lies. Call it the power of positive thinking, Rational-Emotive Therapy, or self-talk. Whatever method you use, take back the mic this year! Let your Original Self/God/the Creator’s Presence speak healing words into your spirit!

If you are reading this, I love you. Please whisper this prayer with me one more time: “May 2016 be a year in which we learn to be gracious to ourselves.”

Selah.

In “Walden and Civil Disobedience,” Thoreau said, “The mass of men (sic) lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation. From the desperate city you go into the desperate country…”

George (Richard Gere) is homeless on the streets of the Big Apple. He’s already living in his own desperate city, both physically and mentally. Whether he will move permanently to his desperate country remains to be seen. Selling his coat for a few beers, sleeping in a prison-like shelter, dozing on benches, daring to visit his estranged daughter – these are the bleak patterns of his day.

His story, told in the movie “Time Out of Mind,” could touch the core of your humanness. IF you dare to watch it.

Why do I use the word dare? It’s simple.

There is nothing Hollywood about this film. No special effects. No dramatic plot line. No titillating sex scenes. No swelling score. No heroes or heroines. No pandering to our mass appetites.

Even the cinematography challenges our norm. Gere was filmed with hidden cameras, often through windows or doorways on the gritty streets, a cacophony of random voices carrying on in the background. It’s almost clinical, like Italian neorealism, detailing his struggle with inner demons from a dispassionate distance.

And those demons are certainly there. We get no clear, linear explanation of George’s past, but the scant details give a glimpse of his descent. They highlight in painful relief the final, strained connection he has with his daughter, Maggie (Jenna Malone).

Justin Chang, a critic with Variety, called this film “a soulful, fascinating, and haunting piece of urban poetry.”

One of its eeriest elements is the character of Dixon, played with panache by Ben Vereen. He gloms on to George, shadowing him day and night. Is this happenstance or fate? Is Dixon even real? His nonstop talking is a one-sided dialogue with the repressed elements of George’s character, like a split personality given flesh. When Dixon’s fingers hover over the keys of a café’s antique piano, it embodies the last vestiges of hope in George’s spirit. And when the authorities force Dixon from the shelter, he hurls two prophetic phrases at George. “Don’t give in to the demons!” “You owe me an apology!”

If I could petition the Academy of Motion Pictures and Sciences about this film by Oren Moverman, I would say, “Give Gere the Oscar for best performance! Let this low-budget masterpiece, like ‘Leaving Las Vegas,” be lauded as an example of cinema’s potential to explore the edges, to light up the human experience in ways we never imagined.”

Say it any way you want. Black lives matter. Homeless lives matter. All lives matter. If you believe it, I dare you to watch this movie, to get outside your consumer expectations and let it work its magic on you.

I cried as the credits scrolled. I know why. In an unglamorous career as a pastor, I had the privilege of meeting people this world will never celebrate. They let me enter into their desperate cities and walk alongside them for a while.

And sometimes, not always, we found a way out together.

“It is better to light a single candle than to curse the darkness.” – Chinese proverb.

Every Christmas Eve during my childhood, our family attended the candlelight service at our home church. With the sanctuary festooned in decorations, we sang carols, recited prayers, heard the familiar story of Jesus’s birth. But, to me, the most vibrant moment came at the end. The pastor lit a candle from the Christ flame at the center of the Advent wreath, passing that spark to a few people who passed it on until everyone was aglow. Then we filed outside to the church’s playing field, forming an illuminated circle under the stars of a deep December sky. An elder would recite John 1:5 – The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. Finally, we all lifted our candles and sang Silent Night.

Even as a boy, I understood the audacity of this tradition. I heard the nightly body counts from the Vietnam War, broadcast on network television. I knew of the geopolitical tensions between the US and USSR. I had seen footage of race riots that had recently torn through our country’s urban streets.

But I also knew the darkness closer to home, the struggles of those in our congregation. As I scanned their faces in the circle of light, I marveled at their courage. I saw the family who lost their daughter to a tragic car wreck. The man praying during a time of unemployment. The woman wearing a wig to hide her head denuded by chemotherapy. The widower tenaciously leaning on his walker, determined to stand tall despite the visceral loss of his wife of over 60 years.

All of them, wicks held high in the crisp darkness. Daring to hope.

I no longer identify with any particular faith, relishing the diversity of meanings in our world. But I’m still a candle lighter. I light them in remembrance and silent prayer. I light them with compassion. I light them as symbols of rebellious hope. As I remaster this post at Christmas time, 2022, I think of some candlelight moments from my past.

• I had spent the day in a squatter’s settlement of Tijuana, land reclaimed from a garbage dump. The residents had no electricity or water, living in crudely assembled shacks on the dusty streets. We were there to build simple homes, but as a pastor I had double duty, praying for the sick and blessing a newborn baby. That little girl, looking up at me with her shiny dark eyes, seemed to embody human longing. After dinner at a downtown taqueria, I walked to La Catedral de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe. In an alcove flickering with light and shadow, I lit a candle for those who stand tall in the midst of squalor. A candle for justice.
• I was wandering the streets of Munnar, India, a unique village in the state of Kerala where equal amounts of Hindus, Christians, and Muslims live in rare harmony. At a roadside shrine to Ganesha, I lit a candle for tolerance in our fractured world.
• I was on a solo camping trip in the desert of Joshua Tree National Park. That night, the brilliance of the Milky Way was a shimmering glimpse of eternity. I lit a candle for two people whose memorial services I had recently performed. Henry Parra, taken by alcohol at age 39 just moments after a prayed at his bedside. Tony Matrulo, dead at age 13 from a freakish go-cart accident, just months after I helped his troubled family find the embrace of community in our church.

Given the many dark events of these past few years – the pandemic, the right-wing assault on our nation’s Capital, the war in Ukraine – I have a prayer for all of you. Whether you’re lighting candles for Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza, or just holiday cheer in general – may you have the audacity to choose hope in the midst of whatever trial you’re facing. May you have a deep and abiding peace!

Two days after being shot by an unknown gunman, Bob Marley performed at a peace rally in Jamaica. Before going on stage, he uttered these famous words: “The people that are trying to make the world worse never take a day off, why should I? Light up the darkness!”

Selah.

Keith blew in with a cold front, already seated on the front steps of our church as I got to work. His clothes were filthy and threadbare, and the face that peered out from beneath a hooded sweatshirt was reddened by more than wind. Body odor and booze fumes tore at my nostrils.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

“I was wondering if you could spare a few dollars,” he said.

“I don’t give out cash,” I answered. “I’m not judging you, but people drink up the money as soon as I give it to them.”

“Yeah, I do drink some beer,” he said with a smile.

I smiled back.

“How about I take you to get something to eat?”

“No thanks. I already had one of those breakfast burritos at McDonald’s.”

“How long have you been homeless?”

“Many, many years.”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Keith,” he replied.

“Good to meet you. Mine’s Krin. If you want, I can get you a room at the Rescue Mission. They’re a great outfit, and I know the people in charge. They’ll help you get settled, find work, make a new start.”

“No thanks. I prefer to be on the road.”

“OK. Is there anything else I can do to help you?”

“Actually, I could use some new shoes and a coat.”

What an understatement. His black tennis shoes were nearly sole-less and his flimsy sweatshirt was no buffer to the cold.

“Tell you what,” I said, “Let me take you to the Trash and Treasure Resale store and we’ll see what we can do.”

Friends, never underestimate how the simplest of gifts can make a difference in someone else’s life! Truly one person’s trash can be another person’s treasure. I took Keith to the store, an ecumenical ministry in our town, praying silently they would have what he needed. My prayers were answered. On the shoe shelf was a sturdy set of leather Skechers, his size, barely used. And there on the rack hung a beautiful wool coat with quilted lining and an over-sized hood.

I held out the coat with a flourish, mimicking a sales clerk at Men’s Wearhouse.

“Here you go, sir,” I said. “This looks like just your style.”

He laughed and slipped into it, playing his part. Perfect fit. And the shoes were more than adequate, especially when we added a clean pair of socks.

“I really appreciate your help,” he said.

“No problem,” I replied. “Are you sure you don’t want me to get you a room at the Mission? They’ll help you in ways that I’m not able to.”

“I’m sure. I think I’ll just head down to Kingsville. I once spent a Christmas there. Can’t even remember what year.”

“You’re determined to do the Forest Gump thing, eh? Just keep walking and walking?”

“Guess so.”

We exited to the back alley. You could feel the coming front in the frigid, sharp wind. I shivered, imagining how Keith would fare during the night. He thanked me again as we shook hands. Then he strolled off down the alley, resplendent in his new shoes and coat.

Just before he rounded the corner, he stopped, lifted his arms and shouted “Merry Christmas, everyone!”

Every year brings the customary question, especially from my wife: “What do you want for Christmas?”

My answer gets clearer every holiday season. I want LESS!

Less clutter, less obligation to purchase, less tinsel and decorations, less calendar frenzy. More serenity, more joy, more commitment to giving the simple gifts of love and grace.

My wife nods with a knowing smile, her unspoken response being, “Sure, I’ve heard that one before. But if you don’t get anything, you’ll probably feel unappreciated.”

No I won’t, honey. I want LESS!

Years ago I wrote a booklet called “Have an Authentic Christmas,” my humble attempt to put the Nativity story in its rightful perspective. I asked us to read this ancient tale as a call to humility and universal love, an alternative to the corrosive influences of wealth and worldly power.

I quoted a man named Michael Jessen; his words remain prophetic.

“For a holiday that celebrates the birth of the ultimate, anti-materialistic prophet, Christmas is burdened with stuff. Jesus urged his disciples to simplify their lives, drop all their possessions, and follow him. But as his birthday nears, statistics abound about the extra garbage we produce, the increased stress we endure, the credit card abuse we commit, the additional hoards of food and drink we ingest. Polls repeatedly say we yearn for less commercialization of Christmas, yet we also tell pollsters we expect to spend as much or more than last year during the holidays.”

I write this while the United Nations Climate Change Conference convenes in Paris. CBS coverage included pictures of pollution and global warming effects from around the globe. There were surreal images of Beijing, where smog is so suffocating that people wear face masks to protect their lungs. It’s like smoke moving in from killing fields, or fog from a noxious swamp.

The schizophrenia of our nation struck me immediately. We want a strong economy, driven by consumers. Retail sales on Black Friday, Small Business Saturday, and Cyber Monday are closely watched, causing rises or falls in the financial markets. And so many of the products we purchase are made in China, a nation that continues, like the U.S., to belch fossil fuel residues into our atmosphere, affecting us all.

Our over-consumption and waste cannot continue. It will doom our planet. Just as insidiously, it dooms our spirits by tying them to the crumbling treasures of this earth.

How can any of us, in good conscience, wring our hands about climate change, then continue our current patterns of buying?

Do you care about melting glaciers, dwindling rain forests, or vanishing species? Do you believe this planet is a precious gift to preserve for generations to come?

If so, will you join me this Christmas by committing yourself to 50% less spending? Let our actions be a witness to how each of us can make a small difference.

Maybe you’ll even adopt this simple response to the question of “What do you want for Christmas?”

I want LESS!