I picked up my copy of the New York Times yesterday and found myself turning the paper over and walking away – I did not want to look at the images of terrified children and grieving parents. I started to cry. I first found out about this tragedy while working at a training event for public school elementary teachers, and we shared a moment of silence in the wake of such news. I cried then too.  Leaving work that day I was thinking about the shootings, and my own elementary-age students suddenly came to mind. I was overwhelmed with the thought of something like this happening to them. And I cried again.

The event I am referencing took place this past Friday [Dec. 14, 2012] in Newtown, Connecticut, but it is otherwise a tragedy that occurs around the world with far too much frequency. And it does not make any sense.

I actually started writing this post over a week ago, in response to another event that took place in New York City. A man was killed after getting into an argument with another person who pushed him onto the subway tracks as a train was approaching the station. The two people did not know one another. A witness to the event happened to be a professional photographer, who captured pictures of the moments leading up to the victim’s death. The photos were then used by another New York City newspaper with a purely sensationalistic front-page headline, and the public outcry was swift to condemn their publication.

Between both of these events, a lot of anger and confusion has been expressed:

“Why didn’t anybody help him?!”

“This is why we need stricter gun laws!”

“This is why crazy people deserve to be locked up!”

“What is wrong with this world?!”

“What good did it do to stand there and take pictures?!”

“Why did they interview frightened children?!”

“Who would do such a thing to little children?!”

“If I had been there…”

It is seems to be a natural response to tragedy to seek out someone or something to blame, and to seek out a reason why something terrible happens. It makes us feel good, or at least somewhat better than just sitting with a sense of utter helplessness and confusion. These types of responses often include an expression of anger, with is also natural – when we feel threatened, from a survival standpoint, we need to be angry in order to prepare ourselves for defense and to rally others to our cause. Blame feels good because it creates some semblance of control within a situation where we feel helpless.

But what is the purpose of controlling a terrible situation? I do not wish to sound cold or uncaring by asking this question; rather, my hope is that in asking such a hard question it may allow us to focus on healing.

In the face of tragedy, when we feel consumed by emotions like grief, fear and anger, we can be very presumptive. We make claims to knowing how we would act if faced with the same situation, or we make claims to understanding why something happened based on a compilation of information. But we cannot truly know how we would act, partly because no two situations are exactly alike and partly because the most we can really do is assume or hope how we would act. We developed as human beings to either fight, flee or freeze in the face of threat and danger, and reacting in one way and not another does not make a person ‘good’ or ‘bad, ‘weak’ or ‘strong.’ It merely means we are human, and in extreme situations we do not use our more complex cognitive processes to decide what to do – we act instinctually. Judging our selves or others for acting or not acting differently in a terrible situation does not make the pain, anguish, and suffering disappear. Tragedies are tragedies because they do not make sense. No matter how many pieces of information we can gather, finding an answer to the question of why something happened does not make the pain, anguish, and suffering disappear. The process of grief and healing is complex, and people utilize and develop innumerable ways of moving through that process. We do not typically intend to exacerbate grief or suffering by talking about what we would do or why something happened, but often such words are not helpful. Acknowledging that these situations are awful and unfair, and admitting that we do not understand why it happened can be extremely powerful in the process of healing.

For many, it is also a natural response to invoke or implicate God as a way of dealing with terrible situations. As a person of faith, I have found myself crying out to God in the face of tragedy and suffering. The question of “where is God when terrible things happen” is an old one, and even has a special name: theodicy. To be sure, this is not a topic of concern exclusive to those who believe in God. The issue of the existence of suffering in the world has a rather prominent place in all of the world’s wisdom and faith traditions and within other ideologies of humanity. But I find it important to offer something in return to the many invocations and references to God I so often hear in the wake of tragedy and suffering. Speaking as someone who identifies as believing in God and as one who believes in the teaching and example of Jesus, I believe that God’s relationship with humanity (and creation) is based in love. I do not believe that God wants humanity (or creation) to suffer, or that God is absent or at fault when terrible things happen. But this does not stop me from crying out to God, or from feeling anger or desperation in the face of tragedy and suffering.  An important component in my belief in God and God’s loving relationship with humanity is our having free will. We are free to make our own choices and it is a tragedy in itself that our choices so often result in causing great harm to our selves and one another (and all of creation). God’s love and forgiveness are always available, in my belief, but I do not consider that love and forgiveness to be an excuse for the choices people make. Participating in God’s loving relationship includes the responsibility to say no to hatred, injustice and violence. I do not seek to perpetuate suffering for myself or anyone else, but I readily admit that modeling compassion is often very challenging. That is why I thank God for grace.

"Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani?" (Mark 15:34)

When I consider this verse in scripture and the context in which it is spoken, I see this expression of Jesus as the most basically human thing he says or does. It shows me that all of our emotional responses to suffering are important and valid, including anger and helplessness, and that God is big enough to hold all of our suffering. God’s grace provides the opportunity and the space for healing, and the hope that our choice will be to live for the sake of love.

What happened in Connecticut at the elementary school is not okay; what happened on the subway platform in New York is not okay; what happened in the Oregon mall is not okay; what happened in China at the elementary school is not okay - no act of malicious violence, no injustice, no hatred toward another human being is ever okay. And my prayer is that our suffering will ease and that our hearts will heal, in order that love and compassion may abound through the grace of God.

May all beings know peace, well-being and love. May all beings be free from suffering.

Photo source: Arrrrt (Attribution via Flickr Creative Commons)

The common rhetoric around Lent is often about making changes to one’s life and sacrifice, giving things up, and it comes across with a rather negative connotation. We just have to get through these 40 days and then we can focus on celebrating the joy and hope of Easter.

With this in mind, I often found it difficult to be motivated to observe the season of Lent. I used to be ambivalent toward or even dread the season of Lent because there was a strong sense of pressure around what I should be deciding to give up and sticking with it. One of the most freeing and thought-provoking Lenten reflections I encountered was to think of Lent instead as an opportunity to take something on in my life, to give up giving up something for Lent. While I found this freeing, though, for several years it led to my doing "nothing" during Lent, and thinking that this was at least better than making a somewhat empty decision to not eat chocolate for a while.

I work for the Garrison Institute, whose mission is to study and promote contemplative practices and work to bring these practices into areas of social change. Specifically I work with the Education program, looking at how contemplative practices impact the field of education. To many, my job sounds very abstract and heady, and it is not always clear exactly what I do. Anytime someone asks me where I work or what I do, I tend to chuckle and ask them how much time they have to let me explain

The organization is non-sectarian, and our definition of "contemplative practice" is broad, drawing on multiple traditions and ways of knowing including science. Mindfulness is an area of research that is currently attracting much attention, and much of the conceptual process behind this research is based on social interactions and relationships: how does mindfulness (or, contemplative practices) impact the way we interact with one another?

The way I think about mindfulness is to think in terms of attention and intention: do I notice my thoughts, emotions and actions, and then bring this awareness to the level of change. We all have daily routines and habits, even to the point that we move through our days seemingly on auto-pilot, more narrowly focused on the immediate and the short-term. Not to say that daily routines and habits are bad or ineffective, as often they are extremely worthwhile and important, but there is a tendency for a narrowed focus to result in defensive reactions to interruptions to our routines. Mindfulness encourages one to bring more attention to those daily routines in order to help one keep a broader perspective, and it supports our ability to respond to situations as they arise.

What is key, though, in bringing such attention to my daily routines is the practice of not being judgmental toward my thoughts, emotions and actions. Instead of judging our thoughts, emotions and actions as qualitatively good or bad, mindfulness invites us to see our whole experience as part of a process of interaction and response. Living mindfully is not mere naval-gazing, however, as the practice of mindfulness encourages us to return to the world. And this is where I harken back to this season of Lent, as an opportunity to bring more attention and intention into every aspect of our lives: to be mindful of our inner life and to the external world around us, and to reflect on ways to be more intentional (or say, spiritual) in all of our experiences and interactions.

If we think about Lent as an opportunity to change our whole life, rather than focus on a single, more convenient and perhaps superficial aspect of our selves, these 40 days become transformative. As this time of reflection and preparation is also a commemoration of Jesus’ time in the wilderness, before embarking on a journey toward imminent death, we cannot think of this season as anything less than a serious undertaking and opportunity for change. Lest we get too excited by the glory of Easter morning, that journey toward the cross was long, complex, difficult and fraught with pain both physical and emotional.  Lent – 40 days in our internal wilderness confronting all of our conflicting thoughts, desires, emotions and behaviors – is a big deal.

But, doesn’t that mean we have to open up to all of the uncomfortable, ugly parts of ourselves? Yes. And in doing so we are given the opportunity to show our selves kindness and compassion, which encourages us to show such kindness and compassion to others. As we learn to approach our selves, others and every situation more mindfully, we must do so with gentleness and care.  For it is only in the open, vulnerable space, where we are fully present to our selves and to others, where the power of the Spirit moves.

A recent piece by Dylan Ratigan on the Huffington Post touched on similar elements, but there was still something missing. The common thread that keeps coming to my mind is forgiveness. Whether it is the crying out for accountability, or the blatant lack of taking responsibility for one’s actions, forgiveness seems to be something that is sorely lacking from but desperately needed in our world.  And it seems to me, that as important as discussions of justice may be (both legal and spiritual), forgiveness and its role in the work of justice and reconciliation should not be forgotten.

Much could be said about the various specific events I listed above, and how forgiveness may (ought to) play a role within them. For OccupyWallStreet, the masses are calling for a change, calling for justice, but perhaps less explicitly I also hear them seeking an apology. People have been severely hurt by our socio-politico-economic system as it has been left to run amok, and that hurt has been physical, emotional, mental and spiritual.  How different might the public feel and act toward our shared situation were those who gambled with the future to actually express remorse?

And as we continue to witness the use of extreme force against the protesters, as we may pray for non-violent actions and unarmed citizens to be physically and constitutionally protected, isn’t there still an opportunity for apologies regarding forceful acts to have a far more profound impact than that of a nightstick or a spray canister?

In stories of abuse, both physical and economic, how much are we as witnesses begging for an apology as much as an admission of guilt? We seek answers and explanations from those involved, yet remain dissatisfied and horrified at what we know has taken place. And in that seeking of guilt, should we not also balance our anger with some acknowledgement of our very human propensity to commit serious harm against one another? That is what I know is the hardest to ask in talking about forgiveness – to still seek out compassion for the abuser as much as the abused.

In my opinion, one of the most powerful, cogent, and sometimes even subversive phrases is “I’m sorry.” Paradoxically simple and complex, I have found these words to bring healing in the midst of suffering, to bear witness to pain, and to offer a needed dose of compassion. I have also found them infuriating as they are uttered by someone who has wronged me… and yet later found deep gratitude for the opportunity to mend a broken relationship. Where are these words from the mouths of those who claim to lead us? Where are they from those who seek and maintain power? Where are they?

I do not naively assume that merely saying ‘I’m sorry’ is all it takes to bring about change. After an apology is uttered, there is yet much more work to be done to mend damaged relationships. In reflecting on forgiveness, I was drawn back to the example of Archbishop Desmond Tutu and the Truth and Reconciliation Commission founded after the lifting of apartheid rule in South Africa. (To throw in a book recommendation, look into The Heart of Forgiveness.)

I am not necessarily suggesting that a national truth and reconciliation commission be implemented, although it would be quite something to see such an attempt be made--similar in fact to those who call for a Department of Peace to be formed and have as important a role in governing and as much financial support as the Department of Defense. I am suggesting that the work of forgiveness and reconciliation be more readily considered by those in positions of leadership. I do not think it coincidental that Archbishop Tutu’s work in forgiveness is what came to my mind, as my Christian background has much to say about this topic.

Throughout my life, forgiveness, mercy, grace, and atonement have been words and topics of many a sermon, class, and conversation.  None of these are very simply understood, as they are constantly teaching and providing opportunities for spiritual and relational growth. To share another way of thinking about atonement, gleaned from an undergraduate professor, break down the word and consider it this way: at-one-ment.

I am not thinking in terms of spiritual accounting or getting caught up in the complicity of guilt toward our actions. At-one-ment is about bringing ourselves back into a mutual relationship. Grace teaches us that God’s forgiveness is perfect; but it does not teach that we should be left unchanged after the experience of grace. And no matter how much in the image of God we may be created, we are not perfect creatures. Offering grace between one another is hard, constant work, as is the work of forgiveness and reconciliation.

I have also found myself, now that Advent has begun, reflecting on the example of grace that was injected into creation in the most vulnerable form of an infant child. If this season of Advent and the coming Christmas holiday has something to teach all of us, perhaps it can be this: we have the opportunity to do something different. We have the chance to make a choice of love, and to engage in the necessarily difficult task of repairing the world. I offer these words as a challenge to how we may come to respond to the crises of our times, and to the example we may hope to leave with our children.

Fear and blame dominate public discourse these days. There is more finger pointing and name-calling coming from the mouths of our nation’s leaders that could rival any middle school playground. Beyond being frustrated and angry, I’ve been disappointed at the level to which we seem so comfortable accepting blame as a credible strategy of civil discourse and the democratic process. What good is blame, really? Calling attention to a problem is one thing, but remaining in a state of blaming and accusations only leads to defensive measures to the point that we find ourselves in a complete stalemate.

Unable to then get anything done, millions of people are left to suffer while those in positions of power stand arms-crossed with their brows furrowed and whine about one another’s inaction. This is democracy? No.

And in response the people are doing something. They are not just a group of privileged white kids living off of their parent’s money, hanging out in a public park complaining about the system instead of getting a job. Zuccotti Park is filled with people from all walks of life – youth, elders, children, parents, black, brown, white, homeless, employed, queer, straight, veterans, union members (and the list could go on, I promise you) - brought together by the shared situation of a dismantled middle class, and the decision to say in righteous frustration: ‘No! This is not democracy, and we will no longer let governance be driven only by those with extreme wealth. We are what democracy looks like, and we will be heard.’

The people participating in the Occupy movement are asking for accountability. A list of demands or an outlined policy or a piece of legislation will not be the work of the movement – this is the job our elected leaders are supposed to do, something that is a response to our situation and not a reaction to it.

I happened to be there on a Sunday afternoon, when a multi-faith coalition of religious leaders from around New York City came to show their support of the movement. Had I checked my email earlier in the day I would have seen an invitation to this service, but I like that I just happened to be there and joined in spontaneously. They began their march circling the park holding a homemade rendition of the Wall Street Bull, making a direct reference to the scriptural Golden Calf and false idol worship. Various religious leaders took turns speaking to the protestors in the park, voicing their solidarity for the people there and everywhere who are suffering from the vast economic injustices of this country. Songs were sung, including “Down By the Riverside” and “We Shall Overcome.”

They promised to return every Friday and Sunday as long as people are there, and also to let people know that their synagogues, mosques and churches are open to anyone who may need another place to go for food, shelter, or a shower. They were not there to evangelize, proselytize or otherwise co-opt the movement. They were simply there to show their support to the occupiers, and to speak out against economic injustice as people of faith. It was beautiful, and I hope to join them again.

The atmosphere in Zuccotti Park is one of commitment, of striving for justice, of openness, of relationality. As a person of faith, I felt blessed to be among such people, and would venture to say that the Spirit is moving in that space and around the country. A truly remarkable thing is taking place, and just because we may not fully understand it is no reason to chide it or deride it. One of the things I hope will come out of the movement is a greater respect and openness to the possibility of doing things in a radically different way.

If we believe in a just economy and truly believe in democracy, then we must be constantly vigilant of injustice. To let injustice exist demeans the things we claim to stand for, as people of faith but even more simply as people. It is only through the work of building solidarity that we can hope to provide our selves and our children with a future more just than what we know today. It is the way of love.

I was raised in a Christian context, and still identify with the label ‘Christian’. My understanding and use of this label, though, centers around the example of peaceful, loving relationship as expressed in (much of) Christian scriptures through the figure of Jesus. From this my understanding of justice is one based in reconciliation over retribution and vengeance. I recognize though that legal definitions of justice and faith-based ones differ greatly. What the state and nation deems ‘just’ oftentimes I find appalling.

Throughout my life I have struggled to understand other self-identified Christians’ expressions of hatred and violence; I have also struggled to understand all other’s expressions of hatred and violence, regardless of their labels and identities. In my life, though, my attempt to work through expressions of hatred and violence is perhaps most poignantly experienced in conversations with my students.  I am fortunate to get to spend time with these 6^th & 7^th graders, all of whom are incredibly bright and engaged – I learn a lot through them. As children of interfaith families (with Jewish and Christian backgrounds), my co-teachers and I are regularly faced with rather direct questions pertaining to how one should live. Questions about ‘evil’ and other ‘bad things’ (in their words) have been posed on more than one occasion, sometimes referring to specific events and other times in a more general way. From personal stories about witnessing or experiencing bullying; family stories of surviving and not surviving the Holocaust, and relatives’ experiences as immigrants to new countries; and national and global events like wars and terrorism - these children have plenty to draw from. We base such discussions, planned or not, in examples from scripture and other writings that speak about relationships. We shy away from making too many definitive, qualitative claims, in order to allow the students to make their own decisions; guiding them toward and acting as resources, we hope for them to remain open to new ideas and differing opinions. I share with them that my faith is based on the above mentioned understandings, and that I strive to live in a way promotes love, peace, reconciliation and right relationship. We remind them that those they would label ‘evil’ or ‘bad’ because of their actions still deserve compassion and the opportunity for forgiveness. We acknowledge that watching one of them be harmed would provoke our anger, and even possibly lead to our own use of force in their defense. We remind them that striving to be peaceful, loving and accepting does mean we expect to do so perfectly. We ask them to imagine what it might feel like to be hated, and to hold that in mind when someone commits a harmful act against them or another. We also acknowledge that all of this is hard and that it’s complicated, but to not hold such a perspective leads to yet greater problems. These are considerations worth taking, no matter our age or the situation.

I’ve written before about being a ‘bleeding heart’ and I will readily admit to being very sensitive to pain and death – my father’s nickname for me even at the age of 4 was Tender Heart (yes, after the Care Bears). This openness to pain, though, is something I view equally as a strength and as a weakness. Empathy, sympathy and compassion are aspects of myself that I do not want to diminish; if fact, given my human ability and penchant to express a full range of emotions, I wish my ability to be empathic, sympathetic and compassionate were yet greater. It’s something I work on. Openness to pain, however, also opens me up to vicarious suffering and the all-too-common debilitating responses to such based in fear, anguish, helplessness and anger.  This is also something I work on.

Within my faith context I can only mourn for all of those involved in Troy Davis’ experience - which is all of us - and pray for healing and grace. And in thinking about healing and grace, I am reminded of these words, from William P. Young’s The Shack:  I suppose that since most of our hurts come through relationships so will our healing, and I know that grace rarely makes sense for those looking in from the outside. My hope is that through relationships we may be able to heal from the various and vast injustices we see and participate in. And I welcome the surprise of grace to enter into the world where we do not expect it.

10 years ago, I was a high school senior in Arkansas. School had started for the day and I was in AP Biology that morning, when a classmate arrived rather late. She told us all that the radio was saying that a bomb or something had gone off in New York. Without any better information (and before the days of smart phones) no one tried to investigate this news further, and besides we had work to do. But, news was spreading through the hallways and by the time we prepared to switch classes, it was clear that something very serious had happened. We had a strange AP configuration, such that two classes shared a lab period, although there were two of us enrolled in these classes and couldn’t be in both labs at once. As it was, my AP Calculus class had caught wind of the something serious and our teacher had made her own efforts to find a radio and tuned in to the news along with turning on the Channel-1 TV and tried to get a fuzzy signal.

When we arrived upstairs, we were quickly caught up on what had happened – a plane had crashed into one of the Twin Towers in New York. No calculus was learned that period. We stared in shared horror and confusion as the first tower fell, and then the second. They were repeating the footage of the plane crashing into the second tower, only to cut away to them falling down. Then the reports came in about the Pentagon. No one could say anything, and the reporters we were listening to could only express their disbelief. We had a block schedule, with 4 periods a day, but I honestly don’t remember what I did during our lunch break. We had an open campus and a large number of students drove, but I would suspect many of us simply sat in our cars with the radio turned on trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

My teacher in my next class was the wife of a National Guardsman and she was also pregnant. We didn’t do any work in that class either, and by then the school district had allowed the TVs to be turned on. There was a test scheduled in my final class, and our teacher allowed us to watch the news only after we’d finished the test. I respect her decision to not cancel the test, to try to distract us or else maintain some normalcy given the circumstances. It’s a little ironic, the class was an introduction to psychology and sociology.

After school I went straight to my Dad’s office, which was only a few blocks from school. My father is a Methodist minister. Being a preacher’s kid I didn’t consider it significant that I went to a church upon leaving school; I just wanted to see my Dad. I had cried confused tears throughout the day, but in his office I finally sobbed. I let out all the fear and sadness that had welled up all day. By this time the news coverage had already led me to believe we would conceivably be drawn into a war, and I remember being fearful that (among other things) the draft would be reinstated. What would happen to my older brother if that happened?

I can’t say that my Dad succeeded in calming me down, but at least I stopped crying and felt able to drive home. He needed to stay, but convinced being at home with Mom and my brother was best. As I left, the traffic was horrible. I noticed that people were lining up at the gas stations and rushing to the grocery stores. Seeing what was happening, the hysteria that led to hoarding, I got angry. Why, in this moment, did a full tank of gas or extra food seem like an appropriate reaction?! Were we all so selfish that the cost of gas going up was already on people’s minds? In a moment when I only wanted to be surrounded by my family, scores of others were doing something I found despicable and not at all helpful.

Six years later I moved to New York City for graduate school, to pursue my Master’s degree in theology from Union Theological Seminary. I had never visited the city before moving; I never knew the skyline when it contained those distinctive towers. I had no idea that day in 2001 that 10 years later I would find myself in this city, having obtained my degree and started my adult life and career.

In the four years that I have lived here I have participated in numerous events related to 9/11: unity walks, peace events, dialogue events, talks, classes, conversations. I’m friends with people who lived in the city in 2001, and I’ve heard many of their stories. I’ve heard stories from others who, like me, were not New Yorkers then. I’m friends with people who served multiple tours in both Iraq and Afghanistan. I’m friends with self-identified liberals and conservatives. I’m friends with Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindis, Atheists, Buddhists, Agnostics.

All this to say, that who I am today, I hope, is someone who works to see through stereotypes and to challenge ignorance. I don’t know where I will be in yet another 10 years. But I hope that we are not still at war, and that we have found a way to better respect differences and will have grown beyond reactivity driven by hatred and fear. I hope that I will continue to challenge my own biases and tendencies toward anger over love. This is simply my story, and thank you for letting me share it.

On my way to work this morning, a small sidebar in the daily paper I read caught my attention. Yesterday, the Supreme Court ruled 8-1 in favor of the Westboro Baptist Church who were appealing a case against them for protesting at funerals (military funerals in particular, but others as well) on the grounds of free speech.

The US Constitution guarantees certain rights and freedoms to those living under its rule, and was written within the ideological framework of democracy. The issue of free speech is a contentious one, and one in which my understanding and interpretation of that freedom may make me rather unpopular among those who would speak and allow others to speak in any way in the name of open, public discourse.

I’ll come right out and say it, I do not agree with the gross application of free speech we see so often in today’s court rulings. As I understand freedoms and rights they come with great responsibility on the part of those who claim to uphold them. Such responsibility requires that one considers more than just the legal consequences of sharing one’s opinions in public. A democracy is supposed to be a marketplace of ideas, a place where varying viewpoints are shared and a body of people work with (NOT against) one another in order to ensure that the quality of every life is high. Debate is a part of this process, disagreement and compromises are expected, but it is also expected (perhaps more so, hoped) that these debates and disagreements will be reasoned.

Speaking reasonedly does not mean speaking free of passion, but free speech and vitriol are not the same thing.

The Constitution guarantees certain freedoms, but it also states, at the very beginning, that all people are guaranteed the right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Here is where broad interpretations of free speech and I part ways: I know what it feels like to be harmed by another’s words, and it does not make me happy or otherwise fulfill my life and liberty. I am not claiming to be someone who never utters a harmful word against another person; I know I have, intentionally and unintentionally. But I do not want to live my life defined only by how much harm I cause. How is it a good measure of my ability to express myself if how I do that is through base comments and slurs against those who are different than me? I would rather live my life where accountability and mutuality define my relationships, so that the scope of my words however wide will always include the invitation to share in discussion. It matters to me if I harm someone, emotionally or physically. And it is possible to voice disagreement, even over hot-button topics,  without being hurtful.

In contrast to the story of yesterday’s ruling, I also read this morning that fashion designer John Galliano now faces charges of spreading racial hatred after being arrested last week in a cafe in Paris. In France (the historic ‘birthplace’ of modern democracy, it is worth noting) it is illegal to spread hate speech. This is not to say that France is ‘better’ than the United States, or any other country or body politic; but I do find these two examples in great contrast when looking at examples of ir/responsible interpretations of a freedom of speech.

After reading the above article on the Supreme Court’s ruling, I offer my own dissent: public discourse IS stifled when individuals and groups speak in a way that tramples on the rights of others. I have written before on radical love, and I am aware that my ability to love in such a way is right now being tested to the core. And as much as I support peace and justice and believe in love and compassion, my righteous anger toward a situation compels me to act – through this post, through my interactions with others, through my urgent drive to love fiercely in the face of hatred and injustice.

I am angry that our highest court seemingly only understands peace as a lack of physical violence. I am angry that our want of ‘open, free public discourse’ submits to sensationalism and fear-mongering. And I pray that while I fully support dialogue and disagreement, we may one day decide that the content of our speech does matter.  I pray.

The legend of Saint Valentine(s) is one of mystery. February 14 is no longer recognized as an official Saint's Day in the Roman Catholic calendar of saints (since 1969), but Valentine is still listed in the register of those proposed for veneration. One of the oldest versions of the story tells of a priest who was murdered by Claudius II for performing weddings for Christian couples, which was at the time illegal. The expression of religion as a legal issue may be one of the oldest struggles of power, and in this story we also see how expressions of love are also regarded as threats to maintaining power. While this is not a post solely focused on the topic of gay marriage, or even LGBTQ rights in general, I do find it compelling to comment however briefly to others who would identify as Christian and deny others the choice of love and commitment. Quite simply, one way to read the story could give space to compare the histories of ancient Christians defending their rights to marry against the Roman empire with the current story of anyone claiming her or his right to love and be in relationship with whomever one chooses. I know that such simple arguments do not resolve such issues, but it is interesting to note how we seem to forget what persecution feels like unless it is happening to us (however ‘us’ may be defined). As a straight, Christian ally and as one who is aware of the many privileges I am given by my society but that are denied to some, I cannot sit idly by and watch as others are judged ‘in the name of God’.

Rereading the hagiography of Saint Valentine really gave me pause, and caused me to think of the possibility of celebrating Valentine's Day as a day of radical love. Different than romantic love, or even sisterly/brotherly love, radical love requires a lot more. From the Christian context as I have come to know it, radical love is the stuff of Jesus - the overwhelming, sometimes jarring way of being with others that does not allow anything but justice to rule. It is a love that brings us in to touch with the parts of our selves that make us uncomfortable, and supports us as we love our whole self regardless. It is a love that then also allows us to look at others who may make us uncomfortable and see them deeper, past behaviors and differences (physical, intellectual, ideological) into the part of their selves that is shared between us all. Perhaps not everyone shares my feelings and belief that there is a common core among us. But I have found it almost impossible to believe otherwise, after encountering so many beautiful people who have undoubtedly taught and continue to teach me how to love in myriad ways. Radical love is the stuff of the gospels, yet in some 2000 years we have hardly gotten it right. On Valentine’s Day we are encouraged to say and buy and do whatever we must to express our love for another. But what would it take to make happen such an outpouring of radical love that this world in which violence and anger and fear are normal might actually be changed? Cornel West offers the following words: justice is what love looks like in public. This is a public display of affection I wish we could see more of.

West’s words have given me strength in many a struggle, as I have watched and heard and felt the pain of suffering through injustice. They renew my hope. LGBTQ justice; immigration reform; healthcare; reproductive rights; war & torture; racial justice. How I approach these topics, issues and causes (among others) is through the lens of love. I may identify in particular ways and claim various labels – woman, educator, Christian, liberal, Southerner, American, progressive - but I want to be defined most by what I do. And I am a great lover. I have often been called a bleeding heart, and of all the labels someone else could use to describe me, this is one I now choose to adopt positively. I would rather my heart be open, 'bleeding',  vulnerable and willing to risk, rather than the alternatives.

What does it mean to be a Christian in 2010? In the United States? In New York City? Does one’s answer to any of these questions apply only to one’s self, or to all who identify as Christian? Some may be tempted to offer quick answers to these questions, simple yeses or nos, but I encourage anyone with an automatic answer to pause. Take a moment. Are there any underlying assumptions in those answers? One of the issues I discuss with my students is the danger of assumptions. Trying to explain or describe who one is to another is difficult enough (especially at 12-13 years old), and more often others have meanings and understandings different from our own. Thinking in the language of middle-schoolers, differences are often thought of as weird and usually carry a negative connotation. What we work on is becoming comfortable in our weirdness, and being able to accept the weirdness of others. Making assumptions about another’s identity makes it easier to feel connected, but it also makes it easier to miss the defining characteristics that make us who we are.

Much of my experience in identity formation comes from challenging the assumptions and expectations others have imposed on me. I am a preacher’s kid, of a United Methodist pastor serving in Arkansas. Many individuals, both within and outside of my father’s congregations, expected my family to be a certain way. Throughout my life I have often defined my faith by negation, by saying what I do not believe and what I am not. The study and practice of inter-religious dialogue has helped me come to define my faith by affirmation, as being in dialogue has helped me find beauty in the myriad ways of expressing what I believe.  I have learned to remain open to experience, to risk that everything I thought I understood could be challenged. Even recently I have had many experiences that have been sources of reflection and formation: attending a dialogue event over the September 11 weekend, held at Park51; hearing Chokyi Nyima Rinpoche describe the qualities of luminous love; attending my first Catholic wedding; discussing the advances in neuroscience as it relates to contemplative practices; even watching the leaves change while traveling through the Hudson River Valley.

As a question of formation I find myself constantly rethinking my understanding of Christianity and a Christian identity. I have shared this with my students, that who I was at 13 is not who I am at 26, nor should I be. Even after several years of academic study and a lifetime of personal experiences, I don’t have it all figured out. And I don’t want to.