We Went to Africa

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“We went to Africa.” Is that my sentence or is that an echo of Meryl Streep reciting some variation of those words at the beginning of the movie “Out of Africa”. It was as beautiful as the movie, at least the parts and parks we went to. People said to us it was a life changing experience. That’s a little too hyped for me. But it was amazing; it was unique; it was unlike almost any other travel experiences I have had. I keep going back to the pictures and reliving the moments again and again.

We actually went to South Africa, Zimbabwe and Botswana. Technically we were also in Zambia but that was only at the airport and the most compelling memory about that was the $50 per person fee to get a Visa and have the privilege of walking across its border. We were there at the end of their winter; they were waiting for the rains; so out in the game parks and national preserves, the predominant colors were different hues of brown. That is until dusk and the setting sun transformed the browns into shades of orange, yellow and gold.   The beige was now cream and the dust kicked up by the tires of the range rover became warm specks of a fading day that was filled with awe.

That is awe like in splendor; not awe like in fear. But there were a few times, when we asked our ranger: Just how close to those lions do you think we should we be? “Keep your hands inside the vehicle; speak softly; don’t stand; don’t move quickly,” he answered, “You will be fine.” That is awe like in Jacob waking from his dream and realizing: “How filled with God is this place and I, I did not know it.”

Yea, it’s religious. These animals in their natural habitat, where they are the residents and we are the visitors, are inspiring. I mean that word as in take your breath away. Whether it is a lone bull elephant standing next to a water hole in an almost dry river bed throwing dust on his back to keep from getting sunburned or a giraffe’s head just peeking out of the trees, its spotted body fading in and out of the canopy, perfect camouflage. A leopard climbing down from its perch and sliding through the tall grass of the Delta, appearing and disappearing at will, with not a sound except the rustling blades.

They teach us humility. Not how small we are; but our place. We are not alone in this world. It does not begin and end with us. We are part of something bigger, greater, more complex and more splendid than we ever imagined. We have been given an amazing gift; how awesome our responsibility.

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There was a new moon last night. In my sky it was bright white, a sliver of its fullness, floating against a black sky. It was warm with promise. It spoke of what is yet to come. It came at a good time, reminding me of what is real and what is not. It was the Elul moon of preparation.

Yesterday we spent the day packing. Or to be more accurate, yesterday we spent the day unpacking and repacking. The guidelines for the trip are “duffel bag, no more than 24 inches, no frame, small wheels”. We will be gone for a good portion of September so what to take, what to leave behind; what to carry forward, what to assign to the unnecessary pile. But unnecessary is such a grey word. What if it is colder than we anticipate; what if it rains; what if the mosquitoes are out in full force (unlikely this time of year)?

Prepare for every eventuality? Not in 24 inches. (I know people who are really good at this, I admire their decisiveness.) Or is it trust? What we call in Hebrew – bitachon. Trust that they can weather almost any eventuality. Trust that they are prepared.

There’s that word again. Prepare; fortify yourself that you are ready. Ready for a new moment, a new year, a new experience, a different way, a new path. Switch gears. Engage the clutch. Gradually let it out and find that sweet spot where when you press the gas, you move forward slowly, smoothly, gliding through the unknown, like last night’s moon.

I promised myself that today I was zipping them up. It is hard to carry when it’s open.
Things just keep falling out. Gotta make that leap of faith. Done. Done. Done.
But you know, I know, it’s never done, just finished for now. Thank God we can begin again. That’s the season you know; that’s the blessing of last night’s moon.

 

 

 

 

Angry

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Americ Flags half staffIt is almost a week since the slaughter of 49 people in a nightclub in Orlando. If the media is any indication of what is true, our nation is sad, angry, confused and shaken. At the very least those are good descriptors of where I am.

Sad, intensely, that 49 lives have been taken. They were mercilessly killed by a man wielding guns who in my humble opinion had no right obtaining or owning. Somewhere on line I read that it is easier to buy an assault rifle than Sudafed. (Probably an exaggeration but you get the point. We choose what we regulate and guns seem to be too sacred for the Feds to touch.)

We are angry at each other and we are angry at our elected officials who refuse to do anything about this plague of violence. I think J.J. Goldberg’s editorial in The Forward is right on target. He asks, “Why the Orlando Massacre has America so angry at itself”. We are so angry we can’t hear each other talk; we are so angry we can’t even agree on the causes of the attack. Is it the easy access to assault weapons? Is it Radical Islam and the actual or emotional ties that the killer had to ISIS? Is it homophobia or even self-loathing? Is it mental instability? Is it one of the above, some of the above or all of the above.

I don’t mean to be cute or make light of the tragedy. My answer is it is all of the above. It is too easy to get assault weapons in this country and if someone is on the no fly list and they are too dangerous to be sitting on a plane next to me it feels too obvious that they are too dangerous to have a semi-automatic rifle. And that is on Congress. And that is on our public representatives who are supposed to insure that “government of the people, by the people, for the people shall not perish from the earth.” Well who cares for “the people” in Washington? Not those who think guns are more sacred than human lives, or the gun lobby is too powerful to go up against.

I can feel my anger rising as I write.  I am not afraid to say the words “radical Islam”. I am also not afraid to say the words “Jewish extremists and Christian crusaders”. My point being that every religion and culture has those who pervert their fundamental message and use them for their own political purposes. I feel for my gay friends. This hit their community extra hard. All the pride and progress of the last few years diminished. It is a terrible reminder that we have a long way to go for GLBT equality and acceptance. And how young? But I guess that’s no criteria – they were younger still at Sandy Hook.

No, I don’t care what you say: It is not about ISIS; it is not about Homophobia: It is not about mental instability; it is about guns. It is about easy access. Someone will always find a cause worth killing for. It is about the cowardice of congress. It is about the failure of our representatives to protect us. It is about their interest, not ours. It is disgusting.

Feeling Reflective

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DSCN2656I have set my computer screen saver to change pictures every five minutes and randomly select them from the photos I have loaded either from my camera, my phone, slides I have had digitalized, images shared. I readily admit that I have no idea how to control the choices that fade in and out and I notice that some pictures rotate more often than others. I fantasize that the computer is laughing at me and playing hide and seek with my pictures.

Each picture is a memory and a slice of my life. Maya and I are feeding a dolphin in one; the illusive, mysterious moss hanging on twisted trees in the squares of Savannah; aqua green water peppered by red and white buoys floating in the Bay of Nhatrang, Vietnam; the beige sand of a Moroccan flea market punctuated with the saffron and purple head coverings of the women hiding their faces and shopping for bargains; stages of life reflected in my different body shapes, hair styles, clothing choices, each one a sacred moment, each one an opportunity to mentally move along the arc of my life.

Sometimes the computer program zooms in and only part of the picture shows up on the screen. This morning I had a close up of my smile and my teeth – my dentist would have been proud – I laughed when I saw it but I think I could use some whitener. Sometimes I have to challenge myself to figure out where we are. Invariably the process touches me in places deep and inside even when I can’t remember the name of that site, city or setting.   It is often tinged with sadness and loss; but more often than not, if I let myself linger in the memory, I feel a profound gratitude for that which I have been given. Each moment is a different letter in a blessing formula.

But my challenge to myself is to extend that thankfulness to all of life, even that which is not apparently striking. I tend to take pictures of the beautiful and surprising but that is not the complete picture of life. There are photos I did not take with a camera but are still imbedded in my internal album: my mother curled up in her bedroom deep in depression; the steps I tripped up when I was given the honor of opening the door of my grandfather’s synagogue where the hearse stopped so that the Cantor could ask God to bind his soul in the bond of eternal life.; the dreams that astonish me in content and vividness in the middle of the night – the ones that wake me up and sometimes serialize themselves after I fall back to sleep. And I could go on.

All of these teach; all of these make me who I am; the good, the beautiful, the embarrassing, the disappointments, the successes, the endeavors I wish I had finished and the relationships I wish I had done differently. All of these are opportunities for introspection and growth. Even those out of focus.

Enough, it may be cloudy right now but there is still a golf ball wanting to be hit.

 

 

One No Trump

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one no trump

There was a great article by Nicholas Kristof in the Sunday Times a week ago. It is called “A Confession of Liberal Intolerance”. He writes about us liberals, and talks about how willing we are to listen to all kinds of points of view, want to bring everyone to the table, no matter what their color, gender identity, national origin, faith, culture, unless they are conservatives, and especially conservative (read Evangelical) Christians.

It resonated with me in this political season. I mean we were so concerned with the rhetoric of the Republican Right and we along with practically everyone in the Media so underestimated Donald that we couldn’t believe that we would wind up with him as the “presumptive nominee”. I secretly believe that somehow the Republican Party will come to their senses and there will be a miracle in Cleveland. I have so far declined to sign my name to a “Rabbis Against Trump” movement saying to myself, it is too early, too soon, this too shall pass.

I also fantasize that Mr. Trump will stop the act and show us that he is more than a great showman and the best barker in the circus. He will become Presidential as they say and address the real issues facing this country without resorting to name calling and hitting people in their under bellies. I would like to be faced with ideas that challenge me even if I can’t agree. I think Kristof’s point that we learn from those who challenge our assumptions and beliefs is right on target. There is nothing wrong with an honest argument. I would like to know more about how we effectively control the immigration issues without a wall and who will pay for it. I am curious how his policies would grow the economy, raise the standard of living, put people back to work, make America great again, cut taxes and keep businesses from fleeing our shores.

I would like to be faced with one of the fundamental challenges the Rabbis faced when compiling the Talmud. What do you do when people disagree; when principles clash; when all parties believe that they are right and their reading of what is right for America is the one and only position to take seriously? You look at motives; you examine the core; you seek out basic truths. The Rabbis taught: “Kol Machloket…. Every argument for the sake of Heaven will in the end be of permanent value, but every disagreement not for the sake of Heaven will not endure.” They tell us it is ok to disagree; it is ok to have your principles challenged. We learn that way.

Eileen and I play bridge with friends – one of whom is way more bridge savvy than the rest of us.   She says that one no trump is the hardest contract to make. The cards are usually fairly evenly divided and no one has said very much so it is hard to even guess who has the strong cards and what is in each player’s hands.

Not a good way to pick a president.

Babka Is Back

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I don’t usually do this but to “get” this blog you might like to go back a few months to the blog of January 17th titled, “Is It Good Enough?” It was about these blue cards I found that date back to the 70’s – sermons – typed – like on a typewriter – and filed away, forgotten till now.

I was reluctant to read them, not knowing what I would find: Were they good; have I grown; did I bring insight and meaning to my listeners? They are my “chameitz” – the yeast that causes the dough to rise. Passover is over but all that attention to labels and order freed me from the power of the past to bubble up and control me. Passover worked for me; it gave me the ability to start again knowing the doubts and sense of inadequacy would be back, but that’s why we play this Seder game year after year.

So the genie is out of the box. I’ve opened the files and on a beautiful Florida day, I schlepped them outside and sat in the sun reading my past. It helped that our granddaughter, Sammy, was sitting next to me. So here are a few reflections.

They are mostly High Holy Day Sermons and they are mostly too long. I think I love my words too  much and find it hard to hit the delete button. But they are interesting in ways that surprise me. Themes reoccur: I talk a lot about my self and what I am struggling with (as a parent, a teacher, a believer, a skeptic). I talk a lot about Israel; it is fascinating to see  how that conversation has changed over the years.

There are some good stories that I have forgotten and can probably use again. Like: “When a Yeshiva student came to his Rebbe and boasted that he had gone through the Talmud five times, the Rebbe turned and asked: ‘And how many times has the Talmud gone through you?’” It leads me to ask: How much have these words gone through me?

My eyes were better then. I can’t believe the size of the typewriter font. But was my vision? I’m impressed that even then when Israel’s survival was sometimes in doubt, I thought out loud “survival can not be enough. We cannot be dependent on our enemies to define us.” Why be Jewish is not a rhetorical question; it touches the heart and the soul of each of us.

Forty years ago, in 5736, (I dated my files by the Jewish year), I announced, “Babka is back” and in 5776 its back again. According to the Today show it is here to replace the cronut as the latest pastry obsession. Everything is cyclical or as we use to say in New Jersey: “What goes around comes around”. But that has a somewhat different connotation and usually involved a little bit of self-satisfying glee. It is good to be right. Which brings me to an ending. I wasn’t always good. I wasn’t always smart. But I tried and sweated out every word. I tried to reach beyond the lectern. I laughed when I read one of my sermon openings: “Relax – let down your defenses – I am not here to yell at you. I am here to search with you.”  Yes – for leaven, for yeast, for anything that can help us rise above ourselves.

And by the way or to the point:  where is there good Babka in South Florida (chocolate – the deep dark rich kind that doesn’t crumble when you cut it, that can be toasted and spread with butter.)?  OMG, I’m in trouble.

 

 

Yellow Blossoms & Matzah Crumbs

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Image 4-7-16 at 11.20 AMI like April. It is Purim behind, Passover in front and Easter floating somewhere in between, tied to the first full moon after light and darkness halve the day. Esther averts her people from pending destruction; Moses leads the Israelite slaves on a journey to a promised land; Jesus becomes more than anyone thought he could be: salvation, deliverance, redemption.

I like April. It is National Poetry Month and every day I receive a new poem in my mailbox. They humble me these poems like todays by Robin Coste Lewis. The author restricts her words to fragments of book titles, catalog and exhibit entries in which a Black female figure is represented. She brings us a meditation on race and a record of a different kind of journey through time and place, also one of promise but like almost all, still unfulfilled.

I like daffodils fighting to break through winters hard and unforgiving crust demanding we will be born again; dogwood trees blossoming stark white against the deep dark bark. And for those of you who are Florida averse and complain you miss the seasons, driving home yesterday, I caught this Tabebuia trumpeting hints of grace and salvation just next to the curb. They like to drop their leaves in March and early April, replacing them with these brilliant yellow flowers. We had one once but for all its splendor ours blew over in a storm, either the roots too shallow or the wood too brittle. There is a price to pay for almost everything, including beauty.

I like this holiday of spring that calls on me to renew myself. I like searching for the parts of me I think could be better. I like the questions that spiritual work engenders. There are at least four. It brings me to Passover and all its symbolism and rituals; it brings me to Passover and all its rules about which way I lean and what I can eat. This year it is really late – I know the lunar calendar verses the solar and the need to add an extra month to the Hebrew calendar so that holidays hang in there on time and Passover doesn’t migrate across the years to mid summer. But this year I appreciate the extra time it is giving me. It feels like there is breathing room to prepare for the Seder with all its directions and instructions.

“Break the middle Matzah in half.” How did they know that’s impossible?  There is always inequity. And they take that reality and make it work – save the larger piece for the Afikomen, a sacred game of hide and seek. That broken piece of Matzah is well over half the world who are still waiting for us to find them and help them become whole. That ridged, perforated, flat excuse for bread commands us not only to remember that we were slaves but also to act, to care, to reach out in compassion for those whose lives are still embittered

The yellow tree is poetry; it is Passover; it is a promise of potential. The winter is gone; new life is blossoming. Indifference to the myriad of plagues that flood our inbox need not be a permanent affliction. We have power; we can change tomorrow; we can do it one matzah crumb at a time; just picking up the pieces and remembering – this year we are slaves; next year may we all be free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Hole of Knowing

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DSC_0120The bus collected us at Victoria Coach Station for our excursion to Stonehenge. It was Eileen, our grandson, Corey, who is studying London for a term and me. Don’t get me wrong, there were 48 other people as well, but there was WIFI on the bus so you could stay in your personal space, except for Eileen who knew an awful lot about her seatmate, Dr. Dave before we hit the M3.

As we left the highway and the tour guide got back on the mike, it was still early morning: “You should be able to see Stonehenge in that field on the right but the fog and mist is hiding it. Hopefully it will begin to lift before we take the shuttle bus from the visitor center to the site.” I sort of thought, this is how you should see Stonehenge, a little bit of mist and a little bit of mystery, although, I did want some good pictures.

And then she was right and then it was there. Across the fields, the sheep were barely moving, little non-discriminate mounds in the grass, everything shades of grey. Stonehenge slowly emerged: a statement to a civilization and culture that knew how to keep its secrets, from how they got the stones here to what their purpose. Yes, there are theories and I am sure some day one of us humans will figure it all out, but right now they range from the magical to the ritual, the astronomical to the sacred, a place of healing and magic or a place of sacrifice and death. I like some of this unknowing. I believe in mystery. I am attracted to the mystical. It makes me appreciate the hole of knowing at the center of life.

So it was ok with me that the sun wasn’t shining. The ancient stones were resting on a bed strong enough to keep them erect and resilient enough to keep them mysterious. It was ok with me that I wasn’t certain if the stones may have been a place where the sun and the moon found alignment or the stones may have been a place where people were sacrificed to some unknown but demanding deity. What isn’t ok is that centuries and millennia later we are still finding reasons to believe that the gods want us to kill and to maim, to blow up suitcases and people and the smoke that rises from the explosion is a sweet smell of obedience to a cruel and uncaring universe. What isn’t ok is to believe that these acts of terror are courageous or even part of a holy war one civilization wages on another.

What’s sad is that we have lost the meaning of the word mysterious that for me implies knowing that you don’t know. I believe built into the word sacred is the word doubt. I believe in a healthy dose of skepticism in my approach to faith and it is a wonder to me that independent of the physicality of my brain, I am conscious of life I live. There is a wonderful Jewish teaching that the black handwritten Hebrew letters on every Torah scroll are only half the story. The creamy white spaces between each letter tell the other half. So maybe it isn’t the stones at Stonehenge – maybe it’s the galaxies in between and their placement in this field of fog, mist and haze.

In my worldview that which is sacred is the humility to be in awe of how much we do not know.  No one has a lock on truth.

God Thoughts

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flower windI just read three stunning sentences. They made me stop and reflect on how they are calling to me. They are from a book that my friend and co-teacher Tom O’Brien recommended. We were preparing for our class (God, Politics and Culture) at Florida Atlantic University’s Life Long Learning Society and we were talking about “The Problem of God”.

We were asking, what does the word, God, mean? The problem is when people proudly say; ‘I don’t believe in God”, something inside me wants to respond and sometimes does: “Which God do you not believe in?” More often than not, I don’t believe in that God either.

The book is called, “A God That Could Be Real” by Nancy Ellen Abrams. Here are the sentences: “Has something terrible ever happened to you or to someone you love? God had nothing to do with it; God doesn’t control events. God influences how we see the events and interpret them.”

Maybe out of context they are not as stunning as I thought they were. But this is what they said to me. This world is hanging on by a thread. There is so much violence, anger and terror. Perfectly innocent people get killed at a moment’s notice as they fly home from snorkeling in the Red Sea, as they walk near a mall in Beirut, as they wait for AAA by the side of their car in Florida, as they sit in a classroom in their University, as they attend a concert in Paris, because they are black, because they are white, because they are women, because their gender identification calls them to dress differently, or for no good or bad reason at all. And it is not God’s fault. “God has nothing to do with it.”

So what does God do if God doesn’t hang out there in the universe moving people, clouds and planets? And why is it important anyway? Because people are getting killed in God’s name (again); because people are using what they call religion to justify evil behavior (again); because people and politicians find that the God word is a convenient excuse to bully people into believing that there is only one path forward for America, one way to make America great (again).

I recently heard Rabbi Donniel Hartman speak about his new book, “Putting God Second”. I love the title. It is a great metaphor almost like theological poetry. I hope this isn’t blasphemy but for me, that’s where God “resides” – behind us motivating and inspiring us to put people front and first. The image in my head is from Genesis when the “wind” of God is hovering over the surface of the waters. I see the water rippling and God is pushing it so the dry land may appear. I feel God separating light from darkness so there can be daylight.

God is behind the scenes inspiring me to be the best I can be so that the world around me is more compassionate, kind and caring. And one more thing: God can only work through us. Our actions, our love, the way we walk through this world and navigate with the people around us, all of the above, allow God to “be”.

It is early morning; the house is quiet; the traffic hasn’t hit its peak; I can hear the birds singing outside. I wonder if they feel the wind of God lifting their wings, pushing at their backs also.

Life Asks Us Questions

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BrunchI was at a brunch last Sunday that celebrated the 25th anniversary of an organization founded by child survivors of the Holocaust. It was filled with people and food, memories and determination, laughter and love, persistence, perseverance, pride. Twenty-five years since they came together finding meaning and comfort in being among their own. Twenty-five years since they banded and bonded to tell their stories to whoever would listen, to be living witnesses to words that are too often just paragraphs in history books, to teach the multiple lessons this horror had taught them.

They call themselves: The Child Survivors/Hidden Children of the Holocaust.

For their definition a child survivor is simply one who was a child during the Nazi years of planned extermination of the Jews of Europe. They lived in any number of settings from concentration camps to forests, from attics to cellars. Some were hidden by righteous gentiles, some hid themselves in places we can’t even imagine, all survived by a miracle that is theologically unsound. Depending who you ask, it was luck; it was God. This they do know: “Anachnu Po – We are here”, the first words spoken even before the blessing over the bread, opening the buffet. This they do know: they are dedicated to the memory of the six million Jews murdered by the Nazis, one and a half million of them children. This they do know: they are committed to telling their stories so that the listener will know: “all people deserve to live in peace and in safety”. (their own words).

Steven Hayes, developer of Acceptance and Commitment Therapy opens a Ted Talk, I recently watched with these words: “Life asks us questions. And probably one of the most important questions it asks is what are you going to do about your difficult thoughts and feelings …” Here is how I filtered his words. We make a choice in how we respond to what life throws at us – not necessarily an easy one, but a choice nonetheless. For me this coming together was all about choosing life. Choosing to live even after life itself had been vicious and cruel. Choosing to live even though all that you loved was ripped away, torn apart and burned.

The tables were round and they were full. The woman sitting to the left of me was not a child Survivor. She was born in a DP (Displaced Person) camp set up after the concentration camps were “opened”. It was an act of defiance and faith to have children at that moment in time. It meant you would not give Hitler any semblance of victory. And children point you forward towards the future, towards new life, new love. (Full disclosure, I know to use the terminology “opened” and not “liberated” because the person to the right of me was my wife, Eileen, former Holocaust Program Planner for Palm Beach County Schools. She taught me that the first concentration camps were actually stumbled upon and not knowingly liberated. (Let’s remember history as accurately as we can.)

It is several days since I digested (both figuratively and literally) the speeches, the songs, the dancing, the food, the joy. I am holding on to it. The author of Proverbs wrote, the human spirit is the lamp of God. I found a tremendous spirit at that brunch. Does that mean I also found God?

 

I Am Not Usually Political

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DemsRepubsI am not excited with our presidential political process yet. I should be; there certainly has been enough drama and the spectacle has unquestionably been anything but flat. But it’s been a show. The real issues that touch people’s lives and that impact our culture and society are back stage and haven’t broken through the fourth wall.

Not that they haven’t tried. I think there have been six Republican and five Democratic debates so far. The sponsoring network tries to make the run up and the follow up compelling, but somehow I don’t feel connected. And I’m not being partisan here – this sense I have crosses both party lines.

I have tried to figure out why. It is no secret to most people who know me that I was energized eight years ago, excited in “the change we can believe in”. It is just none of the candidates work for me. Conceptually, I would love to see a woman president. With some embarrassment I say, I would love to see a Jewish president, no matter how unobservant. With a little bit of trepidation, I timidly say I would love to see a young and bright candidate whose family are recent immigrants. But nothing is motivating me, until this morning.

Front page of the New York Times, next to a picture of two feet of snow in Prospect Park, Brooklyn, there is this headline. “Bloomberg Is Considering 3rd Party Bid.” My heart soared. I read the article through carefully. Is there really a chance that a knight in shining armor can come and save this our beloved country? Is there really someone who can galvanize all those people like me who are sick of politics the way it is being played out and don’t want to vote for any of the current runners? Is there hope?

Here comes the caveat and my need to back peddle a little bit and make sure I am being clear here.  These words are not an endorsement of Michael Bloomberg. They are a testimony to the need for someone in this political process to understand me and people like me: life-time democrat who believes in an agenda firmly rooted in America’s promise in the potential and right of every individual to live up to their highest potential no matter where they were born, how much pigment they have in their skin, what their religion, what their faith. To know that I am looking for a president who can unite this country with a practical vision that encompasses a plan to address a crumbling infrastructure which for me means bridges and roads but not just physical ones: bridges between races, roads that promise pathways to the American dream for the poor and underprivileged, beltways that force politicians to face the real problems of gun violence and terror both home grown and imported. I want a president who can bring us together and make me believe in the American political process again.

Am I expecting too much? Am I an inveterate and impossibly naïve dreamer? Am I looking for the messiah? You tell me.

 

Is It Good Enough?

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old filing cab

It is at least seven weeks since a metal box containing files with 6 x 8 blue note cards was found in a storage room at the Temple. The blue cards were all filed neatly with rubber bands around each pile, rubber bands that if you touch, now break from age and dryness, even in this Florida humidity. Most of them are typed and they have dates and occasions, rarely titles. It has taken me till this morning to look into this file box. I’m not sure what I was afraid I would find.

They are sermons from the 1970’s. (I know some of you reading this weren’t even born.) I don’t know what is keeping me from going through them. I think it is an adequacy issues – are they good enough. It reminds me when I first began Spiritual Direction. My “director” was a Roman Catholic Dominican Sister who works at a retreat center nearby. When I started she encouraged me to write and journal. I chose to record my sense of the sacred and what being spiritual meant to me at that moment through poetry. The first time I shared a poem with her, she responded with silence. There was lots of silence in those spiritual direction sessions. But I was new and the absence of words felt strange. I jumped right in: Is it good, I asked.

Is it good? There it is. Are they good – those words typed in dark black ink on light blue cards? What has 40 plus years done to them? What have they done to the 40 years? Forty is a special number in both the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures. It rained for forty days and nights as Noah’s ark floated back and forth across the waters. The Israelites wandered for forty years in the wilderness till they were ready to cross the Jordan. Jesus was tempted for 40 days and nights till he passed the test. And that is just for starters. Some say forty is associated with humility; some say transition/change.

I am going to read what’s in that box – there is no doubt in my mind, but not just yet. I don’t know why but it definitely is an adequacy issue. Or maybe it goes back to the symbolic number of the biblical forty. Am I humble enough to be willing to see that I have changed/grown/developed over the years and life is all about transition? Am I strong enough to recognize that maybe I didn’t? The days and the years grow you; the trials and the tests refine you; the blessings, challenges, opportunities and failures hone and polish. Am I willing to accept that some of them may just not meet my over perceived and probably falsely filled standards and some of them may just be plain dated or lousy or saturated with unrealized potential?

This has been helpful; thanks for hanging in with me. I think reading them would be a good exercise in humility. I think it will “grow” me. Stay tuned.