The voice of love

In the process of moving from Ohio to Alabama I have talked to many people on the phone. We've had to deal with utility companies, magazine subscriptions, insurance people, automobile titles, and so on. I have encountered some very pleasant and friendly people on the phone during these many calls. But I have also had to talk to folks who were anything but cheerful and friendly. Some seemed like machines; a few sounded like they didn't really like what they were doing; one or two even sounded hostile and certainly weren't very helpful.

Now, I can give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they were having a bad day. Maybe one or two were going through some kind of personal crisis while still doing their job. And of course there are people who are just gloomy or exude coldness as part of their nature.

But I wonder--couldn't we all try to speak in a friendly manner and reach out to help our fellow humans, whether when doing our job or just meeting someone in the course of the day? A little kindness goes a long way. Even a smile or personable manner of speaking to another individual can manifest love.

I imagine Jesus smiled a lot. I know he was a great laugher--and a bringer of laughter. If we have one ounce of holy spirit in us, we can get up the energy to talk to co-humans in a humane way. To "love your neighbor as yourself" includes how we speak to one another. Using our voices to love others is a way to lift each other up. It's not just what we say, but the tone of our voice that can be strengthening.

I’m not angry!!!

On Feb. 18 Joseph Stack flew his plane into an IRS building in Austin, Texas. He was mad at the IRS. On Feb. 12 Amy Bishop took a pistol and killed three professors at the University of Alabama in Huntsville. She was mad at the faculty for not giving her tenure.

People get mad every day. Most do not let their anger drive them to murder. But some do. I wonder if Joseph and Amy had tried to talk over their frustration and anger with trusted friends. Maybe they had. But people who hold in their anger and do not talk about it are much more likely to explode in violence.

St. Paul gave wise advice in his letter to the Ephesians. He said, "Don't let the sun go down on your anger." If all of us would follow that advice we would be the better for it. If we would recognize and identify our angry feelings, and then report them to a good friend, our feelings wouldn't control us—we would control them.

Anger is a natural human emotion. There is nothing wrong with anger. At least in the beginning. But if we allow anger to sit there inside us without dealing with it, the anger becomes toxic. Paul was right: anger is best dealt with immediately.

You know why some people don't deal with their anger? Because they have been brought up in a Christian context that has taught them that anger is sinful. Therefore, they deny their anger. They are ashamed to even admit that they are angry. "Who me? Angry? No, I'm not angry."

Unrecognized anger can lead to violence. The best way to handle anger is to recognize it and look at it with curiosity: Hmmm…I feel some anger in me…I wonder what that's all about. I think I'll talk this out with my friend.

Anger can be our friend—because it can be a red flag waving in our psyche, inviting us to stop and look at what is going on within us or in a relationship. It can guide us to learn something new about ourselves.

Anger is not something to be afraid of. It is our friend. Unless we ignore it. Then it becomes our enemy.

Let's talk.

Stuff

Stuff. We all have it. Some people have lots of stuff; others have very little stuff. Gandhi didn't have much at all. But then, he was weird. Jesus didn't have much either. But he was weird too.

I've been thinking a lot about stuff lately because, as you know, we have been preparing to move for several months—and we've had to think about how much stuff to move with us. We moved last week. In our little apartment we have very little stuff because the moving van hasn't come yet; it's scheduled to be at our apartment tomorrow with our stuff. But first it will stop at a storage unit to deposit 5000 pounds of our stuff that we can't get in our little apartment; then it will proceed to our little place and deposit another 4000 pounds of stuff that we will have to put somewhere.

I just an article in the paper by Deneen Brown who writes for The Washington Post. She reports on a new book out by Annie Leonard called The Story of Stuff. Leonard spent ten years traveling to 40 countries, visiting hundreds of factories, tracking where our stuff is made and where it is dumped, "witnessing first-hand the horrendous impacts of both over- and under-consumption around the world."

As she looks at the big picture she says, "We are cutting and mining and hauling and trashing the place so fast that we're undermining the planet's very ability for people to live here."

Many people are becoming concerned about our buying and consuming habits in America. Mary Harding, 78, a retired nurse, wears other people's stuff. She stands up at a talk Leonard is giving and says, "This sweater, these pants, my shoes, and my underwear are my own. I buy as much from a thrift store. I feel for people who believe they are what they wear, that having designer labels makes them special."

We all know that we don't need as much stuff as we buy. But we don't stop buying it. Either because we are not strong enough to ignore peer pressure; or because we are simply addicted to stuff. Don't talk to me about drug addiction or alcoholism or any other addiction until you (and I) can admit the power stuff has over us. Stuff is sticky. We're stuck on stuff. We're addicts. We need help!

But, as I said, our stuff is coming tomorrow in the moving van. We have down-sized, no doubt about it. But we still have 9000 pounds of stuff that we can't even stuff into our little apartment.

That little weird guy—Gandhi—looks at us with disgust. And that other little weird guy—Jesus—has a tear in his eye as he gazes down upon us. He had some things to say about stuff. We've all read it. But we don't care.

Becoming Alabamians

After all the waiting, we are here. We are Alabamians! The ride down last Friday was uneventful. Pat had the two beasts in her car. They meowed for awhile, then rode pretty quietly most of the way. Of course they were traumatized. They are now experiencing Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. They huddle up in our only closet and don't come out for hours at a time. They're not used to hearing footsteps right outside our door. We stopped twice on the way down to let them use the litter box, once at my mother's house in Louisville, and once in the parking lot of a Korean Presbyterian Church in Nashville (where about 40 yards away a deer ate bark off of a tree).

We got our Alabama drivers licenses today. We had to show a birth certificate and a social security card. We're still waiting to get our AL license plates; the line was about two hours long today, so we'll go back another time. Our car insurance when up about 50%; I guess Alabama drivers are more reckless than Ohio drivers.

The gas stove in our little apartment was not turned on when we got here, even though I had called the gas company and they had started our billing account. So, we had to call again to get the gas man back out to unseal the meter. Then the maintenance man for our apartment complex (Michael) had to come and replace parts on the stove before all the burners would light. The other maintenance man (Daniel) came to replace an electrical outlet, repair a shelf in the kitchen, and work on the sink.

We are sleeping on an Aerobed and have four foldup chairs in the living room. Our small TV gets a digital signal, but it breaks up frequently. The cell phone signal is very weak inside the apartment. Primitive living. I keep thinking I'm at a continuing education conference since we hear people outside our room going up and down steps. We will be so grateful to see some bits of furniture and boxes of stuff come this Friday. It will certainly be crowded, having only a living room, bedroom, kitchen, bathroom and one closet—though we are squeezing some things into the HVAC room where the furnace/AC is located.

Did I mention that they are putting new windows into all the units, and right outside our kitchen and bedroom windows they are using saws and other equipment every day? Thankfully this is only temporary—maybe seven months, maybe more.

The good news is that we are only three blocks away from our daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter! When we used to say, "We've got to go home now," that meant a 10 hour drive. Now it means a ten minute walk.

I hope my neck doesn't get red.

Tearing

Well, I had a good cry today. It's all getting to me. Leaving a place, a region, a network of friends and colleagues--people who know me, appreciate me, and make life fun.... Leaving a presbytery, former staff, acquaintances... Having left a career... leaving a house, a neighborhood... leaving a phase of my life... Being twice as far from my mother... farther from many relatives... Leaving good friends... Beginning a new stage in my faith journey... Moving to a small apartment...

And I'm tire. Tired of packing and figuring out what goes and what doesn't. Tired of calling companies and utilities to change addresses and being put on hold.

All the emotion finally came out in tears. I don't cry very often. I wish I cried more easily. But I hold it in. I feel better now that I've let it out. But I'm sad. Leaving is hard. Change--major change--is difficult. The great Unknown is in front of me. I'm we will be very close to Glory, Jim, and Norah. Soon that will cheer me up. But we still have two more days of packing--then the movers--then the driving in two cars (Pat with two cats--pray for her)... then the sleeping on the floor till the movers get there with our few belongings. Then adjustment. Making new friends (which is hard for me). Looking for jobs. Learning a new community. Building connections. Letting new faith unfold.

The word 'tear' (as in crying) and the word 'tear' (as in pulling something apart) are related. I feel both today.