The Ever-Expanding Circle of Love

This story begins over six years ago in a small, dusty village in Africa. I met Fauna online when I saw her picture under possible friends, with the description being “a womanist theologian.” My ears perked up! Wow!  A colleague in Africa pursuing the same dream that I have. We quickly connected and instantly became much more than colleagues, close friends, then even more intimately, mother and daughter.

Initially she just needed a bit of money to tide her and her two small children over during the COVIDS crisis. They were literally starving and her own education to pursue a bachelors in womanist theology put on hold indefinitely. It soon became apparent that we needed to fully finance her and her little family so that she could pursue her dreams. Then, in November of last year, she was awarded a master’s in theology, bigger than both of our dreams.

It soon became apparent that she was not only a scholar and theologian but equally a person with a passion for ministry. This is where this story really begins. Within the last few months after graduation, people came to her for shelter and support. First a young woman fleeing conversion therapy and her adult companion, then a family who had lived next door to her for several years, whom she had taken in several times when the woman’s spouse’s physical abuse became too much.

 As in most cases of domestic violence, it takes several times for an abused woman to leave for good, as she typically has no family, support, or self-esteem, so “Marth” felt she needed to return, time and time again…until this last time.

Fauna got the phone call from her as she was being beaten on the front lawn, where everyone could see her suffering. Calling a friend for a ride, Fauna came to a stop, jumped out and rushed towards the man, yelling at him. She literally put her body in between him and the woman, yelling in his face. Ashamed, this coward turned tail and fled into the home.

Once the woman gained custody of her children, the man refused to let them have anything, except the clothes on their backs, even stuffed animals for the little boy. Fauna found the little family a small apartment, with nothing at all in I, except a floor to sleep on.  All the little boy had to hang on to for comfort was a small metal toy car.

Then it came time for Fauna to begin receiving. She had to have major surgery. The young woman she was sheltering filled in for her to allow her to have peace.

When she needed to get to the hospital, her friend John and “Mattha”, the woman she had just rescued, drove her, both staying there until Fauna emerged from her surgery. They came a few days later to take Fauna home.

On the way, “Martha” spotted a woman nearby, struggling with luggage, newborn baby and toddler. They stopped to pick them up, driving her to her mother’s after her husband had abandoned them there.

Even that was not enough. Fauna had them stop by the open market to buy a stuffed animal to deliver to “Martha”s little boy.

I first helped Fauna, then she helped “Martha” find safety away from an abusive parent, and then they give the little boy a big toy.  He ran all over the place, shout, “I will sleep with him.”  They asked him his name. “I will call him Scooby Doo.”

I thought this was the end of the story, until my curiosity got the better of me. The etymology of “Scooby Do” means something like “those who are afraid can band together.” 

Then, I investigated the boy’s name. In Kikuyu it means “Rapidly Expanding.” No, I did not make this up. This circle will keep expanding. And so it is!

Bursting Bubbles

Whenever I go shopping, I am fascinated by how every other shopper seems to have an invisible bubble wrapped around them. They are so focused on their shopping list that it is all they can manage to see. They pass by intently and quietly, with only the squeaky wheel from their shopping cart breaking the heavy silence.

I have decided to break that bubble every time I go out by greeting everyone who passes.Almost inevitably, they respond as they turn, smile and greet me.

Sometimes, when I do the monthly shopping with my spouse, I keep mental tabs on how many respond and how many ignore me. The last one had over 30 responses with smiles and words. Only two or three ignored me.

Bubbles can easily burst through barriers in a shop with a friendly word.

When shopping alone, my spouse needs help reaching the higher shelves since she is barely five feet tall. When we get separated, I often lose her in the crowd and have to text her to find her.

So, when I am not with her, she has to wait until a taller person walks by. If they start to pass by, she has to speak up and directly ask for help. She has never been turned down, which reminds me of a story I saw posted recently.

 One day, a man was walking by a crowded aisle when he spotted a small, older woman trying to reach the top shelf to get a jar of raspberry jam. He stopped to offer his help as she pointed to a particular brand she wanted.

He asked her what was especially good about that kind of jam. She looked up and said it was made in a small town in Austria. That town, at great risk to all its inhabitants, hid Jews from the Nazis during World War II. 

Whenever she found that special jam, her family expected her to bring it home. That town sheltered her in safety until the war was over.

Both had tears in their eyes.

When asked what the essence of spirituality is, the Dalai Lama replied, “Be kind.” It can be that simple.

“Kind” is an interesting word. It is used frequently, but perhaps we can deepen and expand its meaning if we probe a bit.

The word “kind” comes from Old English and means “friendly, deliberately doing good to others, compassionate.” It is closely related to another Old English word meaning “to give birth, to beget.” So, it can also be linked to lineage or ancestry. 

I like this definition more. Then, for the word “kin,” from Old English, “cynn,” explicitly and unequivocally means familial lineage.

So, what really happened when the tall man reached for the jar, which was totally out of reach for the short Austrian woman, was not only an act of “kindness.” Instead, in that very act, their arbitrary and unnecessarily imposed so-called differences—age, gender, country of origin, class, personal and political history—simply disappeared at the same time the cherished and hard-to-find jar of raspberry jam found its rightful place in her opening hands.

Give it a try. Hand out your greetings when you go shopping. Maybe someone closed up as a clam on the bottom of the ocean will open so that you can see the pearl hidden inside. 

Burst the bubble of silence separating you by a kind, spoken word. You will be gratified by the result. It is easier than you think!

It Was the Mouse Turds!

I could have titled this piece more euphemistically, but I stuck with “the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,” as Sargeant Joe Friday would have said on “Dragnet”. I could have used the terms Jesus did for this parable, “beam” and “mote,” but it took me years to figure out what they were. It was years ago that I learned what “beam” and “mote” meant in the biblical context. And it WAS mouse turds! (AI on my computer always highlights “turds” and suggests I use another word since “turds” may be offensive to readers! Tough!)

It began several months ago when Sheryl and I were on a business trip, beginning to unpack in another forgettable motel room. I was putting clothes away and finding outlets for my technology devices when I looked at the bedding. I saw what suspiciously looked like mouse turds. Since we live in an old farmhouse built in 1920, mice are all too familiar as unwanted guests. We have four inside cats, but only one of them, a snow Bengal mix, is a good mouser.

Irate, I rounded up all eight or nine of them and put them into a cup, now ready to storm downstairs and confront the management. I do not mind mice, even had a few as pets, but I like mice, outside or in cages, have had them as pets, but I have an aversion to sleeping with them or their turds. I have some boundaries!

As I showed my “evidence” to Sheryl, anger in my tone, eyes flashing, she asked me a strange question. “Did you look in the bottom of your bag, the one that was in the utility room?” Puzzled, I followed her directives. I had already unpacked the bag, but when I examined it more closely under the light, I saw that, indeed, there were many dried mouse turds on the bottom of the bag.

Abashed, I was so glad that I had not rushed down the elevator to confront the manager! If I had done this first, it would be my very unpleasant duty to go downstairs again humbled, to ask forgiveness!

Now I understood more deeply and viscerally what Jesus meant in Mark 7:3-5, “You hypocrite, first cast the beam out of thine own eye; and then you will see clearly to cast out the mote out of your brother’s eye!” Mice turds were a lot smaller than a big tree

limb, but I got the message, loud and clear! It was not the first time that this parable had happened to me, and I suspect this has happened to anyone reading this story.

When reflecting on my own past, a few years ago a small town just down the road had been flooded, most of the residents having to evacuate. The community center was open, and I had been thinking of animals in need of a temporary home, so we went inside to offer to foster one or two. But…the woman looked me right in the eyes and said there was a woman whose house was flooded and had nowhere to go. To be perfectly honest, I would have preferred something four-legged, but Sheryl and I looked at each other, and said “Yes.”

The woman came down to meet with us first. We told her that we were a lesbian couple, but would be happy to offer her the upstairs, with its two bedrooms, full bathroom, small refrigerator, and microwave.

Rose showed up later that day, beer can in one hand, bag in the other. She was a smoker, so we let her know she was free to smoke on the porch. Surprisingly, we actually became friends over the months that followed, to the point that when she came downstairs to get out, she had to go behind the couch pulled out from the wall, allowing passage. I am deaf, and most of the time when I am home alone, I do not wear my sound processor. When that would happen, she would walk behind me on the couch and lightly touch my head, which was surprising and totally unexpected, to say the least. I am so glad I am not a screamer!

We did, of course, provide housing for her, but there is probably no way in a non-flooded world I would have encountered her or been befriended by her, a former bartender. She would not be my “type”: good teeth, non-smoker, non-drinker, hopefully a college graduate. But fate had other plans and taught me my own innate and as yet unknown prejudices.

As I close, find the closest mirror, look into your own eyes intently, don’t blink, and see what might be lingering there for you to discover and confront.

AGNOSTIC CHRISTIAN

For weeks I have been mulling over a recent column when another columnist labeled agnostics “cowardly.” I beg to differ. The older (and hopefully wiser) I get, the more l shy away from theological certainty, frequently couched in judgment and self-righteousness.

When I was younger I thought I knew it all, and would gleefully and righteously disagree with others with a different theological “take” at various subjects, be it the divinity of Christ the understanding of predetermination, the understanding of heaven and hell and who would go where.

As my faith walk continued, amidst some wandering and much stumbling, I found that the “certainties” I held dearly first yielded to doubts, then further questioning and exploring. and a new theology continuing to emerge that looks quite different from the rigid orthodoxies of my younger self.

This has led me to becoming, in the eyes of many, a “heretic” The original meaning of the word simply means “other,” such as different. It only later accrued judgment and condemnation.

But I am proud to be a “heretic”, in particular in regards to two widely accepted doctrines: the nature of Jesus, in particular in his relationship to humans; and the place and existence of heaven and hell.

In regards to Jesus, most reading this column who identify as Christian see Jesus as the early church creeds (Apostles, Nicene, Athanasian) did, that declared him: “son of God,” “only begotten,” “one with the Father.” I have no problem with that centuries-old orthodoxy, except when people claim it is clear in the Bible. All of these creeds did not emerge until the fourth century, amidst fierce fights among both theologians and ordinary people. The victors “won” while the losers were vanquished, their bishoprics stripped, some exiled, some imprisoned, some executed, their “heretical” writings, including the Gospel of Thomas. ferreted out and destroyed.

Before Jesus was officially proclaimed God, there were lots of various teachings about him. such as in the previously cited Gospel of Thomas, where he is seen as our “twin,” not to come as god-man to redeem us and save us from hell, but to reveal to us that our nature is like his, our role — to heal, to reconcile —is the same as his. This is what I now believe, and I believe that the doubt that led to this place is not a place of “cowardice,’ but of true faith, that of living each day as a follower of Jesus, using his example and stories to guide my way and sustain me.

Concomitantly. when I look at the more orthodox understandings of hell and heaven they no longer hold neither threat or promise for me. I am also an “agnostic” in that regard. The thought of the existence of either does not govern my thoughts or actions. I simply try to live each day as I was taught by Jesus, so that my thoughts and actions towards others provide healing and hope. For me that is enough.

I do not consider my rejecting the “certainty” of others as an act of cowardice, but as a supreme act of faith, where my own questioning has led me to this place