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.