The Day I Didn’t Cry...

As most of you know I walked Erin down the aisle on her wedding day on October 11. The ceremony and the celebration turned out to be monumental and even better than we could have ever planned. Our whole family couldn’t stop talking about it in the days and weeks that followed. One thing that did strike me as funny was my daughter saying, “Dad you didn’t cry at my wedding.” I heard later that everyone was taking bets that I would probably cry because I cry at everything. Well, I did cry. I cried during the whole process of getting ready for that day as I imagined myself walking her down the aisle, dancing with her, repeating vows to her and Jason. I cried when we went food tasting for the reception and when I heard all the news about the dresses, the shoes and all the other little things from flower arrangements to the preparation of the church bulletin. I get misty often.

I had cried enough and on the other side of tears at a wedding is joy. I couldn’t be happier with Erin’s choice and I couldn’t be happier with the way things had worked out for them as a couple. I will say this, that the walk down the aisle with her was a long walk as you see your live flash before your eyes standing next to what once was a little girl. A father once told me that the walk down the aisle was like giving a marvelous hand crafted and expensive Stradivarius violin to a gorilla. This was not the case for me. It is a joyous and clear beginning, free of all the messiness that marriage becomes after years of living together. From the vantage point of the altar it all looks easy on that day. It’s later when you discover the bumps in the road and that this thing called marriage is not so easy.

I wouldn’t say that I’m good at marriage however, I have lots of experience. As I look out into our congregation or even at any given wedding I am presiding over, I can tell that many have gone down this road before. They have found like we all do that marriage can be more than difficult and sometimes even a disaster. Divorce is common and the church’s family is not immune from it. I don’t stand in judgment of anyone who has found his or her life shattered or painfully broken by divorce. When marriage works out, over the long haul, it has its great and wonderful moments.

I used this illustration at Erin and Jason’s wedding. I was saving it for a long time in anticipation of the moment when I could share it. It is a story from columnist Nicholas Kristof who grew up on a farm as I did. On a farm one butchers animals and I could always remember when that happened. At that time pigs became pork chops and as a boy I would cry.

Nicholas talks about geese:

Once a month or so, we would slaughter geese. When I was 10 years old my job was to lock the geese in the barn and then rush and grab one. Then I would take it and hold it by its wings on the chopping block while my Dad or someone else swung the ax.

The 150 geese knew that something dreadful was happening and would cower in a far corner of the barn, and run away in terror as I approached. Than I would grab one and carry it away as it screeched and struggled in my arms.

Very often, one goose would bravely step away from the panicked flock and walk toward me. It would be the mate of the one I had caught, male or female, and it would step right up to me, protesting pitifully. It would be frightened out of its wits, but still determined to stand with and comfort its lover.

In the end after the soap opera is finished, after the romantic movie is over, after George Clooney has carried Gwenyth Paltrow over the threshold we never find out what really happens. We always assume as we are told that they lived, “ Happily Ever After.” Making movies about marriage is usually boring or in rare cases like when the famous Swedish director Ingmar Bergman produces ones like “Scenes from a Marriage” or “Cries and Whispers” marriage can be terrifying. At times a friend of mine would say marriage is like a Federico Fellini movie - who can understand it?

Nevertheless that picture of a protesting goose could be a symbol of what a life long commitment is all about. As you deepen your journey in a relationship without knowing it, most days you don’t realize that you have discovered someone who accepts you for who you are. You have found a person who loves you when many times you are not very lovable and in that moment of difficulty puts their arms around you and tries to comfort you in your distress. Put differently, when you have found the right person they treat you like a Saint even though they are well aware that you are a sinner.

Cultivating Your Soul

Years ago when I was in a seminar at Princeton, I remember one of my classmates always repeating this saying: “It’s not what it’s about.” Meaning that, for example, when someone comes home and gets mad at the dog they most likely are not actually angry at the dog, but instead are aggravated about something that happened to them at work. That saying gave me a new perspective, which made me look beyond an actual occurrence toward its deeper meaning.

I saw the same thing in an August 16th article in The New York Times entitled, Hope’s Two Acres. The article is about a farm run by recovering addicts from New York City. People whose lives have been shattered and destroyed but who now have a chance to cultivate kale, beets and lettuce. What they’re really cultivating, however, is sobriety. The farm is about what all farms are about – producing good things from the soil. But this farm is also about producing good things for the hearts and the souls of people.

It’s always refreshing to see people take positive steps to take charge of their lives and overcome the fear, the anxiety and the pain that drove them to seek solace in alcohol and drugs. So much of our lives are given over to the simple tasks of trying to get things done, to gain some sort of control over the pressures and responsibilities we all have to live with. For me, it’s refreshing to think that on the corner of Route 9 and Snake Hill Road there’s a roadside stand where you can see baskets of squash, herbs, lettuce, Swiss chard and tomatoes, among other things. The thing one probably would not notice is the people there who have seen a miracle happen in their lives.

Jesus always talked about how what a person is like on the inside is most important – the outer trappings can fool you. And for all of us, the job of working on the interior landscape of ourselves is difficult. No one can really see that growth until one day it actually takes place and you begin to blossom into the person you not only need to be, but want to be. And it’s always nice to be surprised when you discover there is more to a person than you first thought.

Frank McCourt Part 2: The Doggedness of Faith

Frank McCourt may roll over in his grave after he reads this. Often, there’s no way to measure your faith as you would your temperature and discover how much you really believe or don’t believe about the faith you have been taught since childhood. Luther once said, “Each person must do their own believing.” However, I know that Frank McCourt has been a huge critic of the Catholic Church and many of his childhood stories expose the raw humanity of the priest and the institution with which he grew up. On the other hand – and I may be reading between the lines – in his stories, redemption always finds an opening even though the vessels holding it may be very crude. At any rate, he has given me a lesson for faith that I will always remember.

In his book, Teacher Man, he chronicles with brutal honesty what most teachers have to go through when they actually face students in the classroom. Nevertheless, he gives keen insight into what it means to do something for 30 years and not loose your soul in the process. With characteristic humor, he even unlatches a door that gives insight to faith.

One thing that got my attention was his use of the word “doggedness.” He wrote, “Doggedness is not as glamorous as ambition or talent or intellect or charm, but it is still the one thing that got me through the days and nights.”

Actually, things about my life can be characterized in the same way. Where I haven’t had talent or intellect, I’ve still been able to win the day. Believe it or not, I take a bit of inspiration from that old story about Jesus (Matthew 15:21-28) and the woman who’s asking for help but receives a rather cold response until she says that she’s willing even to accept the crumbs that fall from the table, like a dog.

Jesus is impressed by her “doggedness” and then he says that he has never found a faith like hers anywhere. Faith can be characterized in many ways. I think doggedness could be an apt way of describing our faithfulness in so many aspects of our lives. Sometimes things aren’t easy and we lack the tools we need for success, but by not being derailed and staying the course we can finally win the day.

Some days your will is all you have and, like Frank McCourt or the woman that confronts Jesus for help, that may be all you need.

So when Saint Paul says “Pray without ceasing” and when you feel up against the wall, or even fallen by bad news that comes in so many forms – a troubled marriage, a bad diagnosis, the death of a loved one, the loss of a job, worry over your children, the list goes on and on – let us be encouraged not to give up, but instead to have that dogged attitude that is part of faith.

Ted Kennedy and the Gift of Years

We all lost a great statesman in Ted Kennedy and we closed a huge chapter in American History by his passing. If you consider the length of time the Kennedy’s have been in the national scene it could almost add up to 25 percent of American History. Much has been written about this family from an enormously inspirational standpoint to deeply flawed issues in character. I am recalling Ted Kennedy’s eulogy for his brothers he said they were gifted in every way except for the gift of years. Ted became the only Kennedy to serve our country for 46 years in the Senate. While he couldn’t be president and he stood in the shadow of his two older brothers he has made his mark on the political landscape of our country. I have a lot of opinions about him however; let it suffice to be captured in this letter written to him by his sister in law Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis.

"There have been 17 children besides your own - Bobby's, Pat's, Jack's and mine, for whom you have always been there. Every graduation, every big decision, every trouble, every sad and even every happy day. On you, the carefree youngest brother, fell a burden a hero would beg to be spared. Sick parents, lost children, desolate wives. You are a hero. Everyone is going to make it, because you are always there with your love. Jackie."

He was given the gift of years unlike his brothers and he used it well.

Frank McCourt: Learning from the Teacher Man

A number of years ago I read the book, Angela’s Ashes by Frank McCourt. It was a riveting story and I couldn’t put it down. It chronicles McCourt’s life in the town of Limerick, Ireland, growing up with his alcoholic and abusive father and his strong-willed and doggedly determined mother who raised seven kids and struggled through the deaths of three of them.

I’ve been feeling sad ever since I heard the news of his death. He was a great writer and storyteller who allowed the reader as well as the rest of the world to know what he was thinking and what he had suffered through in this life.

What was so refreshing was that he wrote about all of the difficulties, hardships and even misery that were a part of his life in both Ireland and the United States, with a sense of humor. While sometimes his was a little wrier than most of us are used to, I always like my humor with twist of lime, some sarcasm seeping through.

And in his book, Teacher Man, he chronicles with brutal honesty what most teachers have to go through when they actually face students in the classroom.

Frank was made to order for a guy like me, both in his writings and when he spoke. I had the pleasure of listening to him at my daughter Allison’s graduation from Manhattanville College and, of course, his tongue was not tamed by the setting.

One thing I remember him saying as he addressed all of the would-be teachers looking into their futures, was that when he walked into classroom he used to say, “There is at least one person who will learn something in this class and that person is me.”

When I heard it, it brought a smile to my face because I’ve often pondered how much people have learned from me teaching them in Sunday School, confirmation class, adult forum, book studies and Bible classes. Hmmm ... I suppose it’s best not to do follow up on that. But I will say that I have learned immensely from every classroom setting I’ve been in.

My only regret is that I came upon this realization somewhat late in the game. As the old saying goes, “If I only knew then what I know now, who knows, I could be president.” (Hahaha.)

I do know one thing that the old admonitions from kindergarten stop, look and listen still apply. You’re never too old to learn and to grow. It’s too bad that many people think they’ve arrived and you can see the calcification taking place in their minds as you converse with them. Whether it’s literature, travel, theology or just a lively conversation, a new horizon can appear in your mind is widened by the encounter.

Take Five – Reflections on Dave Brubeck

Recently I was watching an interview with jazz great Dave Brubeck. He is now deep into his 80ies and still playing. The story of many jazz musicians is that they die young, have huge addictions to cocaine and other drugs, and leave a trail of broken relationships. Many of the biographies, such as Charlie Parker, Billy Strayhorn, Stan Getz, and others, are simply tragic stories of talented people dying way before their time. So, as I looked at this old man and his wife of nearly 60 years, I saw this picture of someone who not only loved music and continues to love it and perform, but also someone who made the right choices in a world of dark joints and surrounded by a world of shady people. So, here we have his wonderful wife, six children, and a whole trail of a person who created great music and stands as an inspiration to all of us on a personal level.

What I also find interesting is that in 1980 he became a Catholic. He claims he was “nothing” before that, but it was perhaps the invitation to write a jazz mass entitled “To Hope” that brought him into his deep encounter with the Christian faith. I could tell from the interview that when it came to his faith, he knew what he was talking about. This is not a person who joins anything easily, without thorough examination. To hear him talk about the Eucharist and receiving bread and wine with joy almost caused my mouth to fly open with astonishment.

Dave Brubeck is about hopeful music. He sees music as enriching, but religious music as transforming. Every time he sees a church, he wonders if the music is hopeful and uplifting. I guess going to church is like “taking five”, a few minutes of your week for inspiration.

New Orleans Dispatch II.

We have only very limited time to write this, as we are super busy with all the other 38,000 youth members here in New Orleans and have barely time to eat and sleep. But do not feel sorry for us as we are having the time of our lives.

Tag sales are over, the fundraisers seem now a distant memory as we are awoken in the middle of the night to meet at St. John’s to travel to New Orleans. We (Bobby, Michael, Lukas, Jimmy, Andrew, Casey, Rehema, Jack, Jason, Andrea, Suzanne, and Pastor Henk) left on Tuesday very early in the morning.

All of our fundraisers, many meetings, preparation courses seemed as if they h ave been the headwinds for our flight south to the land devastated by Katrina and Rita. But ironically these efforts were not a drag on us but enabled us to go. The first leg of our journey has everyone laughing and enjoying themselves as the plane takes off into a bit of turbulence.

Just think a piece of junk nobody wanted, a bowl of chili that someone made and sold, all of those Christmas wreaths and the Lucinda Pins that all many ordered, and that Cabaret Night where everyone brought their dishes. All these efforts added up to taking 12 of us on a trip that will live forever in our memory bank.

It is a big joy to see our Youth Group with their eyes wide open and their jaws dropping over more than just the sights of the city but over the great music and spirutal songs that we sing every evening in the Superdome. In addition we are so enriched by the fascinating speakers we are listening to from all over the world. People who have helped to rebuild New Orleans, people who have built 500 schools around the world and started by being inspired by a past Youth Gathering. We listened to a women who came out of retirement to help 10,000 girls not to fail in school. We heard a guy, not much older than our kids, who got his legs amputated at his pelvis, inspire us not to get discouraged by our own shortcomings and not to let us be bullied by anyone. In addition to this sermons have been flying left and right and guess what no one fell asleep. (-: There is still much more to come and what is more than just a little surprising and even very inspiring we never hear a complaint about going to the Superdome to listen to all this.

Additionally we did a swamp tour and saw some alligators in their natural habitat. Unfortunately some of our youth members felt right at home too (yeah, that was a little joke). Believe it or not we all held an alligator and we have pictures to prove it. We walked around the wonderful French Quarter, where our hotel is located, and convienently near to Cafe du Monde - love those Beignets - and Jackson Square. We walked the historic riverwalk, but what we really enjoyed was the new National World War II museum, which each of our youth members found more than informative - even very moving. It was great to see their response. Also on the fun side was our exploration of the wonderful restaurants in the city, here is to Cajun, Creole and Southern Louisana cooking. We will all have another order of Crabcakes, Jambalaya, Gumbo, Alligator Sausage and Crawfish. When we get back to New York, we'll have to go on a diet (at least the adults??!)

We walked miles and miles (so maybe no diet necessary). We visited the Interaction Center where we learned among lots of other things how Habitat of Humanity is helping to rebuild New Orleans, we visited a FEMA trailer and we learned how difficult it is to maneuver a wheelchair through a house. We even visited the place where the levies broke and where the new ones were put in place.

So everyone, time is flying. We need to get off this computer to get everything else done, we have not done yet. We promise to tell you all about it when we return.

When you are worshipping today we will be worshipping with our fellow gathering members - all 38,000 of them - as well. We will be thinking of you, even though we are far away. We are united in Christ. We miss you and look forward to seeing you soon. Thanks again for making this all possible.

New Orleans Dispatch I.

Tag sales are over, the fundraisers seem now a distant memory as we are awoken in the middle of the night to meet at St. John’s to travel to New Orleans. We meet to climb aboard a silver bird and fly away to our destination. It is dark and wet outside and we find Bobby, Michael, Lukas, Jimmy, Andrew, Casey, Rehema, Jack, Jason, Andrea, and Suzanne huddled in the upper room like Jesus’ disciples – all but one missing: Judas (Pastor Henk). Please note all YOUTH were on time.

Our stomachs feel empty and they are, but a messenger of mercy brings us muffins, croissants and other delicacies. Thank you, Carolynn Dilworth.

Soon car keys turn and engines revv, and we head down the Hutch. We are leaving for the Big Easy but it hasn’t been so easy…. All of our fundraisers, many meetings, preparation courses seem as if they are the headwinds for our flight south to the land devastated by Katrina and Rita. But ironically these efforts were not a drag on us but enabled us to go. The first leg of our journey has everyone laughing and enjoying themselves as the plane takes off into a bit of turbulence.

Just think a piece of junk nobody wanted, a bowl of chili that someone made and sold, all of those Christmas wreaths and the Lucinda Pins that all many ordered, and that Cabaret Night where everyone brought their dishes. All these efforts added up to taking 13 of us on a trip that will live forever in our memory bank. Hey, New Orleans may not be the same after we make it our home for a week, or at least after we and the other 36,000 young Lutherans will leave on Sunday afternoon.

We want it to be home. We want to see this famous place in the history of our country that has experienced so much tragedy, heartache and pain when the levees broke only a few years back. We want New Orleans to get into our blood and into our hearts as we meet the people who live there. They are our brothers and sisters, just as the 36,000 Lutherans who will be coming from Iowa, California, South Dakota, and even Brooklyn. We come to learn, to be enriched, and to grow from this experience. New Orleans has a lot to offer and we want to be open to its great food, its music that makes you snap your fingers, and its unique architecture that inspires and takes you back to another time in Southern life. That is not the only trajectory of this journey because we will encounter a whole community of people who are labeled Lutheran. They will come in all shapes and sizes, different political beliefs, and different ways of being a disciple to our Lord. They can teach us a few things and even inspire us to bring home a few ideas for our congregation and community.

“That’s the Way It Is”

Walter Cronkite died last week, but his voice will always live on in the minds of listeners who grew up with his very famous newscast that always ended with “And that’s the way it is”. He became known as the most trusted man in America, and, of course, became an icon in journalism history as he covered the civil rights movement, the JFK assassination, the Vietnam war, numerous political conventions, the landing on the moon, and Watergate. A lot was being said about him these past few days, but Dan Rather said it best when he said that he had the ability “to get through the glass”. A wonderful phrase that simply describes how Cronkite came through the television set and appeared in your living room like an old uncle.

The more I thought about “getting through the glass”, the more the metaphor reminded me of the glass ceiling that women had to break through to get equal positions in business. Basically, it captures the feeling of distance between people. Cronkite was able to bridge that distance to really communicate with his audience that consisted of much of America. In a certain sense, our goal, as we try to communicate with each other, is to break through that invisible barrier to connect with people in a genuine and authentic way. We live with so much falsehood and hypocrisy, within and without the church. It is always refreshing to come upon real communication of compassion and true caring. We all want to be heard and understood. For Christians, Jesus’ ministry was always one of “getting through the glass” as he spoke to those on the margins of society as well as those in the center.

Getting through that glass is often not easy because most of us have insulated ourselves pretty well. We don’t want to be vulnerable; yet, vulnerability is what opens us up to living life more deeply. So, here is to “getting through the glass” of our self-centeredness, our attempts to be invulnerable, and our need to be the center of attention, and discovering the world of others.

Solidarity of the Sick

Today I was trying to listen to a presentation on the internet when the sound was drowned out by sirens. I shook my head in annoyance, but as I looked out the window I noticed it was an EMS ambulance speeding by the church. A fling of guilt for feeling that way ran through my body. After all, it was only two or so weeks ago when I was in an ambulance myself with two paramedics who were both professional and had a great sense of humor which made the ride a bit more comforting. Of course, when you are taking a ride like this, the journey can be a bit harrowing – something has hit you like lightning that says that for the moment you are helpless and in need of others. That vulnerable, dependent feeling is at first very frightening and later becomes a haunting ghost that visits you from time to time with a reminder by something like an EMS siren that tells you that you are not the master of the universe you once thought you were. Life can be changed in an instant, and you can even be taken out of the picture altogether.

So, I am sure I will never look at an ambulance again in the same way. Maybe even a person in a hospital bed will never look quire the same again. There is a solidarity among the sick who know the feeling of vulnerability and powerlessness. However, you are not powerless altogether. I can remember a conversation in my drugged, dizzy, and dream-like state between the patient in the bed next to mine and me. Talking through a curtain, I found his words of welcome reassuring, and later he would find my words comforting and even asked me to pray for him.

It was Paul who said: “My strength is made perfect in weakness.” Sometimes it takes a visit to the hospital to realize that.

Idols, Scandals, and the Bible

Having recently been sick and watching what seems like thousands of hours of TV, I somehow missed “sweeps week” and was stuck with “death-and-scandal week”. It seemed like I was endlessly watching the life of Farrah Fawcett, Ed McMahon, and Michael Jackson, as well as the confession of Mark Sanford, Governor of South Carolina, and the ensuing commentary. It seemed like what hell may be like – hearing a voice telling you that you will be forced for the rest of your life to watch this kind of TV. It seemed like more than enough punishment for anyone’s sins.

I came across the following paragraph written by Martin Marty, who makes an observation about the death of Michael Jackson and the recent scandal of Gov. Mark Sanford of South Carolina, which sums up my feeling better than I could:

Any phenomenologist looking in on the idol-worship upon the death of icon Michael Jackson would say that in this celebrity-adulation she has located our real religion. And we have only a line or four left for the most religiously-covered event of the week: the confessions of Governor Mark Sanford, who came back from one of history’s most publicized trysts to apologize for his “mistake” and to announce that he’s been rereading the Bible. He’s used the Bible for years in his political efforts to smash everyone who reads it differently than he does. Now it’s a more personal issue: He calls in King David, to identify with that lecher-of-old. What a week!—in “secular” America.

I guess most of us have our own way of interpreting the Bible, so that it agrees with what we think. Maybe it is just good to let the Bible address our lives, and let the chips fall where they may.

Father’s Day or Cat’s in the Cradle

I am writing this as we all approach Father’s Day. Many of us think that Father’s Day is just another Hallmark invention. At least, I used to think that. I mean, how many “special” days do we have to observe before there are no regular days? That is the way I felt before I became a father. I could go on and on about what fatherhood means and how challenging it is, but that would only be another sermon out of my mouth. Actually, being a father is a privilege.

Of late, two things have reminded me of fatherhood, and they aren’t my two daughters. It is the song “Cats and the Cradle” by Harry Chapin and my recent visit to my own father. I have always considered myself a good son, but remember, that is my opinion. However, I have received tons of affirmation from both my parents.

I have always found “Cats and the Cradle” a bit chilling because it presents the picture of a son becoming just like his father who was a good man but lost perspective on what was important in parenting. Namely, putting in the time to be with your children at the same time as being challenged by the responsibili-ties of job and other obligations that keep a family afloat. In the end, the song simply says, “I have become like you, Dad” or, put differently, “I have missed a lot of my children’s life by trying to be a good father and providing for my family.”

I remember coming home from college very close to Christmas and being picked up by my parents who had missed me enormously. Upon getting out of the car I asked them if I could have the car to go see my girlfriend. I can see their faces drop even now as we stood in the driveway, unloading the car. However, at that age you feel you have all the time in the world - there will be other times when we can be together. Sometimes those times never come again, though.
So, as I was sitting at the kitchen table with my father recently at his house in Sacramento, CA, I asked him, “So, what shall we do today?” He replied, “I don’t know, what do you want to do?” I shrugged my shoulders, and he said, “Just sitting here and looking at you is great.” For a moment a chill went up my spine because of the preciousness of the opportunity that had availed itself to me and the reminder that I had ignored it many times previously amid all of the “important” things I had to do.

My visits now to California are infrequent and short, much too short, and so I feel a bit haunted by “Cat’s in the Cradle”, especially the refrain, as I have to say goodbye to my father again:

And the cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon
Little boy blue and the man on the moon
When you comin' home son?
I don't know when, but we'll get together then son
You know we'll have a good time then.

Father’s Day is just another opportunity to remind dads and their children that time is fleeting, life is short, and moments together are more important than you think. Don’t miss the opportunity to connect.

Getting Through the Lunacy of Another Day

Last year I read Elizabeth Gilbert’s book “Eat, Pray, Love”. While I do not agree with a lot of her positions on religion and faith, I thought the following quote from her book was a “right-on” observation about the practice of faith itself:

The search for God is a reversal of the normal, mundane world order. In the search for God, you revert from what attracts you and swim toward that which is difficult. You abandon your comforting and familiar habits with the hope (the mere hope!) that something greater will be offered you in return for what you’ve given up. Every religion in the world operates on the same common understandings of what it means to be a good disciple – get up early and pray to your God, hone your virtues, be a good neighbor, respect yourself and others, master your cravings. We all agree that it would be easier to sleep in, and many of us do, but for millennia there have been others who choose instead to get up before the sun and wash their faces and go to their prayers. And then fiercely try to hold on to their devotional convictions throughout the lunacy of another day.

Faith requires practice. It is not simply a cerebral activity taking place in our head that gives intellectual assent to what we believe. We are always swimming upstream, feeling the pull of gravity that will prevent us from moving forward on this journey. In the end, when you come through the doors on a Sunday morning, put a smile on your face - you made it. I am part of those who are holding on to their devotional convictions “throughout the lunacy of another day.”

Memorial Day

Memorial Day is an interesting day in the life of most Americans. On one hand, it is the inauguration of summer, a green light for family gatherings and BBQs. It sort of announces to many of us that we need to slow down, relax, and have a lazy weekend.

On the other hand, it is the time to remember those who have made the “supreme sacrifice” and given their lives for their country. In cemeteries, American Legion halls, and other places people gather around the flag to remember and to pray for the families who are not the same because of war. War has robbed them of their brightest and their best, with only their memories remaining.

One of the best-known poems that still touches my heart is Flanders Fields, written in 1915 by a Canadian surgeon, John McCrae. This weary doctor, having just buried someone close to the place where he was conducting surgery to save another victim of the carnage of war, wrote this:

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Dr. McCrae, in twenty minutes, penned lines that gave voice to the emptiness he felt as he sat across the road from a cemetery where the poppies had blossomed in the ditches adjacent to the graves.

Today, in battlefields far away, in places with strange names foreign to our ears, the poem is relived. We pray that our Lord would beat our swords into plowshares and we hope for a day when the vision of a lamb lying down with the lion would come true.

Urgent Care & Farah Fawcett “I’m Ready for My Close-up, Mr. Demille”

Today I took my daughter, who was not feeling well, to the Urgent Care facility in Rye. There is something about a doctor’s waiting room that gives you pause. Most of the time when I am in there sick I don’t notice much. I am like everyone else; a little impatient, I want to get well.

However, today I was quite alert and noticed all kinds of people looking a bit miserable and out of sorts, wanting to be healed. In contrast to this motley group there were a lot of magazines in the office about the rich and the beautiful celebrities who seem so much healthier than these folks. So, I open up a copy of “People” magazine to discover Paul McCartney waving to a crowd with his fly open. And then I see Bill Clinton stepping in gum, discover that Lindsay Lohan feels so alone amid fears that she might hurt herself, read about Madonna experiencing heartbreak and devastation because she can’t adopt another child from Malawi, and Jennifer Aniston who cannot seem to find a husband after Brad Pitt.

Most interesting to me, though, is the picture of Farrah Fawcett of whom I used to have a poster over my bed in college. She was my favorite angel in “Charlie’s Angels”, and, I know, was the inspiration of fantasies for millions of men (and women) around the world. Now I see her in a wheelchair, down to 89 pounds, wrapped up with a wool cap over her head in Germany, trying to be treated for cancer that has spread to her liver. Could this be a bad dream, or does sickness, old age, and tragedy come to all of us, even the beautiful and famous?

What makes it all insane is that Farrah Fawcett is now being filmed on her deathbed, turning her struggle with cancer into a documentary. Maybe it’s just me, and it may sound unkind in this situation, but is this a little narcissistic or what? It reminds me of the great old movie “Sunset Boulevard”, where an over-the-hill actress refuses to let go of stardom and the camera as she says, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. Demille.” ( Watch it on YouTube ).

I may be old-fashioned, but shouldn’t dying be a little bit more private? It doesn’t need to be made into reality TV, it is already real enough.

Mother’s Day Post Mortem

For years I have prayed on Mother’s Day a prayer of thanksgiving for all mothers who have diligently carried out their important vocation. I also mentioned in almost the same breath our sympathy for those who have lost their moms. This year joined that “club”. I can’t say that it’s been an easy transition because I have had some very sad and difficult moments. I found a bit of comfort, if you want to call it that, in Christopher Buckley’s article in the April 26, 2009 Sunday Times Magazine called “Mum and Pup and Me”. He writes:

I think about them every day. Orphanhood proceeds (…). It comes in waves. One moment you’re doing fine, living your life, even perhaps feeling some sort of primal sense of liberation – I can stay out as late as I want, and I don’t have to make my bed! Then in the next instant, boom, there it is. It has various ways of presenting, as doctors say of disease. Sometimes it comes in the form of a black hole inside you, sucking the rest of you into it; at other times it is a sense of disconnection, as if you had been holding your mother’s hand in a crowd and suddenly she let go.

So, this year it happened to me; she let go.

“Gremlins”

We love to point the finger at people who have fallen. For example, I was walking by a bookstore in Larchmont, and in the window was a book on Roger Clements entitled “The Rocket That Fell to Earth”. The hero and five-time Cy Young winner continues to lie about his steroid use. Another bright star, this one on the political scene, was Eliot Spitzer, “Mr. Clean” who cleaned up Wall Street as Attorney General, destroying in his wake many people’s lives. Then, of course, he was caught consorting with a call girl, humiliating himself, not to mention his wife and children. Today, when asked about the whole situation, he simply says that he is trying to deal with the “gremlins”.

The gremlins? An interesting term. What is a gremlin? A mischievous little person running around being destructive. I guess we are developing new categories today, or at least terminology, for explaining away sin. Sin seems too old-fashioned a word and demon may seem too strong. At any rate, it’s comforting to know that modern people, too, are searching for ways to explain evil in the world. I just don’t think that gremlin is good enough an explanation.

St. Paul talks about the good that he would do he does not, and the evil that he would not that he does. In other places he talks about the fact that we fight not only flesh and blood, but against the powers and darkness of this world. This doesn’t sound like little gremlins running around.

Talk to people whose lives have been destroyed by alcohol. Go to an AA meeting and discover a room full of people who can express enough pain to break the world in two. Talk to people whose lives have been destroyed by cocaine and various other drugs. These people don’t talk about gremlins; they talk about a universe of pain, sadness, and struggle. Someone once wrote that the way to hell is paved with good intentions. Jesus once said that the path to wholeness is narrow, but the road to hell is wide. So, when we are looking at places like Darfur, beheadings in Pakistan and Afghanistan, suicide bombers in Baghdad, I don’t think gremlins is a good enough term.

The Box on the Curb

For years now our church has been running a tag sale to raise money for our youth program. Every year we receive calls to pick up furniture and other big items from people who are in what we would call today “life transitions”, whereas my mother would say, “they are moving”. On one of these adventures I got into a conversation with Jim Guinee who was reflecting on an experience he had with an old man bringing out boxes of personal items from his home to place on the curb for the sanitation department to pick them up. Jim noticed that the box was filled with some interesting things like trophies and fishing gear. When he asked the old man about the trophies, he replied: “They belong to my wife who was a champion swimmer.” The fishing gear was from the time when he used to take his son to Alaska every year to fish. The old man told Jim he was throwing these things out because he was moving into an assisted-living facility, but he invited Jim to help himself and take whatever he wanted out of the box. Jim said he felt like he was violating someone’s life as he reached down for some fishing items.

So, it all comes to a box on the curb after all those years of living and those great memories. Perhaps this is the end for all of us – a box on the curb. We usually end up in a box, with someone throwing dirt over us. However, the thought did come to me that many of us are living in a box right now; a box that could be labeled “Routine”, or “Depression”, or “Illness”, or just a box we call “Life” that somehow has lost its luster, its interest, its joy, and its wonder. Easter speaks of resurrection, an invitation to think outside the box, and outside the grave as well, only because life doesn’t have to be a box on the curb.

Is Anybody There? - Comments on post-resurrection

One of the interesting adventures you can embark on is going to a “Times Talk” at the Times Center in Manhattan. They have numerous personalities/celebraties/authors who are interviewed with regard to their body of work. Recently, Kathy and I attended a talk with Michael Caine, whose fan I have been for many years. The first movie of his I ever saw was “Alfie”, which I found to be brilliant. I also remember being on a Midnight Run when we were handing out food at Grand Central, and he was there, filming. I love his films such as “The Sleuth”, “Educating Rita”, “The Quiet American”, and too many others to mention.

We sat very close to him and were soon enveloped in his wonderful ability to share stories and insights on acting and on life. I found myself grinning as I listened to his warm, profound, and self-deprecating style. He is a person not caught up with himself, which has opened him up in his humility to even further greatness. He is always willing to take on parts that are not necessarily leading roles but, in fact, sometimes minor characters. His current film, “Is Anybody There?”, shows him as an old, physically frail, senile man at the end of his life, in a not very flattering light for a movie star.

“Is Anybody There?” is an interesting question on many levels. In the movie, which takes place in a nursing home, a young boy, whose parents run the home, wonders about the afterlife as the old people die. What happens to them after death? Is there an aura, a spirit, a ghost, something tangible, audible, or simply nothing? On another level, you watch old people with dementia, who begin to lose not only their memory (which is bad enough), but their mind. Eventually, I suppose, you wonder “Is anybody there?” as you look into their blank face. The subject is excruciatingly painful for those who live on a day-to-day basis as victims of this dreaded disease and those who are committed to caring for them.

As I struggle with my own mother’s death, I also ask the same question to myself: “Is anybody there to grasp her as she slips from this life to the next?” What is heartening in the film is that this old man finds community, support, and life from not only this young man, but from others in this home. Somehow he is also able to help a young boy climb up a hill to discover life and make contact with the living.

It has always been the Christian proposal that death is not the end, life is - life eternal. One of Jesus’ famous sayings is: “I have come that you may have life and have it more abundantly.” For the Christian faith, life is what we are all about. A life girded up with love, grace, and mercy. When the rich young ruler comes to ask Jesus, “What must I do to possess eternal life?”, he is roundly criticized by Jesus because eternal life is not something you can possess, it comes to you as a gift. Eternity for Jesus always begins right now, with life being a gift that you must participate in as passionately as you can.

In a strange way, this young man helps Michael Caine live the end of his days with meaning, and Michael Caine helps this boy make contact with life.

Perhaps that is what our faith is telling us. We need to be about life and making contact with other lives and community, supporting others in times of need. As we move farther away from Easter we see Jesus’ disciples struggling with the meaning of their lives and rediscovering the message of Jesus’ life, death, and resurrection.

This struggle is the same today. How do we deal with loss, with life that changes in so many strange and difficult directions? How do we understand the sadness we sometimes feel, or even the emptiness that inhabits our hearts in times of pain and difficulty? How do we cope with getting older, with our children moving on, with our parents becoming frail? The answer does not always present itself clearly. This film is an example of two people in community, helping each other find a light switch in the dark that will make sense of this thing we call life.
Part of the recipe in the whole mix can be one’s faith. It is not something that comes at you, like a note with an answer from heaven, but rather becomes evident in the faithful living of your days as we struggle to do what is right, given whatever challenge we are faced with.

As the Easter season continues, the first experience of the disciples after the resurrection could be summed up in the question: “Is anybody there?”. They meet in locked rooms, they share their sadness on the road to Emmaus, and generally are disillusioned. Somehow in death I envision us opening a door and asking: “Is anybody there?” At the end of our life, it is a question everyone will have to ask.

The Christian proposal is that God is there to grasp us with a love that will never let us go.

In Search of Higher Ground - Van Morrison and Easter

In the back of my mind every once in a while I think about visiting the poorest country in the world, Haiti. Then I think again. I was reminded of Haiti again in a recent article I read entitled, “Living in a Sea of Mud and Drowning in Dread”. The article chronicles what life is like as you live in central Haiti with no time to recover from the Hurricane season. Residents in shacks on mud streets. These streets have holes dug for drainage systems where many people have drowned. They constantly live in fear of the next storm. When danger seems to approach, everyone wants to run for higher ground.

Higher ground is an interesting concept. The Old City of Jerusalem is surrounded by mountains that allow enemies who encroached upon the residents to look down and observe and attack. Cities on higher ground are much safer.

Revelation is often thought of as climbing a mountain. The higher you get, the better your perspective or view. You get a larger picture. When you are at the bottom, you have no idea of the experience you are about to have as you begin the ascent.

I have had the privilege of seeing the rock singer Van Morrison in concert many times. I will always remember my first experience when this little gnome of a guy walks on the stage with a big hat. I am not sure what he looks like, but he certainly doesn’t resemble any rock singer I’ve seen. However, when he walks up to the microphone and begins to sing, a booming voice comes out of that little man that rocks the auditorium. I guess you could say, I am a fan. His younger pictures betray how very Irish he is. Irish music, to me, is always moody, sad, and sort of bluesy, with a bit of sarcasm thrown in. You feel sad when you listen and, at the same time, as you are touched by the melancholy, you feel a paradoxical sense of humor, too. Van Morrison wretches it up a notch with a big-beat, stream-of-consciousness, poetic verse that touches your soul or, at the very least, makes you reflect on life.

Whenever God shines his light on me
Open up my eyes, so I can see
When I look up in the darkest night
Then I know everything is gonna be alright
In deep confusion,in great despair
When I reach out for Him,He is there
When I am lonely as I can be
Then I know that God shines His light on me
Reach out for Him, He'll be there
With Him your troubles,you can share
If you live the life you love
You get the blessing from above
Heals the sick and heals the lame
Says you can, too, in Jesus' name
And He lifts you up,and He turns you around
And He puts your feet back on higher ground...

This song, which is not well-known and which I have never heard him sing in concert, proclaims the gospel as I see it. After all, aren’t we all looking for higher ground?

Put differently, as we move towards Easter but continue in Lent, I find that the season is here to help us look at the wrong directions we too often take that are harmful not only to others but to ourselves. In Lent we try to shine a light on the dark, dank, and unconverted areas of our life that make us less than what we are meant to be and can even lead to self-destruction. Lent simply points us to the constant battle of trying to do what is right, shoulder our responsibilities with positive energy, and maintain an attitude filled with grace and compassion. Too often, we find ourselves pulled down, as if by gravity, and acting in ways that diminish us, whether we are losing our temper or our patience with others, avoiding the hard things that need to be done, or trudging through life without a sense of humor or purpose. The living of our days gets “nickel and dimed away” to where we are just getting by without living nobly. Before you know it, all of your good intentions for leading a noble life have dissipated and you find yourself sinking and have lost sight of higher ground.

Van Morrison’s song and its reference to light shining in the darkness reminds me of Easter. The good news of the gospel is that light has come into the world and darkness will not win. The good news of Easter is that we are about life, and even life eternal. The hope that we all have is that somehow the One who created us will pick us up, turn us around, and help us see life in a different way, on higher ground.

In the end, Easter is that higher ground. It announces the resurrection of our Lord, it calls us to hope in the midst of despair, and through faith it lifts us up to live life nobly and with thanksgiving. Easter is about redemption, the power to reverse the cycle of evil, announcing that love is stronger than hate. Therefore, we are given a new perspective, or even a different vantage point from which we can look at life and understand it in a more profound way, from higher ground.

North African Journal II

Our bogus guide had taken us through one store after another to try and entice us to buy things from the shop owners he knows and where he can get a kickback. I never shop at home, except for Christmas, when I have to, but when I come to the Middle East there are so many shops and so little time... I am fascinated by Moroccan/Islamic/Berber art. It just appeals to me, especially the women’s jewelry. Nevertheless, the carpet stores are beautiful, with brilliant colors. The furniture is so different and delights the eye.

So, as our journey winds on with our tour to nowhere, except another place to buy something, we find ourselves sitting in an apothecary - Moroccan “drugstore”. We sit down as our guide tells us that Morocco is famous for healing medicines and herbs of all kinds. We meet a pharmacist - well, a man in a white coat anyhow - and he goes into his pitch about all the wonderful spices you can get for food, healing herbs, aphrodisiacs, and sundry potions that can perform miracles on a broken body.


It’s amazing what aches and pains can make you buy. I am feeling pretty well, so none of it is appealing to me as I am looking out the window at a silver shop that I want to be in rather than here. However, I remain dutifully in my seat, listening to his lecture, as John and Tim begin to find healing balm for their health problems. John’s sciatic nerve is bothering him. He was stopping to rest along the way a lot on our walks, so he buys some lotion that, we are told, is very effective. John moves to the back of the room, drops his pants, and begins getting a massage on his leg. I am rather agnostic in these matters, but it is interesting to watch this experiment in healing, or lack thereof, which it turns out to be. Weeks later, after having arrived home, I inquire about the herbal medicines he had purchased. He writes this back to me: What I bought in that shop of herbal - - - -, I tossed. The massage didn't work. The "nose" spice didn't work and was dried out and the defoliant for skin is just yarn; it soon will be tossed as well. May you have better luck with your purchases. Tim is not so enamored either with his migraine headache lotion that you rub on your forehead to make your headache disappear within minutes. He does like the spices he bought, though.


Our time in Marrakech is over all too quickly, and we are on the train to Casablanca, that exotic place that is in the minds of all Americans from that great movie. This time on the train, we sit in a compartment with a new set of people. I am exhausted and fall off to sleep almost immediately, but before my eyes close I notice the eyes of the woman sitting directly across from me. She was characterized by my friends as a young Moroccan beauty. I eventually wake up, wondering whether I was snoring, or how wide my mouth was open while I was sleeping in front of her. So, there appears to be little conversation in the compartment; maybe we are just all tired. I decide to say “hello” to this woman. She responds with a smile and seems willing to talk to a stranger. Her name is Katia. She is dressed basically Western, wearing blue jeans. I tell we are going to Casablanca and ask her whether she can give us any pointers. It turns out she lives in Casablance and is more than willing to help us out. She wants to write things down for me, and takes the book I am reading to write a list of restaurants on the inside, recommending places where you can get French, Italian, Thai, Spanish food. Also, she tells us where great shopping is, the best beach, and the best place to find gelato. We are amazed at how friendly and helpful she is because we have heard that Moroccan women are not only shy, but discouraged from talking to men.

We finally arrive at our hotel which looks like something out of an Agatha Christie novel. It has a wonderful foyer and a beautiful atrium under which to have dinner. Once we are settled, we decide to have dinner at Rick’s Cafe Americana.

One of my all-time favorite films is Casablanca. I have enjoyed if for years and, of course, many of the lines in the film I have committed to memory. The actors, the story and script along with the theme song are top notch. It is a love story and an adventure story that is placed in Paris and, needless to say, in Casablanca. While Bogart and Ingrid Bergman are perfect for their parts, I particularly like Claude Rains who plays the so-called “neutral” Captain Renault. He is more than outstanding and fascinating in his portrayal. In the following dialogue Rick is asked why he came to Casablanca:

Renault: "I have often speculated on why you don't return to America. Did you abscond with the church funds? Did you run off with a senator's wife? I like to think you killed a man. It's the romantic in me."
Rick still looking in the direction of the airport: "It was a combination of all three."
Renault: "And what in heaven's name brought you to Casablanca?"
Rick: "My health. I came to Casablanca for the waters."
Renault: "Waters? What waters? We're in the desert."
Rick: "I was misinformed."

I did not go to Casablanca for the waters either. I have always wanted to see Morocco and North Africa. It is clear that Casablanca was put on the map in the mind of millions from the movie. It was through the movie that I first learned of such a place. It was, however, not even filmed on location but on a Hollywood back lot in the 1940s.

Today the “town” is big and booming with life. It is really a city with a lot of industrial activity, traffic, and commerce happening. It is the third-largest city in Africa and is quite expansive. We stayed by the harbor, which is not the most beautiful part of this city, in a great hotel—that reminds one of the setting for an Agatha Christie novel. However, not far from us is a restaurant called Rick’s. It is not that old—in fact, of recent vintage. You think there must have been a Rick’s Café American that inspired the movie, but that is not the case. It is built from an old house that was converted into a place that resembles the set of Casablanca. As I come through the entrance, I feel like I am entering into the movie. It is really fun and enjoyable and adds to our nightlife.

We meet the owner, known as “Madame Rick”, who is originally from Portland. She had a dream of creating a place where “each day myth becomes reality and the dream comes true.” She is welcoming and enjoyable to converse with and is extremely proud of her establishment. The food is mediocre—but we are not really there for that. She also runs the film Casablanca continuously upstairs without sound. People are sitting around watching it and enjoying it without hearing the wonderful dialogue. Who needs sound? - if you are a fan, you know the story and the words. The place is just a monument to the magic that was created back in the 1940s by Bogart and Bergman. It is amazing where you can find your inspiration.

So there we sit with the piano player playing on a baby grand and not an upright. He tells me he plays “As time goes by” five or six times during the course of the evening. That’s OK, just “play it again, Sam” for us. We can imagine ourselves as freedom fighters in North Africa under the threat of German occupation, mixing with the occupied French, those trying to escape the hands of the Nazis, and mingling with interesting but unsavory types that have come to Casablanca and all that that means.

“Here’s looking at you… Casablanca”.

Obama's Faith

I was on a train in Casablanca where I got into a conversation about Barack Obama’s faith. The man I was talking to brought up Obama’s middle name, Hussein, and tried to tell me he was Muslim and even a radical one at that. This person, who was from Australia, kept insisting that Obama was a Muslim and that his upbringing did not involve faith and that he was no Christian.

So, to set the record straight, here is what Obama tells us about his beliefs:

"One Sunday, I put on one of the few clean jackets I had, and went over to Trinity United Church of Christ on 95th Street on the South Side of Chicago. And I heard Reverend Jeremiah A. Wright deliver a sermon called “The Audacity of Hope.” And during the course of that sermon, he introduced me to someone named Jesus Christ. I learned that my sins could be redeemed. I learned that those things I was too weak to accomplish myself, he would accomplish with me if I placed my trust in him. And in time, I came to see faith as more than just a comfort to the weary or a hedge against death, but rather as an active, palpable agent in the world and in my own life.

It was because of these newfound understandings that I was finally able to walk down the aisle of Trinity one day and affirm my Christian faith. It came about as a choice and not an epiphany. I didn’t fall out in church, as folks sometimes do. The questions I had didn’t magically disappear. The skeptical bent of my mind didn’t suddenly vanish. But kneeling beneath that cross on the South Side, I felt I heard God’s spirit beckoning me. I submitted myself to his will, and dedicated myself to discovering his truth and carrying out his works."

Not a bad explanation (or “defense” as St. Paul says) of the hope that is within him, if you ask me.

The Asterisk

I have been living in New York for many years now, and I have to ask, “What is New York without the New York Post or the Daily News?” I know, most of you sophisticated people read the New York Times or the Wall Street Journal – just like I do. But your eyes can’t help but wander to the great covers of the Post or the News while you are buying coffee in the morning. So it was with me this morning (February 10). I was caught by the bold words Body of Lies next to a picture of A-Rod (otherwise known as Alex Rodriguez, the highest-paid baseball player of all times). Alex has his shirt off with a cross hanging around his neck. Pretty dramatic and pretty damning, as the subtitle reads, “Now A-Rod admits he DID take steroids and, yep, he’s sorry”. I love the word “yep” which, of course, is supposed to mean “yes”, but it conveys another message to me. It seems to insinuate that, of course, he’s sorry, he has to be sorry – he’s been caught red-handed with forensic evidence to boot. There is no way out but to say, “I am sorry”. So, while he lied three years ago in an interview with Katie Couric, he now had to come before his fans in public to confess. It’s that “yep” that is unsettling. It suggests that his confession and acknowledgment of his own wrongdoing and lies is forced. In the words of W. C. Fields, “All things considered, he’d rather be in Philadelphia”.

It is an interesting story of shame and scorn of someone who is a celebrity. We tend to feel that the rich and famous should be above reproach, but we love to tear them down. So A-Rod will now have an asterisk by his name and his statistics, suggesting that he has achieved whatever records with the help of drugs. Being a pastor, I always fall on the side of trying to understand those who have proven that we are all flawed and this is part of the human condition. And “yep”, we hide it from ourselves and others. We even run from it.

No matter where we go, we can’t run from the asterisk next to our name. It is that asterisk that tells us we are not in control, we have fallen short of our best intentions, not to mention “the glory of God”. The old-fashioned way is simply to say we are all sinners in need of forgiveness. And so, we have to thank A-Rod for leading us into Lent with such headlines. I noted that he was wearing a cross around his neck, which is the key to understanding our own redemption. It is the cross that saves us, that tells us that God identifies with our pain, and that we are all in search of redemption. It is that love that can erase the asterisk. To me, Lent is the experience of coming to terms with yourself, your faults, sins, and failings. It is moving beyond the “yep” to a willing acknowledgment that we need forgiveness. In the end, Lent tells us not just that we are sinners, but that God erases the asterisk and loves us for who we are. Is there any better good news?

Join me this Lent as we struggle as struggle to confront the asterisk in front of our name.

North African Journal

Marrakesh is a beautiful place. It reminds me a little of Santa Barbara, California, where I did my internship. It has the palm trees, the mountains and the colors—but not the ocean. Nevertheless, it is a feast for the eye with the beauty of its walls, buildings and the friendliness of its people. I could see why Winston Churchill loved this place so much to not only paint it but to insist that Franklin Roosevelt visited it.

After the January 24 press conference in Casablanca in 1943 Churchill talked Roosevelt into going to a place he loves - Marrakech. For them, the trip to Marrakesh was to see the sunset on the snows of the Atlas Mountains. The two leaders relaxed and enjoyed a picnic during the five-hour journey to Marrakech and arrived at about 6 p.m. A six-story sloping tower provided a perfect view of the mountains, but as the narrow, winding stairs couldn’t accommodate Roosevelt’s wheelchair, two Secret Service agents made a cradle of their hands and carried the president to the top of the tower. There, the two world leaders sat for half an hour enjoying the view. On the morning of January 25, when Roosevelt was leaving, Churchill rushed out at the last minute to say goodbye. With his usual disregard for convention, the prime minister appeared wearing a red-dragon dressing gown and black velvet slippers with his initials embroidered on the toes. Churchill refused photographers an opportunity to take a picture. That would never happen now with today’s paparazzi. Later Churchill paints a picture of the view.


Marrakesh is full of romance and interest. After breakfast we get a guide from the concierge. He is friendly and cheap, but not so knowledgeable. He takes us on our first stop to a botanical garden along a side street that seems out of the way. At first we wonder why. It is a place called the Marjorelle Gardens. As we walk through the door, we see one of the most spectacular gardens that I have ever seen. It is manicured and perfect and mostly a cactus garden. There are pots with beautiful plants; blue seems to be the dominating color. There is a wonderful little museum featuring Berber art.


The Berbers are a people who are defined in many ways. They may be seen as mediterraneans or as people west of the Nile. They, of course, are a big part of the Moroccan culture. Before adhering to Islam, most Berbers were Christians; in fact, St. Augustine of Hippo was a Berber. He appears to be the only true Christian Orthodox Berber as the rest of the Berbers have a long line of heresies, beginning with the Donatist schism, and later with Arius, another Christian theologian who became a major heretic. Beyond all this, I am fascinated by their art and food.

But back to the museum – it is filled with Berber and Muslim artifacts, mainly ceramics, jewelry, traditional weapons, garments and uniforms. I love the art; it really is unique. Amid the garden is a monument to Yves Saint Laurent (I am assuming you know who that is).


I remember my first interview when I was a seminarian, and I went to get a suit and picked out a tie. I noticed that the tie I had chosen had little initials on it—YSL. That was my first introduction to Ives Saint Laurent who, I have since learned, was born in Oran, Algeria. He was picked on as a kid, but would later grow up to be famous. He evidently loved this place and had a home nearby. In the shade of the banana trees is what looks like a Roman column on top of an ocher base. He evidently bought these gardens and restored them as a visual paradise. That is saying a lot, when all you have to work with is cacti.

After that we are off again with our guide, and we stop by the large tower of a mosque that dominates our view, the Koutoubia Mosque. We continue on to a very interesting and beautiful hotel which will later become a haunt for us - Les Jardins de la Koutoubia. It is elegant and we have dinner there later. Prices are still good, even in such a nice place.

The souk is huge; you see snake charmers, monkey trainers and handlers, people dressed in bright colors, with women mostly covered—but even that is attractive. You start noticing eyes.

After that the tour sort of ends with him taking us to shops and stores. I am a shopper, so I don’t mind, but I am not sure about Tim and John. First to a carpet place where the owner gives us lessons in Berber carpet and other things. We have been set up and, I am sure our guide gets a kickback. That is the name of the game over here. Next, on to a bigger shop where I get into a huge bargaining episode that ends with no sale. Tim and John cannot believe it. No sale! I can’t believe it either. All I say is,” I guess we have found their margin.” The bargaining continues in the street, but still no deal. In calmer moments I realize I saved myself a lot of money.


Then we are off to an apothecary, a herbal expert, who give us a lecture on herbs, spices and cures. John actually buys something and gets a leg massage for his sciatica that is really bothering him.

In the end, a delightful day in a wonderful, magical and beautiful place.

Riding the Marrakech Express

“Looking at the world through the sunset in your eyes Traveling the train through clear Moroccan skies… Colored cottons hang in the air Charming cobras in the square… Striped djellebas we can wear at home well, let me hear you now… Ducks and pigs and chickens call Animal carpet wall to wall… Wouldn't you know we're riding on the Marrakesh Express wouldn’t you know we're riding on the Marrakesh Express They're taking me to Marrakesh All aboard the train, all aboard the train… “

From “Marrakesh express”
Crosby, Stills, and Nash

I find my self on a train after a long journey to get to Casablanca. It seems like we have been flying endlessly—with a delayed take off from JFK through Madrid and finally landing in Casablanca to get on a train that will takes us in a little under 4 hours to Marrakesh a place I have always wanted to see since I first heard the song "Marrakesh Express" by Crosby, Stills and Nash. It was on the “break out album” –self titled and the song was written by Graham Nash, now 60 years old. I am told that Marrakesh was a popular traveling route for hippies in the mid to late sixties—looking for a mythical Arabic land and some hashish. My hippie days are gone but this fits the bill of my imagination of what a Moroccan city should look like.


We are sitting in a first class compartment—with others. The whole ride cost $15. We are with two old gentlemen who look happy to be with each other. They are brothers and across from them is the son of one of them. They are cheerful—I am not. I am just very tired—and fall asleep. I sleep for two hours, amazing—they are laughing and chatting in French. It wakes me up but their cheerfulness is contagious … maybe this is the way you feel when you are on the “Marrakesh Express”. When they see we are awake they smile and answer my many questions about Marrakesh. Their warmth and helpfulness I hope is a prelude to what is ahead for us.

There weather is wonderful—60 degrees—perfect. It is now dark but after we find our hotel we head for the souk—called Djemaa el fna. We take a cab which drops us off at crowded streets and the driver points in a direction down the street. We start to walk and soon see a huge expanse of lights and musicians playing and the aroma of something good cooking. This whole square extends as far as you can see. It is an amazing spectacle that is entrancing.


Where do you begin —we are starving. This looks like a giant out door food court with people cooking. Out of no where we are charmed by some young guy to try his little outdoor restaurant. We are sitting at what could be picnic tables, and an enormous array of food looking at us. Chicken, fish, olives of all kinds, lamb, beef, dates, nuts, vegetables—smoke and steam bring the mouth watering smells to our nose. He makes suggestions—we follow his advice and before we know it we have piles of food before us and it all tastes good. Now what will this cost? I am only in town a few hours and I am going to be taken for a huge bill.I was wrong. Each of us paid $12 for this feast and a very cheerful waiter. What a bargain!


I am taken by the many colors of Marrakesh, especially that Ocher that dominates most everything. There are the palm trees and the ramparts and the Atlas Mountains that give it such a beautiful back drop. What a place.