Even at the End of Hope


Photo by Ricardo Angarita

It’s been a heavy week. Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain committed suicide and we learned that far too many anonymous Americans are doing the same thing. A 25% increase since 1999. The 10thleading cause of death in our country—and the second among young people.

Suicide, mental illness, and addiction all run in my family. I have been feeling heavy myself as I wrestle with my own demons.

All I know to say at a time like this is that those of us who struggle mightily are not alone. It’s a cliché, I know, but what I mean is not that there is always a wide circle of loving arms waiting to catch your fall (sometimes there’s not) but that there are others who are just as hopeless. And in the solidarity of our sometimes miserable human condition, I think, we find something else at the end of hope.

That’s why I am sharing this poem today. I wrote it more than 4 years ago. But something about it rings true to me now, and while it is my own particular experience, maybe it will make someone feel less alone.

Even at the End of Hope

The day I lost my faith in humankind
I stopped writing in hopeful, messy scribbles.

At lunch I slammed a plastic cup down on the table
and got angry at the one person I love with abandon,
the one person who doesn’t screw over anyone.

I put on headphones and listened to rock songs
about holy detachment and folk songs about holding on.
“People you hate will get their hooks into you.”
“You criticize and detest in others the faults you see in yourself.”
“But you still don’t like to leave before the end of the movie.”
“I’ll be out in the garden dancing with the rain.”

I remembered the sacred spot in the woods
that the bulldozers tore down.
I remembered how much I used to cling to music
and sing to myself until I found meaning in life again.
I remembered my cracked guitar that I can’t play anymore.
I remembered rolling on the floor and dancing in the rain,
with my family, my innocent, crazy, arrogant and pure-hearted family.
I cried and swayed to the songs with my eyes closed
turned in towards the worlds of things that I had lost.
I felt that I would never go home again.

At 8:30 in the evening a ringing started in my ear
because I was tired of hearing things that I couldn’t bear.
I wanted to hate everyone, but I couldn’t.
I said a prayer for them that was half hate
and half begging that God would have mercy on us.
I reorganized my files and edited an already-preached sermon.
You might as well put your life in order
even at the end of hope.

Maybe someday you will find
a little corner of the world to love again,
and you will need to remember where you left everything
the day you lost your faith in humankind.

(Song lyrics from “End of the Movie” by Cake, “Hold On” by Jason Anderson, and “Silver and Gold” by Steppin’ In It)


Heartbreaking Injustice

Justice might not be as compatible with our way of living as it seems. It is so easy to move away from suffering, to move inward to our own self-preservation, to move toward selfishness and evil. Nothing demonstrates this quite like the execution of a controversial teacher and miracle worker who lived in the Roman Empire’s province of Galilee some 2000 years ago. His name was Jesus.

cruc- j i fletes.jpg

Heartbreaking Injustice (Good Friday)
Mark 15

“It is better for one man to die for the people than for the whole nation to be destroyed,” you heard someone smart say.

It is better to trust the enforcers of the law than to listen to some woman’s impractical dreams. They know what’s best.

It is better to wrongly accuse a few innocents than to let many criminals off the hook.

It is better to stay neutral than to pick sides. You might ruffle the wrong feathers and get in trouble.

It is better to live a long and prosperous life than to throw it away by fighting for a hopeless cause.

It is better to let others be killed than to risk your own life.

It is better to strike first than to risk being struck.

It is better to yell “Crucify him!” than to be nailed to a cross.


Image: “Jesus Christ Crucified (Christ of the Poor)” by Jose Ignacio Fletes Cruz

Restorative Justice

Restorative justice has been coming into fashion lately in political and legal systems, but it’s still a long ways off from being our modus operandi. In the story of Jesus, we find that it is the only way to right a wrong. All he wants is to be able to sit again at that table and eat with those who betrayed, denied and abandoned him.


Restorative Justice (Maundy Thursday)
Mark 14:12-42

My followers, my fellow workers,
My hope for the future, my friends.
You promised not to grow weary of this hard road
That leads to eternal life.

But you would betray me, disappointed and angry
That you’d given your all without seeing the reward.
You would hand me over me for a tiny treasure,
Not because you thought it was worth it
But because you thought it was useless to hope anymore.

You would desert me, terrified and convinced
That your life would come to nothing in the end.
Bewildered, you had eaten the bread of my body,
Had drunk the cup of my blood, but you forgot already
That not even death could break this life-giving bond.

You would fall asleep, foggy and forgetful
That you had to remain conscious before injustice.
You did not want to face my suffering, or any suffering,
And you had nothing to say when I came to wake you again.
How could you fail so many times? There is no excuse.

What justice suits such cruelty, carelessness, and cowardice?

The justice that offers you my body and blood anyway;
The justice that restores you to life in my kingdom
So that all the suffering you inflicted may be healed
And all the loneliness of being right or being wrong
May come crumbling down in our joyful reuniting.

Impractical Justice

What is practical and justifiable about loving each other, and enjoying our tragically precious time together? Absolutely nothing. That’s why it’s so beautiful. Here’s a tribute to that disorderly, wasteful woman with an alabaster jar.


Impractical Justice
Mark 11:1-14

A sinful woman, desperate and undone,
I knew what it was like to be stared down
By someone who knew better or had more.
I knew what it was like to be stopped mid-smile,
Put in my place, silenced, scorned.

I was not blessed.
I was not the beloved of anyone.
I was at fault. I was faulty.

Until he came along, and saw me.
He did not stare, or whisper, or turn away.
He drew close. He listened. He loved me.
He lowered the fruit of blessing and said, “Taste, and see,
The goodness. You were made for this.”

What else could I do but give him everything I had?
I knew he, like me, would take the same walk of shame
Before the merchants, the good families, the priests
With no way to tell his story, no way to explain.

I knew he too would be doubted as a fake:
That love and devotion I claimed to harbor?
Those healing miracles he claimed to do?
They throw it all away soon as we offer.

So now as I pour the perfume of my gratitude all over him
It’s no surprise that this, too, would be an offense:
We are accused of being careless with our rations—
Pleasure is not a right for people like us.

But I had to do something to show him, as he had shown me,
That he has infinite, dazzling worth. I wanted to say:
“Even if they tear apart your body and nail it to a cross
Even if they humiliate your soul and throw your memory
in a garbage heap with the ‘common criminals,’
I know now that none us, really, are common.
We are miracles. We are blessings.”

When the hard words come, as they must, he responds:
“This woman has done a beautiful thing.
She will be remembered wherever goodness is ripe.
Before my suffering, it is good for me to smell sweet.
After her suffering, it is good for her to be free.”

Upside Down Justice

During this Holy Week, I will take back up this sensorial adventure by sharing some poems. I am using  themin worship to try to get inside the skin of the strange, beloved, startling stories that give shape to a faith and to so much of our cultural imagination. How can these stories make living in our own skin more beautiful, more bearable, more just? That’s what I’m trying to figure out.

Upside Down Justice
Mark 11:1-11 and Philippians 2:5-11

Thereis a parade this time of year

Gleaming weapons, strong horses, Rome’s glory
Armor clinking into town is a quiet warning

Peace is won with a wise dose of fear
Everything is done with the utmost order
Only give them a little freedom to remember the Passover

But this time, there is another parade
Thatenters with noisy joy on the other side of town

A man who gave us hope comes riding along like a clown

He had to ask to borrow a donkey, still untamed
A baby animal who wanders carefree where it will
As his skinny, vulnerable frame rides it down the hill

The ruling men across town might not think he’s anyone
But here the children know his name and the birds sing it
As we lay down cloaks in a patchwork joke of a royal carpet

And the children, the children are shouting, “Hosanna to the king!”
Save us, they cry, because only love, powerful and weak
Will bring the change, the justice, we are dying to seek

Listen not to the clean clinking of the mighty;
Listen to the children singing.

Image: “Palm Sunday” by John August Swanson

Water Loves

This is the fifth installment of a series about water. As always, if you are inspired to contribute some of your own writing as we go along, I would be delighted.


Photograph by Rylan Brown

A few weeks ago I returned again to my home of summer healing: the Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore, on a peninsula within the peninsula that is my dear state of Michigan. I have gone there with my father almost every year since I can remember, just as he did with his parents. My mother used to come. Sometimes my siblings come. But I treat it like a religion, a holy pilgrimage to which I am bound.

Whenever I go back to those dunes, and rediscover the muscles in my legs that are needed to walk them, and jump into that sweet water of Lake Michigan, my body remembers what it was made for. The water holds me like a mother. The waves rock me like a lullaby. It is cold but then it starts to feel warm, just like I imagine it must be when you first come out into the world screaming and alone, and then your body starts to acclimate to the good air you breathe, to the other flesh that still sticks to yours, to the milk that feeds you and the water that cleans you.

When we were in the womb, the water of our mother’s body surrounded us and connected us to the source of life we needed to grow. When we are in the world, we dive into lakes and rivers and remember that the fresh water of the earth surrounds us and connects us to all life, to all flourishing and growth.

This water of our Mother Earth’s body is as old as time—the same water we swim in has passed through the bodies of Jesus, of Muhammad, of Mahlia Jackson and of the one you loved who has gone on and left you now. And it has all watered the ground that brings forth plants to eat, that nourishes animals and insects and microorganisms that keep the planet breathing and babies being born.

Get in it. Feel it all around you and know that the warm sweetness of life surrounds you. As my friend Brian Lillie wrote in a song once, “This ocean we swim is no place to die of thirst—love is all there is.”

Or if you can’t get in it, do as I did this past weekend at Earthwork Harvest Gathering, and get messy with it. I had gone back for the first time in 10 years to this festival that also reminds me of my connectedness to all life—a harmonic connectedness to a great web of musical life—and I participated in a water blessing ceremony for the first time as a pastor, alongside representatives of Jewish, Islamic, Native American and Druid traditions. When my turn came, I invited everyone to take out whatever water-bearing recipient they might have, open it up, and pour that water all over themselves. I gleefully demonstrated. In this way we remember that the essence of our beings can flow as unstoppably as water to fulfill the sacred purpose we each were given.

But we cannot just keep blithely receiving the water of life; we also have to take care of it. Water only gives eternally if we give back the same love it has shown us. The water that has recycled itself into the clouds for millions of years can still be poisoned with contamination beyond repair for countless generations. That is what thousands of Native Americans from tribes across the country have insisted in recent weeks as they have gathered in North Dakota to protest the Dakota Access Pipline: if we allow our greed for cheap oil to poison the water—as such pipelines almost inevitably do—we poison our own lives, and desecrate the sacred.

One of the other participants in the water blessings ceremony, my friend Aaron Allen, explained how the word for water in Hebrew is the word for mother if you invert it, and if you separate it in two it means “what if.” He concluded: “What if we treated water with the same respect, love and care that we would treat our own mother? And what if we continue not to do that?”

One of my dear ones that has gone on and left me is my friend Phil Wintermute. He wrote simple songs from the heart, and in one of them he dreamed he was made out of water—just a big bag of water walking around. “Water is the love of the earth,” he sings. So we are also big bags of love walking around, and we drink from love, and we swim in the love that gives us life, and it flows around us everywhere.

Never, for a moment, take all that water for granted. It is a gift born of love.

Praying for Water

This is the fourth installment of a series about water, a poem-prayer written near the beginning of 2016 that touches on the themes of ecological disaster and suffering that were discussed in the second installment, but also reaches toward hope, transformation and the nearness of the Holy Spirit explored in the third installmentClick here for the introductory entry. As always, if you are inspired to contribute some of your own writing as we go along, I would be delighted.

I trust that I, even I,
can be transformed.
I trust you to take me and shake me,
And put me back where I belong;
To make me into your song.

Do you cry for me?
Do you weep raggedly?
Do your hold your aching chest

for the children poisoned
by the trickle-down water of greed in Flint?
Do you gasp and grab fistfuls of your shirt
for the fishing villages and the fish
along the bone-dry basin of Lake Poopó?
Do you long with us to pour out rain
and the fragrant oil of peace on
the parched and cracked communities of Colombia?

I can only keep moving
in this dense haze of my little pain,
of the world’s dry, tortured rage,
If I know you are crying with me.
Dying with us.
If I know I have a great high priest
who can sympathize with my weakness.

My limbs are weak, head sore from worry.
My movements are constrained,
wing tips cut now by the god of worldly comfort,
by my own numb insecurity.

But you, you vibrate somewhere deep
in my muscles, in my blood.
You flow and surge, keeping my spirit awake
And restless.

Water / Falls

This is the third installment of a series about water. Click here for the introductory entry. As always, if you are inspired to contribute some of your own writing as we go along, I would be delighted.

I took a road trip from Michigan to Georgia with my mother in 2014, and along our journey through the Appalachian mountains we had a series of encounters with waterfalls that left me forever changed. I believe I never understood or even fully believed in the Holy Spirit until I had drawn near to these waterfalls. During the following semester at seminary—which was my last—I replaced going to church on Sunday with hiking to different waterfalls within driving distance of Atlanta. The following six-part poem reflects one of these Sunday “worship services” in the woods of Northern Georgia, exploring what we can learn from water—about our essential nature, about our bodies and their goodness as well as their limitations, about God, and about love.

Raven Cliff Fallsraven-cliff-falls3869


Just by flowing down, water carves away
at the stagnate structures
of million-year-old stone
and makes new shapes:
smooth curves, round cubbyholes, deep pools.

It makes a way out of no way.

But first it makes its peace with structure,
no matter how constraining it is.
And it takes a very, very long time.

Which is stronger: water or stone?


Sometimes humans make
beautiful things
without harming anyone:
stones in the middle of water
piled up very carefully,
as if they were sitting and thinking,
balanced so precariously
but never falling over.

They startle the landscape,
and take away nothing at all
from the harmonious order of things.


The ferns! The ferns
are so soft that I want
to lie down and make my bed of them
even if I get wet—
because everything is always wet—
alongside my love forever,
sighing in each other’s arms.

Ours is a forbidden love,
that flows in torrents against
what I think
are good sound structures
for my life.
All true love is forbidden.


On top of a dizzying cliff,
like God’s rough finger
jutting out of the earth
with a flat callous at the tip,
I imagine a monk
should meditate here.
The water rushes down around us
but we cannot see it;
we can only imagine it tickling
the crevice of God’s hand.

I say “we” because
there are two insects that look like giant bees
lying on their sides at the base of a spindly tree,
heads locked in a frenetic, passionate embrace.
Their countless little limbs
swinging spinning interlocking
faster than my own ten fingers can move,
as if they wanted to devour each other’s
little black and yellow faces.
And as I watch them I start to think
that their heads really are beautiful,
desirable, at least if I were one of them.

And I want to cling to my love like that,
to grab at his face, his skin, his limbs
until he leaves what I’m hungry for stuck to my body;
or whatever it is that giant bees do
when they love each other.


I have fear in my body
when I try to head back down
the steep rocks and roots and slippery mud.
I am afraid of falling.

I think about how I move
and how I hold myself still.

I am proud that I have not fallen,
but the sad secret is this:
I do not move with grace.
I don’t let myself move too much at all.
A jerk in my neck, a jerk in my hips,
a stiffness I never really let go of,
and I make my way, all right, as I fight
against form and flow.

How would water do this?

And finally, when I am almost to the flat land,
I set my foot where I know I shouldn’t—
my one feeble dare—
and I slide into mud, scrapes and bruises,
embarrassed and defeated.


I decide not to wash
the swaths of mud off my legs,
not even in the soft ferns.
Let them think what they will
when they see me hiking back.

The secret that only God knows is this:

I am made wholly of water.

The End Cometh by Water (circa 2011)

This is the second installment of a series about water. Click here for the introductory entry. This week’s entry is adapted from a journal entry written on May 27, 2011, but its themes continue to ring hauntingly true. As always, if you are inspired to contribute some of your own writing as we go along, I would be delighted.

Everything is meaningless. The rain falls on both the wicked and the just.


Some people say the end is coming. Some people say Christ is coming. The Rapture didn’t happen on Saturday, as some radio personality had predicted. Of course, the Bible says Christ will come like a thief in the night. What’s stopping him?

It won’t stop raining in Vermont. As a child, I dreamt of living a smart, romantic adult life in Montpelier. Now it is under water. A piece of road in my hometown of Ann Arbor has buckled from a mudslide. Devastating tornadoes have torn through the South and the Midwest in the past month, leveling whole towns and killing thousands. Droughts in the Southwest make growing crops impossible, while diluvial rains in the Midwest make planting impossible.

Now it’s not just other places, other people. Darker skin, smaller houses. It is not just earthquakes in Haiti and Chile, floods in Pakistan, landslides in Bolivia. Now it is Japan in all its high-tech efficiency. Now it is the United States, the land of plenty and pleasure. The land of “silhouettes turning sexy in short-loving tights, attention-seeking details peeking out at every turn, and big city allure on show as Express rocks the sidewalk.” I read that in the news today. Americans are still going to fashion shows and cramming too many metaphors into their descriptions of them, just as they cram too much sugar and salt and processed foods in their bellies, but this won’t help when the floodwaters rise even to our heights.

It’s because the polar ice caps are melting. It’s because Mt. Illimani’s perfect snowy peaks are cracking as it cries over the life that will be lost. It’s because factories and cars are belching. It’s because we need more plastic. We need more electronic gadgets. And everything takes coal. And everything takes wholeness from the air, from the hemisphere. And hot air traps moistures more easily than cold air. And moisture traps people in mile-wide tornadoes, in screaming hurricanes and tropical storms, in dark churning lakes, in sliding mud.

Before Claude Lévi-Strauss died at the age of 100, after a lifetime of studying the delightful particularities of human culture, he proclaimed that he was now living in a world he no longer liked.

I, too, felt that I am living in a world that I no longer like when I woke up this morning to another day of unseasonably cold, unabating May rain, remembering the farmers who cannot sow their corn in soggy fields, and opened up the mindlessly addictive mechanism of Facebook to discover that a friend in Montpelier had to get up at 4:30 this morning and move her car to a parking structure to escape the flooding. The tenuous thread of hope fluttered away from me. The rainbow has not appeared in the sky and no one remembers God’s promise to never again destroy the world by water; I live in a world where we have taken that gruesome task into our own hands.

I feel powerless to construct a better world for us. I could live in a commune in the woods, but that would do nothing to insulate me from the “shifting” weather patterns that can decimate crops, houses, entire towns, and intangible dreams.

Aside from that, you really need social media to stay connected these days.

But do you need to stay connected at all? Michael Perlman, the environmental activist and writer, didn’t think so. I woke up with him on my mind today for the first time in years. I knew of him because he was assigned as my mother’s advisor one semester at Vermont College. She didn’t hear from from him for weeks, and then she found out he had killed himself. He left a note for his parents explaining that if he couldn’t reverse the damage humans were doing to the environment, he wished no longer to be contributing to its destruction by using factories, cars, plastic and electronic gadgets. Michael, too, lived in a world he no longer liked. So he decided to leave it.

Is there a way to live here without hurting more than we heal? Is there a way to live without leaving greasy, indelible tracks of death behind us? Is there a way to go without plastic and gadgets, to turn away from sexy silhouettes and short-loving tights?

Not everyone lives in such luxury. Not everyone can wake up on a cold and rainy May day and take a hot shower, leaving the water running even while soaping up, and turn the central heating on in the house. Most people still live in the potential virtuousness of poverty. Which is not to say that the suffering of poverty is a virtue, but that sometimes the humble ways of life that “developed” nations consider poverty are really just lives that have as much as they need and give back as much as they take.

But I realized, as I lay in bed and thought of Michael Perlman, Claude Lévi-Strauss and my Bolivian friends who live in poverty, that most anyone takes advantage of luxury if given the chance. There is nothing especially unvirtuous about North Americans. Maybe everyone has a latent American heart—privileged, self-satisfied, comfortable and craving more. I suppose you could call this the sinful nature. Bring iPhones and central heating systems to poor Bolivians, and most will accept them with open arms.

I could have turned off the water as I soaped up this morning. But I remembered the thing Amy told me about using steam to open your pores before cleansing your face to clear up acne. And I, as much as anyone, want a sexy silhouette when I walk down the sidewalk.

Oh, the Water (Part 1)

This blog entry marks the first in a series on water that I will publish once a week at least until the end of September. As always, if you are inspired to contribute some of your own writing as we go along, I would be delighted.

I have been silent for awhile now, but after settling into a new life in my old country, I am ready to try again to make sense of this sensual world. I am ready to begin speaking from the new place I have observed quietly for the past two months. I live in a beautiful old suburb east of Detroit, along the shores of a brilliant blue lake. When you hit upon it where the streets end, it could be one of the Great Lakes, if you didn’t know any better. The well-kept, wealthy homes sit on trim squares of green that find life in the eternal sprinkler systems springing up from every corner of the sidewalks. Once, I saw my neighbor shamelessly spray her hose across the fence to water my rose bushes. Even during the drought of June and July, water is abundant here.


Meanwhile, the Louisiana floods have displaced something like 11,000 people from their homes, and the NPR commentators are marveling at the “record-braking” and “unprecedented” levels of rain—but are they really marveling? Someone points out that records are broken every month now; the unremarkableness of disaster is the reality of life in a world that will soon be 2°C hotter than it ever was before.

So I have been thinking a lot about water.

Where is water from?

You rinse dried clay off your skin as waves knock you down and make you laugh and laugh in Lake Michigan. You visit New Orleans as a teenager and stay in a shotgun house with your friends who play music on the streets, then two years later you hear about the hurricane trying to wash it all into the sea. You see a tide rise for the first time along the Saint Lawrence in Canada: deep, dangerous ocean water covering where you just had walked. 

What is water for?

You linger in the hot bath till it turns cold, gliding little boats or ducks or—improbably enough—trucks across the surface. You fall in the pool and see nothing but turqoise rushing past and wonder if you’ll die until your mom grabs your arm and yanks you out. You water the garden only in the early morning and late evening, she explains, because otherwise the sun burns the leaves of the plants.

What is water?

You walk out on the lake once it’s frozen over, stomping on the ice with your boot and imagining if it were to break and what it would be like to feel the cold water of death beneath. You climb over an obstacle course of beaver’s dens and brambles to find a cool dark cove charged with the energy of a waterfall, and it gives you faith in the Holy Spirit dwelling in your own body, surging like the blood of your veins. You run outside in the summer downpour just to feel the thrill of something unstoppable coming down from the heavens and touching your skin.

Water is life and death and rage and love, all mixed up in one.

Next week, naturally, we’ll discuss the apocalypse.