April 20: Something Extraordinary, Improbabilities of Jesus, Homeless

Arthur and Ford are about to learn the truth about the spaceship they are currently on . . .

"Which government . . ." started Ford again.

"No government owns it," snapped the robot, "it's been stolen."

"Stolen?"

"Stolen?" mimicked Marvin.

"Who by?" asked Ford.

"Zaphod Beeblebrox."

Something extraordinary happened to Ford's face.  At least five entirely separate and distinct expressions of shock and amazement piled up on it in a jumbled mess.  His left leg, which was in midstride, seemed to have difficulty in finding the floor again.  He stared at the robot and tried to disentangle some dartoid muscles.

"Zaphod Beeblebrox . . .?" he said weakly.

"Sorry, did I say something wrong?" said Marvin, dragging himself on regardless.  "Pardon me for breathing, which I never do anyway so I don't know why I bother to say it, oh God, I'm so depressed.  Here's another of those self-satisfied doors.  Life!  Don't talk to me about life."

"No one even mentioned it," muttered Arthur irritably.  "Ford, are you all right?"

Ford stared at him.  "Did that robot say Zaphod Beeblebrox?" he said.

There you go.  Arthur and Ford are riding through the universe in a hot spaceship, boosted by the President of the Galaxy.  Since the spaceship is powered by Improbability Physics, this information is not really surprising.  Improbable, but not surprising.  On this Easter weekend, when the miracle of Christ's resurrection is celebrated by Christians throughout the world, this seems like an appropriate passage on which to reflect.

Think about the improbabilities of the life of Jesus Christ and Easter.  Jesus, who grew up the son of a carpenter in a nothing town near the Sea of Galilee, wasn't seen as anybody important.  Just a guy who made tables maybe.  Repaired oxcarts and fences.  That's it.

He probably didn't look all the special, either.  Olive-skinned, with dark, curly hair.  Muscled from working with heavy wood.  There weren't any power tools back then.  Everything was done with his own two calloused hands and backbreaking labor.  I'm sure he carried some scars from his carpentry work.  Times when a hammer or chisel or saw slipped, bit into his skin.

This person, a handyman, a no one, literally changed the world.  That is real improbability.  And now, 21 centuries later, we still celebrate him.

Yesterday, I played the organ at the Good Friday service at my church.  Lots of chanting, singing, and prayers.  We venerated the cross.  Celebrated Holy Communion.  At one point during the service, we did a litany of intentions.  We prayed for Pope Francis.  The bishop of the diocese.  Priests and clergy.  Then we prayed for Jewish people.  Those who don't believe in Christ.  Those who don't believe in God.  Lastly, we prayed this:

Let us pray, dearly beloved, to God the Father almighty, that he may cleanse the world of all errors, banish disease, drive out hunger, unlock prisons, loosen fetters, granting to travelers safety, to pilgrims return, health to the sick, and salvation to the dying.

When I heard those words, I wondered how many of the people in the congregation below really thought of their implications--cleansing the errors of the world.  Feeding the hungry.  Healing the sick.  Freeing prisoners.  Welcoming travelers and pilgrims.  If people were really listening, they should have felt pretty uncomfortable with themselves and conditions in the United States.

Think about it.  We have a healthcare system that denies people necessary medical treatment because they can't afford it.  We have families starving while CEOs of billion-dollar corporations are getting tax breaks.  We are imprisoning pilgrims (including children) who come to this country, seeking a better life.  We aren't feeding the hungry or comforting the sick or welcoming the stranger. 

That bothers me.  Makes me angry and sad.  Notre Dame Cathedral burned on Monday.  By Tuesday night, over one billion dollars had been pledged for the rebuilding of it.  That's a miracle, and I hope that Notre Dame does rise from the ashes.  However, if the world can do that in the space of 24 hours, why can't it solve world hunger just as quickly?  End poverty?  Cure cancer?

You might hear tomorrow morning.  Easter.  Two of Jesus's disciples are walking toward the city of Emmaus after his resurrection.  They encounter Christ on the road, but they don't recognize him.  Now, as disciples, they probably had seen Jesus.  A lot.  They knew what he looked like.  Sounded like.  Walked like.  Yet, they don't know who he is on this road.  The same thing happens with Mary Magdalene.  She encounters a guy who she thinks is a gardener near Jesus's tomb on resurrection morning.  She, also, doesn't seem to be able to identify Christ, even though she washed his feet with her hair.

I can only think that Jesus wasn't appearing as Jesus.  He was changed.  Transformed.  Perhaps, he was a beggar.  Or a leper.  Or a woman.  Christ was appearing in the form of someone completely unrecognizable to them.  To drive home a point.  From that time forward, he would be a part of everyone.  The poor, sick, dying, hungry.  He would be the immigrant at the border.  The AIDS patient in the emergency room.  The guy at the entrance to Walmart holding a sign that reads, "Homeless.  Anything will help."

Maybe that's the real message of Easter.  It's not the incense or chanting or music or hard boiled eggs or ham.  It's opening our eyes and seeing Jesus Christ everywhere.  In everyone. 

Saint Marty hopes so.

January 19: Too Wrapped Up in Myself, Self-Absorption, Honors Band

Ford Prefect has just announced to the customers of the Horse and Groom that the world is about to end in ten minutes . . .

"Ford," said Arthur, "would you please tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Drink up," said Ford, "you've got three pints to get through."

"Three pints?" said Arthur.  "At lunchtime?"

The man next to Ford grinned and nodded happily.  Ford ignored him.  He said, "Time is an illusion.  Lunchtime doubly so."

"Very deep," said Arthur, "you should send that in to the Reader's Digest.  They've got a place for people like you."

"Drink up."

"Why three pints all of a sudden?"

"Muscle relaxant, you'll need it."

"Muscle relaxant?"

"Muscle relaxant."

Arthur stared into his beer.

"Did I do anything wrong today," he said, "or has the world always been like this and I've been too wrapped up in myself to notice?"

I often feel like Arthur does here.  Ask myself the same question:  Have I been too wrapped up in myself to notice things going on in the world?

For example, I've been talking a lot about my trip to Disney World.  Posting pictures.  Writing blog posts.  Whining about how cold it is in the Upper Peninsula versus Orlando, how tired I am at work, how I've been coughing interestingly-colored things up from my lungs.  (For those of you that just ate, I apologize for that last one.)  In short, I've been pretty pretty self-absorbed.

Meanwhile, terrible things are going on in my country.  Mr. Trump has shut down the government, furloughed thousands of people without pay, and is holding the American people hostage because of his ego.  If it goes on much longer, these federal employees are going to start losing their cars and homes and medical insurance.  Meanwhile, all the politicians are collecting their paychecks, going out to restaurants, driving their nice cars, flying home for the weekend.

There are people who are homeless, hungry, without hope.  In other countries, there are refugees living in tents in the middle of winter, not sure where their next meal is coming from.  People living under ruthless dictators (take note, citizens of the United States) who take away civil rights, hold "elections," bully and conspire to stay in power, disenfranchise entire populations of people because of skin color or religion or nationality or gender or sexual orientation.

The planet is dying.  Polar ice is melting at an alarming rate.  Temperatures are rising.  And we are not doing enough to slow down, halt, or reverse this process.  We still rely too much on fossil fuels.  Drill for oil.  Decimate coastline and forests for profit.  Deny empirical, scientific facts because they are inconvenient and require us to change the way we live.

I could go on, but you get the idea.  I don't think I'm alone in my self-absorption.  It's easy to walk around with a kind of tunnel vision, especially if you're struggling to pay bills or stay healthy or remain employed.  Injustices abound, but, unless those injustices are directed against myself or someone I care about, I worry more about the next season of American Horror Story.

Today is the third annual Women's March in the United States.  Men and women all across the country are rallying together for women's rights, gender equality. It's a day not to be self-absorbed.  To think about the bigger picture.  To stand up against social and political injustices.  There's a Women's March in a city close to me.  Hundreds of people gathering in solidarity.

And what am I doing?  I'm driving a couple hours to see my daughter play her last Honors Band concert.  (At least, that's the plan.  She's been throwing up all morning long during rehearsals, but she's determined to stay and perform.)  I'm not sure if that counts as being self-absorbed.  I like to think that I'm supporting my daughter become a confident, accomplished young woman.  That counts, I hope.

Saint Marty is trying to make the world a better place, in his own whiny, self-absorbed way.

December 14: Juliet Kono, "Homeless," Benefit Poetry Reading

Homeless

by:  Juliet Kono

My son lives on the streets.

We don’t see each other much.

Like a mother who puts white lilies

on the headstone of a dead child,

I put money into his bank account,

clothes into E-Z Access storage

and pretend he’s far away—

at a boarding school, or in a foreign country.

Nights, I dream fairy tales about him.

I dream he becomes a prince,

scholar or warrior who rescues me

from sorrow, the way he rescued me

when he was a child and said,

“Mommy, don’t cry,” and brought tea

into the room of his father’s acrimony—

brave, standing tall in the forest

fire of his father’s scorn. I wake

to the empty sound of wind in the trees.

He says he wants to live with me.

I say I can’t live with him—

boy whose words crash like branches in a rain storm.

Nothing can hold him in,

the walls of a house too thin.

Back home, I had seen

the “study-hard-so-you-don’t-become-like-them”

street bums on Mamo Street,

and he’s like them.

These days, in order to catch a glimpse of him,

I circle the city. One day,

I see him on his bike.

People give him wide berth,

the same way birds avoid power lines,

oncoming cars or trees.

I park on a side street.

Wild-eyed, he flies the block

as if in a holding pattern.

Not of my body, not of my hopes,

he homes in on what can’t be given or taken away.

_______________________________

A poem for tonight in anticipation of the benefit reading I've organized for the Warming Center and Room at the Inn, places that help the homeless in my area.

No matter how difficult I think my life is, I know that I am greatly blessed.

Saint Marty knows this.