Remembering

All the trees of the field shall clap their hands. Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress; instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle; and it shall be to the LORD for a memorial, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off. (Isaiah 55.12-13)

As I write this, PBS is showing Jerusalem: Center of the World, a detailed history of the city. Much attention is being paid to the sacred sites—for Jews, for Christians, and for Muslims. It’s fascinating to hear about the need to memorialize key events in each religion’s story. No one can say for certain if this or that place is actually where a famous event occurred. The words “legend has it” carry tremendous weight in the absence of scientific proof. So it is that claiming Jesus died here, was buried there, ascended over here, and so on—without any reliable evidence—inspires faith and worship. Does accuracy of the claim really matter? Not really, as long as its identification with specific moments in Jesus’s life encourages belief.

This concept of memorializing our faith interests me. We do a great job of memorializing our lives. We take many pictures, we return to spots where events transpired, we etch our names into trees and scroll them into wet cement. But do we recall where we were when belief in Jesus started to make sense? Do we remember our baptism or confirmation or first communion—or any other rite that solidified our identity as part of God’s family? Where were we when we decided a cursory relationship with Jesus wasn’t good enough? What brought us to the place of need for God—and what was that place?

Every time something significant happens, the ancients memorialize for it. Sometimes it's nothing more than a pile of rocks. Sometimes it's an elaborate altar. But the point is very clear: this moment is not to be forgot. Of course, we’re moving toward the ultimate of all memorials: Mount Calvary and the site of the empty tomb. But we all arrive there from many different places. We bring an infinite range of personal experiences. And in our individual pasts, each of us has moments in time that belong to only us, yet exemplify something universal and powerful and incontrovertible in their evidence that God loves us.

In Isaiah’s prophecy of God’s intervention, thorns give way to cypresses and briers are swallowed up by sweet myrtle. The trees of the fields surge in applause for God’s love and grace. This miraculous turn of events, of course, presages Calvary’s tree and its restorative power to reunite humanity with God. The prophet says, “It shall be to the LORD for a memorial, for an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off.” (Isaiah 55.13)

Holy Week isn’t only about what happens at Calvary. It’s about what happens in us. Our hearts are sacred sites. Our lives are sacred stories. As we stop by the signature sites of Holy Week, let us pause to revisit our own memorials. We have, all of us, come a very long way, led to faith and called to love by God’s sweet Spirit. There are moments and people and places that we associate with grace’s miracle in our lives. We can close our eyes and recall when thorns vanished and mighty cypress trees rose up, when briers disappeared and lovely myrtles took root in us. These are our holy places, our memorials.

As we press closer to the cross, may we cherish the holy moments and places that brought us here. Thank God for grace, for forgiveness, and for faith’s determination. 

Saying Grace

Clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony… And be thankful. (Colossians 3.14-15)

Hassles and Anxieties

Last Sunday, our pastor showed us a scene from Meet the Parents, in which Ben Stiller, hoping to impress his future in-laws, offers to say grace at the dinner table. The results are less than sterling.

She followed the clip with a few questions about why we often feel so awkward when praying aloud in the presence of others—why the desire to sound sincere tends to backfire, and our words quickly become stilted and grandiose. Her observations about prayer “performance anxiety” got me thinking about how the Stiller clip will replay itself at Thanksgiving tables around the country. For many, this will be one of very few times that families will fellowship around their tables. For many more, it may be the only day of 365 that they pause to express gratitude for goodness they’ve received. And while I know of no hard data to support this suspicion, I’m thoroughly convinced the erosion of both traditions—family dinner and saying grace—significantly contributes to social decay we currently wrestle with. Conceding the “inconvenience” of spending time around the table subjects us to more inconveniences than we realize. How much harder our lives have become now that orchestrating family dinner is too hard and taking 30 seconds each day to give thanks demands too much! The hassle of family dinner and performance anxiety associated with saying grace are nothing compared to hassles and anxieties that have grown up in their absence.

Universal Compulsions

So I wondered, where do the customs of eating together and saying grace come from? While other species gather for meals, by and large, proximity to one another and ready availability of food shape their communal dining habits. Humans are rare—if not unique—in their concept of “breaking bread” as a social necessity. Until very recently, the family table was indispensible. It was where family conflicts were resolved, milestones were celebrated, cohesion as a household and membership within the larger community were secured, the lore of identity and kinship passed from one generation to the next, moral character was established, and futures were assessed. In other words, humans have always approached the family meal expecting more than nourishment. We bring big questions to the table, which get answered indirectly through the behaviors and conversations that transpire during our eating rituals. (The first Christians certainly recognized the power of sharing a common meal, which is why they placed a table—rather than an altar or idol—at the center of their worship.)

Thus it seems our compulsion to break bread together is hard-wired and can only be overridden by conscious neglect. But pairing times of nourishment with expressions of gratitude also appears to be a universal human compulsion. Virtually every world religion endorses the practice of giving thanks at mealtime. In all of its forms, “saying grace” boils down to what it sounds like: taking a moment to rehearse examples of unmerited grace and undeserved favor. No prayer more clearly captures the purity of this impulse than one we learn as children: “God is great. God is good. Let us thank God for our food.” To say grace is to invite God’s goodness to our table—to lay the gifts of life-giving food under the canopy of God’s supreme love and care for us. Saying grace isn’t a religious obligation. It’s an intentional act that makes God’s abundant presence felt in our lives—a sacred opportunity to confess faith in our Maker and Provider.

Four Thanksgivings

As Christians, we inherit grace-saying from our Jewish forebears. In Judaism, Birkat Hamazon (“Blessing on Nourishment”) is comprised of four thanksgivings: for the food; for the land of Israel; for the holy city of Jerusalem; and finally, for God’s goodness. We typically collapse this structure into a single statement that focuses on the first and last parts. (“Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty.”) Yet, whether preparing our hearts for tomorrow’s Thanksgiving feast or simply reaching for words before a daily meal, the Jewish blessing can be very useful in easing anxieties about giving thanks to God aloud. We do this by expanding on the Jewish prayer’s basic principles.

Let us thank God not only for our food, but also for being alive and healthy and able to digest it; for the gift of labor that supplies our tables; for senses that relish what we eat; for fellowship occasioned by gathering at the table.

Let us thank God not only for where we live, but also for freedom to make that land our home; for the security of having a place in the world; for the wealth that grows out of belonging to families and communities that strive to live and prosper in peace; for the traditions and heritages that enrich our lives together.

Let us thank God not only for our holy places, but also for the promises they house; for hope that will not surrender to pessimism; for spiritual sanctuary in a world governed by greed and injustice; for beacons of righteousness that shine forth from the citadels and steeples of God’s dwelling places.

Let us be thankful, not only for God’s goodness, but also for the unmerited love and mercy it contains; for relentless blessings we enjoy and too often overlook; for daily guidance and protection given to us; for awareness that if it were not for God’s grace, we would be lost.

I pray a meaningful and rich Thanksgiving Day for all who celebrate the holiday in the US and an equally abundant blessing for those outside the States—reminding all of us of the wisdom imparted in Colossians 3:14-15:

Clothe yourselves with love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in the one body. And be thankful.

Amen.

Snakebit

The people grew impatient on the way. The people spoke against God and against Moses, “Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? There is no food and water, and we detest this miserable food.” (Numbers 21.4-5)

The Wee Hours

In John 3, a prominent Pharisee named Nicodemus pays Jesus a late-night visit. It’s painfully obvious why he chooses this time of day to seek out the Rabbi Who’s making waves. Jesus has just outraged the religious establishment by driving profiteers from Jerusalem’s temple. When challenged to explain His actions, His cryptic reply heightens suspicion that He’s big trouble. Still, something about Jesus resonates with Nicodemus. He goes to Him after hours, when neither man is likely to be spotted, looking for answers to questions that trouble him.

While artists traditionally place their meeting in a moonlit courtyard, I like to picture it in a modern setting—an all-night diner, perhaps, where two people who’ve heard about each other finally get to hunker down in a back booth and talk into the wee hours over bottomless coffee cups. Nicodemus jumps right in, assuring Jesus, “We know You’re a teacher come from God, because You couldn’t do what You do if God hadn’t sent You.” His statement of faith enables Jesus to reveal what’s really going on. Since Nicodemus is a noted theologian, Jesus dives into the deep end, using rebirth as a metaphor for spiritual insight, informing the man that he’ll need new eyes to see Jesus is doing the work of God’s kingdom. Nicodemus doesn’t get it. “How can anyone be reborn?” he asks. Jesus explains He’s talking about spiritual rebirth—awakening to a truth that transcends natural law. Nicodemus still doesn’t get it. Somewhat frustrated, Jesus asks, “Aren’t you a teacher? How can this be so hard to understand?” And then, in verse 12, He says, “If I have told you about earthly things and you do not believe, how can you believe if I tell you about heavenly things?”

Here to Die

One imagines Nicodemus staring at his coffee, feeling smaller by the minute. In verse 13, Jesus tactfully apologizes for talking over his head: “No one has ascended into heaven except the one who descended from heaven, the Son of Man,” He confides. (Translated: “Of course you can’t understand what I’m talking about. We come from different worlds.”) So Jesus reaches into Hebrew Scripture to explain Himself in terms Nicodemus can grasp. “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness,” He says, “so must the Son of Man be lifted up that whoever believes in Him may have eternal life.” (v14-15)

Nicodemus perks up. It’s all coming together. This Rabbi Who talks in riddles is exactly Who many say He is: Israel’s Savior. He provoked Jerusalem’s temple officials on purpose to fulfill His mission. No doubt, Nicodemus has heard rumblings that Jesus must be got out of the way. Indeed, concern for Jesus’s safety may be what prompted his visit. Now he realizes that Jesus knows what’s going on and why He’s unfazed by the brewing conspiracy to get rid of Him. In effect, Jesus tells Nicodemus, “I’m here to die.”

New Life and Healing

Jesus's allusion to the Old Testament’s infamous snake episode is both tasty and timely. It’s the kind of horror tale that glues teenaged boys to their seats, and it’s probable that Jesus and Nicodemus associate it with their youth. As told in Numbers 21, the story finds the Israelites grumbling once again about roaming the desert. You’d think they’d have adjusted to wilderness life by now, as they’ve been at it for 40 years. What’s more, with God’s help, they’ve just pulled off an amazing coup, destroying a Canaanite tribe that attacked them and took some of their people hostage. Spirits should be very high. But verses 4 and 5 read, “The people grew impatient on the way. The people spoke against God and against Moses, ‘Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? There is no food and water, and we detest this miserable food.’” Their impertinence turns into self-fulfilling prophecy. Venomous snakes infest their camp and many die. That wakes them up. They run to Moses and beg him to beseech God’s mercy. God instructs Moses to craft a facsimile of a snake and hoist it on a pole. “Everyone who is bitten shall look at it and live,” God declares. (v9)

The timeliness of Jesus’s mentioning the story to Nicodemus reveals how finely attuned both men are to scriptural nuance. The story transpires when Israel is on the cusp of major transition. Aaron, their chief priest, died just prior to the victory over their enemies. They’re due for a changing of the guard, as Moses transfers leadership to a new generation that will usher Israel into the Land of Promise. Yet here they are, as impatient, ungrateful, and shortsighted as ever. It’s been four decades since they walked away from Egypt. But they won’t let it go. If anything, they’ve romanticized it to the point of absurdity—to the point that it still enslaves them. Why have you brought us up out of Egypt to die in the wilderness? It’s a dangerous question to put to God and the prophet. Asking it almost kills them off and very well might have, but for one critical factor. God promised Israel a land of its own and God’s promises hold true, whether or not we accept them. Thus, to honor the promise, God raises an improbable symbol of new life and healing in the desert, instructing Israel to look and live.

Toward the Lifting

The subtleties of Jesus’s metaphor aren’t lost on Nicodemus this time. He sees the religious climate of his day is also polluted with impertinence, impatience, ingratitude, and shortsightedness. He senses the world is on the cusp of major transition. Jesus has come to usher in a New Order, to lead us into a new Land of Promise. His gruesome execution will become God’s improbable symbol of new life and healing, an unconditional offering of love to all who look and live.

And so it is that Lent’s desert—where 40 short days can feel like 40 long years—finds us headed toward the lifting of God’s Son on a crude cross. There He will hang as God’s promise of healing and new life. And make no mistake: we are snakebit with venom that flows out of our impatience, ingratitude, and myopia. We cling to Egyptian reveries and wax nostalgic about enslavement. Sentimentality for old regimes blinds us to new opportunities. Major victories evaporate from memory. Yet in the midst of our discontent and impertinence God raises a Savior Who invites us to look and live. May we honor that invitation and find new healing and life at Calvary’s cross.

Look and live.

Podcast link: http://straightfriendly.podbean.com/2012/02/25/snakebit/.

Postscript: Question 4

In John 3.3, Jesus tells Nicodemus unless we’re born anew, we can’t see the kingdom of God. And in Numbers, God raises a symbol of pain and death to open Israel’s eyes to new healing and life.

When we look at the cross, what do we see? How does it reveal God’s kingdom to us? I can’t help but think we all see the same thing. Yet given our personal histories and perspectives, we view the cross in marvelously unique ways. I’ve shared some of what I see in the comments. What do you see?

Our Children and Their Children

Only be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them fade from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them. (Deuteronomy 4.9)

The Photo That Brought AIDS Home

About a year ago, I crossed paths with Therese Frare, a staggeringly gifted photographer in the Pacific Northwest. I was part of a team working on a new HIV product launch to occur less than a month before the 30th anniversary of the first AIDS diagnoses. The serendipitous timing opened the door to include a retrospective of the extraordinary leaps in HIV/AIDS treatment and reaffirm our client's contributions as a major leader in the field. We wanted Therese to photograph the event for a number of reasons. Her talent spoke for itself, and when we approached her about taking the job, the conversations revealed her to be an ebullient, sharp-minded person—someone we’d enjoy working with. Her role on this particular job would be particularly significant, though, as she holds a unique position in HIV/AIDS history.

In 1990, during graduate studies in photography at Ohio University, Therese volunteered at Pater Noster House, an AIDS hospice in nearby Columbus. An assignment for a visual storytelling class led her to ask one of the patients, David Kirby, and his caregiver, Peta—an AIDS patient himself—if she could document their experiences with the affliction. After some justifiable resistance from the hospice (due to patient privacy concerns), Therese was cleared to shoot David and Peta’s interactions. David was in end-stage, meaning Peta’s main concern was making his final days as comfortable as possible. On one occasion, Therese was at the hospice when Peta was called to the young man’s bedside. Seeing his parents there, she discretely waited in the hall. His mother asked Therese to come in, telling her, “We’d like you to photograph the family saying their final goodbyes to David.” As the heart-wrenching scene played out, Therese stood in a corner, capturing it moment-by-moment. While proximity to the event muted her appreciation of her photographs’ power, David’s expressed desire that his story be told inspired Therese to mail copies of one shot to the World Press and Life magazine. Life immediately picked it up and published the picture in its November 1990 issue. It’s now known the world over as “the face of AIDS” and “the photo that brought AIDS home.”

Dark Shadows

When Therese’s photograph appeared, we were ending the AIDS crisis’s first decade. We’d seen a multitude of images of the virus’s emaciated victims—from iconic celebrities like Rock Hudson to nameless African children—and heard hundreds of agonizing stories. Those of us cursed to witness AIDS’ ravages up-close and personal were emotionally depleted, but for seething anger at how little concern was shown for the lives devastated by the disease. Like every other catastrophic illness, an AIDS diagnosis triggered a ripple effect that emanated from the patient to loved ones nearest him/her, then on to more casual friends and acquaintances, and finally into her/his various professional and social circles. Because its first US targets were gay men—many with long histories of casual promiscuity—it was all too easy to minimize AIDS suffering as a minority issue. The public at large felt safely insulated from its threat and, therefore, not responsible for its treatment, containment, or cure. This false sense of security was further enhanced when the virus began surfacing in other specific populations: blood-transfusion patients, IV drug abusers, sex workers, and so on. AIDS was a “not-us” sickness, and hence “not our problem.” Therese’s photograph changed that.

For the first time, people removed from AIDS’ realities stepped into its dark shadows. Fathers felt Mr. Kirby’s anguish, as he cradled his son's gaunt face and clung to his rail-thin arm. Mothers perceived the stormy emotions raging behind Mrs. Kirby’s stoic expression, while she pulled David’s kid sister—confused, frightened, a child too young to know such sorrow—to her bosom. The emptiness in David’s eyes led one to imagine, for all practical purposes, he was already gone before this final farewell. It pierced the heart of every mother’s child. The anonymous hand reaching into the scene softly spoke of someone outside the family with compassion and courage to touch the dying man—of someone who chose to be there. Above them, the outstretched, nail-scarred hands of Jesus beckoned David into His eternal care, promising to hold the wounded hearts he left behind. This was too real—too personal—to ignore. Therese’s photograph allowed millions around the world to see what we who’d had sat at far too many bedsides had seen. Never again would they look on AIDS in any other way.

Sacred Duty to Remember

Twenty years later, our hearts overflow with gratitude for God’s mercy and provision. Medical breakthroughs have diminished AIDS’ savagery. How thankful we are that horrific scenes like David Kirby’s are rare exceptions and no longer the rule. We no longer speak of an “AIDS holocaust” and rarely do we see images of AIDS-related suffering. Yet in our rejoicing, we must not confuse AIDS’ disarmament with decisive defeat. Its status as a treatable condition on par with hypertension, diabetes, and other chronic illnesses introduces the peril of assuming AIDS is no longer a grave disease to be avoided at all costs—that it can be “lived with” and its threat has decreased. Worst of all, we can never conclude that its relative invisibility in the media and our daily environment means AIDS has “gone away.” It is present to the point of prevalence. It is very real and, until it’s completely destroyed, it’s not going away.

We who survived AIDS’ initial onslaught have a sacred duty to remember, honoring the thousands of precious souls prematurely torn from our midst. Yet our sacred duty to remember extends to never forgetting our children—and, now, their children—have not seen, felt, or known what we experienced. We’re fools to expect they'll independently ascertain the gravity of what they’re playing with when they put themselves at risk of contracting the virus. As Therese did, we must reveal to them AIDS in all of its heartbreaking ugliness. We must tell them stories of its unbearable suffering and sorrow. We must keep it before them, even though they look away. In Deuteronomy 4.9, God commands, “Be careful, and watch yourselves closely so that you do not forget the things your eyes have seen or let them fade from your heart as long as you live. Teach them to your children and to their children after them.” May hearts of compassion and desire to please our Creator compel us to obey.

Amen.

Always, In All Circumstances

Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you. (1 Thessalonians 5.16-18)

Continuing a tradition begun last year, Straight-Friendly celebrates Thanksgiving in song—with an emphasis on giving thanks when we may not feel like it, when true gratitude may set us apart, and when the complexity of life frays our connection to thankfulness as an act of faith.

Rejoice always. Pray without ceasing. Give thanks in all circumstances. This is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.

“Take a Little Time,” Andraé Crouch

“Now Thank We All Our God,” Lincoln Minister School Chamber Choir

“Gratitude,” Nichole Nordeman

“In Everything (Give Him Thanks),” The Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir

“Jubilate Deo,” The University of Utah Singers

(Rather than translate “Jubilate Deo,” I’ll let these charming you fellows do it.)

“Thanksgiving Song,” Mary Chapin Carpenter

“For All You’ve Done,” Hillsong

“Simple Gifts,” Yo-Yo Ma and Alison Krauss

Prayer of Thanks, Rabbi Lazer Brody

“Be Grateful,” John Legend & Roots, featuring Jennifer Hudson

Always, and ever, I thank God for all of you!

Falling

I was pushed so hard, so that I was falling, but the LORD helped me. The LORD is my strength and my might; God has become my salvation… I shall not die, but I shall live, and recount the deeds of the LORD. (Psalm 118.13-14,17)

Today is a turning point, a chance to recalibrate our heading. The dastardly violence visited on the US and world at large on 9/11/01 came so unexpectedly we had no time to consider how best to respond. But we’ve been given 10 years—3,652 days—to wrestle with all the justified emotions and irrational behaviors the tragedy unleashed. While its memory will forever be stamped in our hearts and minds, it’s time to let go the fear and ugliness it produced.

We’ve spent the last decade dying a slow death, knotted up in worst-case scenarios, shrinking in terror every time a lunatic whispers, “Boo!” and blaming whoever's handy for all that’s gone wrong since that horrible day. We’ve turned from a hated people into a hateful one, and we insist on pretending we don’t notice or care how far we’ve fallen. Plummeting in 9/11's spectral shadows has robbed us of the joy, hope, and trust in one another that warmed our days and stilled our nights.

We would do well to use this moment to embrace the Psalmist’s declaration: “I shall not die, but I shall live, and recount the deeds of the LORD.” (Psalm 118.17)

It's a stunning vow, given the circumstances. The writer’s rise to an enviable position of authority enraged his adversaries. He doesn’t speculate what stoked their hostility. It may have been jealousy, ethnic hostility, or a strategically devised preemptive strike. The nature of the conflict is secondary. It's most important we understand the poet's been blind-sided. He tells us his foes engulfed him, swarmed him like bees, and blazed like burning thorns. Things got real ugly real fast. He countered the attack with decisive force. “In the name of the LORD, I cut them off!” he says—not once, but three times, as though he can’t believe it. Then we discover why his reaction and success seem incredible to him.

“I was pushed so hard, so that I was falling, but the LORD helped me,” the psalmist confesses. (v13) Falling. The pressure sends him spiraling. He’s losing his grip. Yet God mercifully catches him before he tumbles over the precipice. And rather than depend on his own abilities, he puts his trust in his Maker. “The LORD is my strength and my might; God has become my salvation,” he exclaims in verse 14. [So convinced is he that God’s faithfulness is the deciding factor that earlier in the poem he states, “With the LORD on my side I do not fear. What can mortals do to me?” (v6)] The psalmist’s steadiness is not of his doing. God saves him. Acute awareness of God’s mercy turns him around. While the people rejoice in his triumph, he triumphs in the realization he won’t die. He will live. And he embraces a very specific reason for living: to “recount the deeds of the LORD.”

Instead of falling, the poet soars.

*****

The terrorists who conceived and executed 9/11 were a cunning, barbaric lot. Thugs they were—naïvely heartless people seduced by a jury-rigged promise of immortality. They brooked no concern about the unjust hatred and prejudice their deeds would heap on millions of upright people who shared their ethnic and faith heritage. They deluded themselves with the fantasy they were courageous avengers waging an undeclared holy war with no place or purpose in the modern world. They were simpletons.

I can’t accept one of them was bright enough to say, “You know, when all is said and done, we will have bruised the American character past all recognition.” Their medieval mindset proves they lacked the sophistication to foresee the impact their evil would have on our culture and politics. They wanted to make us afraid of them. But somehow, through none of their doing, we turned their malevolence inside out. We became afraid and suspicious of each other.

Nine-eleven launched a cold civil war with both sides rising up in alarm at every turn, convinced anyone unlike them was scheming to overthrow the nation. We’ve devoted an entire decade to calling one another Fascists, Anarchists, Socialists, Communists, Luddites, Militants, Opportunists, Racists, Misogynists, Homophobes, Atheists, Fanatics, Hypocrites—and, yes, Terrorists—as well as only God knows how many other vicious names, including many unfit for a faith-forward blog.

Not since Pearl Harbor had Americans united in such defiance of evil and selfless compassion for our wounded. Indeed, the extraordinary solidarity spilled from our shores and overflowed the world. From every corner of the planet cries went up: “We are all Americans!” Our venal enemies placed that magnificent gift right there, in the palm of our hand.

And we let it go.

*****

Nobody says, “We’re Americans!” these days—nobody who means it in the broadest sense, that is. “Extremists,” another label frequently heard in the wake of 9/11, has also faded from use. And little wonder why. We’re now a land overrun with extremists. The priceless middle ground on which our country rose has imploded. Moderates are wastes of space, unworthy of attention. Even the middle-class—the backbone of our economy and culture—is dwindling to dust. In an atmosphere that literally banks on overkill, anything less than reckless and ridiculous has no value. We’ll defend blatant stupidity to the death if it’s extreme. We’ll tune in and listen to anyone, as long as what he says and how she says it are extreme.

We’ve got fat to the point of stupor on a non-stop diet of flagrant animosity and ignorance. The post-9/11 gallery of pop and political icons resembles a nuthouse run amok: haters, conspiracy theorists, ne’er-do-wells, self-aggrandizing analysts, and shameless enablers in every arena have captivated our attention. Flip from ““The Real Housewives” to cable news to a conspiracy theory “documentary.” The subject and style vary, but the underlying message is the same: somebody wants to hurt me!

Just once, wouldn’t it be refreshing for someone say, “Squabbling makes no sense. Let’s compromise.” Such a statement would open fascinating dialogue. But we’re not interested in dialogue. We want to be entertained—provoked by and dragged into contrived dramas that invariably manifest themselves in emotional (in some cases, physical) violence. If it’s not extreme, we’re not buying.

And that’s the problem with compromise and common sense. Neither is ever extreme. They don’t hurt anyone beyond reason, nor do they help anyone beyond measure. In short, they neutralize the victim-and-villain charade—and that’s what we’re all about these days, feeling hurt and hurting feelings.

*****

Is it remotely possible the terrorists foresaw we’d take a liking to victim mentality? If we went back to September 10, 2001, stopped any American on any street, and told him/her, “After tomorrow, you’ll view yourself as a victim,” we’d get cussed out.

In the immediate wake of 9/11, we ponied up like true American cowboys, vowing to hunt down the villains and bring them to justice. “Nobody messes with us and gets by with it!” Then it slowly dawned on us that we were dealing with something we didn’t understand. “Where is Osama bin Laden?” turned into a punch line. And once we rounded up those we suspected of abetting his cause, justice became a joke. Retribution and punishment were the names of the game—one that permitted us to change the rules and invent new ones as we went.

Meanwhile, voluntary victimization surfaced in the Blame Game, the domestic version of our preoccupation with nefarious conspirators abroad. More things gone wrong gave us more people to blame. When the richest among us started whining about their mistreatment, the Blame Game ballooned into absurdist farce. In grand titan fashion, they deployed media henchmen to waft their high-end Eau de Victim through the media and—sure enough—tens of thousands struggling from paycheck to paycheck picked up the scent. The truly put-upon avidly defended the hardly put-upon for one reason: they both blamed the same people for their unhappiness. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, they say.

*****

No nation backslides from its hard-won reputation as an industrious, prodigiously capable people to become a multitude of mewlers and malingerers without its consent.

There was a time Americans had to be warned, "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." We were innovators, tinkerers, and renovators who couldn’t leave well enough alone. We sauntered next door when we saw a neighbor working on his car, skipped an afternoon at the beach to make cupcakes for a charity bake sale, and knocked on a needy family’s door with a bag of groceries to tide them over. We turned barn raising and harvests into festivals, moving days into parties. Offering help before you were asked was the American way.

We witnessed that spirit at its highest after 9/11. People quit their jobs to clean up the ruins and get New Yorkers and Washingtonians back on their feet. We've caught glimpses of it after devastating natural disasters. But it's rarely sighted in our political and community lives. Now we distance ourselves from opportunities to help until the needs grow too big to handle and we blame everyone else for not doing what we wouldn't be bothered with.

But how can you blame someone else for your sad estate when you’ve done nothing to prevent it? What convinced us that 9/11 freed us of all responsibilities for our actions? Why do we think blaming somebody else gets us off the hook and magically mitigates problems we actively or passively—mostly passively—allowed to escalate?

My partner, Walt, insists there are no victims, only volunteers. While I don’t agree that’s true across-the-board, the post-9/11 American character certainly fits the profile.

*****

A few weeks ago, I turned on a local midday newscast just as the anchor tossed to commercial. The story slated after the break was about power outages due to a storm earlier that week. Residents were naturally frustrated that their lights weren’t back on. “We’ll tell you all about it,” the anchor said, “and who’s to blame.”

And she smiled—not maliciously, as if she relished pinning down the slackers who left families in the dark. No, she smiled in that annoying, news anchor way, suggesting she didn’t give the Blame Game a second thought. She might as well have said, “We’ll tell you all about it, and then we’ll play Duck-Duck-Goose.” She was just that oblivious to how blaming anyone for the situation didn’t remedy it. And who could blame her? She looked no older than 25. All she’s known her entire adult life is confusing blame with justice and, worse yet, progress. I would have been furious had I not been thoroughly chilled.

That’s the biggest calamity of 9/11’s aftermath. We’ve invested ten years nurturing a woe-is-me, be-very-afraid culture with not the slightest concern an entire generation has come of age believing that self-pity, paranoia, and helplessness are the American way of life. If the 1980s were the “Me” Decade, the 2000s will be remembered as the “Them” Decade—as in, “It’s their fault,” “It’s their duty,” and “It’s their neglect.”

Whose fault is that?

*****

In America, we pledge allegiance to “one nation under God.” We tender currency emblazoned with our trust in God. Whether or not we’re comfortable with how these and other legislated mentions of faith blur the lines between church and state, this is who we say we are and what we say we do. Yet we’ve permitted 9/11’s impact to divide us and we’ve exploited God’s name as a wedge that incites fear, the enemy of trust. God’s mercy and goodness to us—the strength and might God placed in us, without which our greatness as a people seems unlikely at best—have no prominence in the national dialogue, neither overtly nor implicitly. As believers, however, we know God has been unduly merciful and good to us, before and after 9/11. To acknowledge that would require us to shut down the Blame Game. It would mean living, not dying—praising, not accusing.

We let one awful morning rewire our minds. We decided there’s nothing good to say about or to one another. Consequently God’s deeds have gone unreported. And as we’ve gone down this path of retaliation and rudeness, we’ve created fewer opportunities for gratitude. What you say is what you get.

*****

Psalm 118 is a thanksgiving processional sung as priests approach the altar to offer sacrifices of praise. Its opening line invokes gratitude: “O give thanks to the LORD, for God is good; God’s steadfast love endures forever!” (v1) All the angst and violence the poet recounts comes in the next two stanzas to remind worshipers how close to falling he came and how God’s mercy caught him before he let go. The psalm peaks in verses 23-24: “This is the LORD’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes. This is the day that the LORD has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”

What do we make of this day? Will it end like the last 3,652, with fear’s putrid tang on our tongues and blind suspicion terrorizing our hearts? Or will we redeem the lives lost on 9/11/01 by joining a long overdue thanksgiving procession, offering sacrifices of praise for God’s goodness to us? Can we quit pointing fingers and recognize the marvelous things God has done? Will this be the day we finally open our eyes to see trust in God and one another is what transforms falling into soaring? Can we summon the clarity and courage to declare, “We shall not die. We shall live”?

This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it.

Lord, open our eyes. Amen.

Trusting God and one another transforms falling into soaring.