The Compassion of Listening

Back in the U.S., I was waiting for the light rail to go into downtown Denver. I was sitting on a bench with about a 10 minute wait for the next train when I heard what sounded like a very loud argument. Across the road, near the parking lot, was a young woman inside one of the bus stop booths. She was very upset, waving her arms and yelling. I didn’t know if she was angry with someone on the bus that had just pulled up, someone in the parking lot, or someone I couldn’t see. As it turned out, the object of her wrath was apparently someone that only she could see. She was making quite a spectacle, drawing the attention of anyone within earshot.

Unsure how to help, I, like everyone else, just watched and hoped she’d calm down. Instead, her screaming escalated to the point of being frightening. She began throwing herself against the side of the booth, getting angrier and louder. Just as I was pulling out my phone to call for some help, some RTD (Denver “Regional Transportation District”) employees drove by and, hearing this woman’s hysterics, stopped, got out of their vehicle, and approached her.

I  couldn’t hear much of what they were saying to her,  but she turned her screaming on them. The two RTD employees continued talking with her in a very calm and non-threatening way. She continued her frantic yelling.

One employee sat down in the bus stop booth with her, just sitting there, listening to her and nodding occasionally. The other called what I assume was the police, because her mental health condition was beyond any means of help without specific and knowledgeable care.

My train came, I boarded, and wasn’t able to see how the scene played out.  But the image of one RTD employee sitting calmly with a very ill woman, very present with her in her crisis, is one I’ll remember for a long time. Through her irrational yelling, he was still able to listen to her as a person, to treat her with dignity while allowing his partner to get her the help she needed.

There is true compassion in authentic listening, regardless of the situation. At least within Denver’s RTD. I am grateful I could witness it, and I hope the young woman receives the same level of compassion through the help she requires.

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“We’re Here for Something Bigger”

During our time in Rome, Lois and I were noticing a lot of high school groups there at the same time. Everywhere we went—tours, sites, restaurants, shops—groups of kids were there too. Each group was identifiable by the matching hats they were all wearing, or the same t-shirts, or same color wrist bands. The groups varied in size, from less than 10 to 50 or more.

As we were having dinner at one of the many outdoor cafés one night, a group of about 12 youth with two adults came and sat near us. They had matching hats with green head bands and were chatting and laughing with the enthusiasm typical of all high school kids. Curiosity piqued, I went over and asked if any of them spoke English. Many did, so I asked them why there were so many young people in Rome. “It seems like you’re all having a lot of fun,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“We’re all church servers,” They told me. “There are sixty thousand of us here from 19 different countries throughout Europe.” I gathered from their explanation that they were what we used to call “altar boys” (now called “altar servers” because girls are allowed now too), young people who help the priest at Mass. In our Lutheran tradition, we usually call them “acolytes.”

They told me that they were from Munich, Germany and proudly announced that they had an audience with the Pope the next day. Just then another group walked by, this one with matching t-shirts. Simultaneously, both groups started cheering and waving at each other, shouting at each other and laughing together until the other group went around the corner.

“Wow!” I gasped. “Did you know those kids? Were they from Germany too?”

“Oh, no, we don’t know them. We have no idea what country they’re from,” said one girl whose English was particularly good.

“You greeted them like you knew them,” I noted.

“It doesn’t matter what country they’re from,” she explained. “We’re here for something bigger.”

Indeed. I hope that wisdom stays with them well into adulthood. In truth, “we’re here for something bigger.”

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“What are the arches saying?”

The architecture in Florence and Rome is truly amazing. Florence feels more “artsy,” while Rome exudes more “strength.”

One feature that appears over and over again is the stone arch, a major architectural development used for building by the Etruscans (though arches have been found dating back to 2000 BCE),  but used to fullest potential in Rome.

For a long time, arches have held special meaning for me. Usually they are built over a doorway or a pathway, a place where people go through on their way to somewhere else–everything from travelling to a new country all the way down to just a different room. Arches mark a place of passage.

Lois noticed I was taking lots of pictures of arches in Italy. Lots of them (I’d include some here but the internet is spotty). So she asked me, “What are the arches saying to you? What are you hearing?”

I was forced to ponder her very astute  question. After a while I answered, pointing to the most recent subject captured on my camera, “Think of all the people over the centuries who’ve passed under this exact arch. Think of all the places they were going and all the reasons they had for passing through. Imagine some fleeing from enemies and seeking safety while others were just going for a cup of coffee. The arch doesn’t care. It makes no judgments. It simply marks a place where they can pass. I think that’s what the arches are saying. ‘We don’t care what journey you’re on. Just know you can pass through here. We are here to help you through. We will protect you while you pass. Your journey matters, that’s why we’re here.'”

Who knew arches could talk? I think I’ve known it for a long time.

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“In America, we . . .”

I was rather embarrassed, actually. A very nice, polite, well-informed and well-educated tour guide was taking us through the Florentine countryside. She was also very patient. Another US couple was on this tour with us, and were constantly making comparisons between Italy and the US, with the US always coming out on top. Everything from traffic cones to news outlets were brought up. No matter what information she gave us about the region and its history, our tour guide was subjected to a constant barrage of comments, usually beginning with, “In America, we . . .” It just became tiring. And embarrassing.

So we hung out more with the two Swedish IT guys who were taking a couple of weeks off work to tour Italy. They were great! I hear things are pretty good in Sweden too. Unfortunately, I don’t think our tour guide will ever find out about it.

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“They Saved Us”

Florence, Italy is doing just fine, thank you. A thriving wine and olive oil industry is world-famous, and second only to tourism in feeding a fairly healthy economy.

Obviously, historic Florence has held much influence for centuries. A center of art, this city gave rise to Michelangelo, daVinci, and so many others in architecture, painting, and sculpture.

Yet Florence, in fairly recent times, was suffering. The wine industry was relatively unknown and tourism was nowhere near the boom it is now. Grapes and olives were only harvested in small amounts due to a lack of workers.

But then they received help from a surprising source. According to a winery tour guide I was listening to, immigrants from the Middle East and Africa increased in numbers, providing a work force that saved the wine industry. Florence regained lost status on a world stage.

Thanks to immigrants, apparently.

Some racism, xenophobia, and nationalism still exist from the Fascism days after WW1. Unfortunately, those narrow attitudes are still present among some of the young people of Florence and other parts of Italy.

My tour guide’s attitude seems hopeful yet objective. And somehow universal from the perspective of humanity. Immigrants? “They saved us.” It’s not that hard to believe.

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“I don’t recommend that for tourists.”

Wanting a fuller “Paris” experience, I ventured into an area about which I know nothing: food. Normally I can eat about anything (with a few exceptions, e.g., seafood), so I felt comfortable ordering a grade AAAAA sausage. Right? The French are known for their cuisine, so this ought to be great!

The server, however, upon hearing my order, frowned. “I don’t recommend that for tourists,” she said with significant emphasis. “Don’t worry,” I responded. “I’m feeling brave.” “No,” she said again. “This is not good for tourists. It is very strong.” “Good!” says the naive tourist, who, by the way, is on a sabbatical the theme of which is “Listening.”

She brought the unique French sausage, called “andouillette,” and I quickly admitted she was right about the strong odor. Well, more than strong. Actually closer to a 2-week old teenager’s gym socks, stuffed into a wet mattress and left in the stairwell of a bus station parking ramp. But I’m in France, so, what the heck. I took a bite–after all, it couldn’t taste worse than it smelled.

Now, to my credit, I did swallow a bite. And kept it down. So far.

And then I made the mistake of Googling it. There’s a reason for the pungent smell. It’s made of all kinds of meat from all kinds of animal parts. Including the colon. Yes, I believe I ate a cow rectum.

When in Paris, and the native Parisian server says, “I don’t recommend that for tourists,” it’s probably a good idea to listen. And then order a nice French burger and fries.

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What’s Your Steak?

Enjoying a glass of wine at a sidewalk cafe in downtown Paris, I’m awash in thought about Lois’s and my time in Belgium. We stayed with friends just outside of  Brussels, who were were wonderful and gracious hosts.  Theirs were the first non-American voices I’ve had the chance to hear, and there were a few surprises.

First, America is confusing and maddening to them of late. Although that wasn’t so surprising, the vehemence with which it was expressed was.

Next, I was with them as Belgium took 3rd place in the Soccer World Cup. The patriotic pride was tangible, with the black, yellow, and red flags waving everywhere. All were cheering and slapping each other on the back. A feeling of contributing something worthwhile in the world was dominant.

On a more personal level, these dear friends shared some insights they’ve gained in the last few years. “Take care of yourself,” they cautioned. “Everyone needs to be true to who they are.” It’s like going to a steak house, my friend told me. No one should expect fish (or at least good fish) there, because it’s a restaurant that specializes in steak. If a customer is upset that you won’t serve them fish, you just point to the menu and state that you serve steak and are good at that. If they want fish, they should go to a place that specializes in fish.

What’s your steak? they asked. Too many of us try to serve everyone whatever they want in our lives. This results in nothing being very good, and everyone, including you, are unhappy. Find your steak–that about which you are passionate–and don’t apologize for being that.

Good advice from Belgium. Medium-rare, please.

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My Mom: Starting with Voices from the Past

I’m spending a few days visiting my sisters (and families) who all live in the Salt Lake City metro area. We’ve always been pretty close, but have bonded even more as our mother continued her difficult Alzheimer’s journey. Since my mom’s death a year and a half ago we’ve committed to staying close, so my first sabbatical traveling is, of course, to SLC.

Each time I come to Utah, I make sure I visit my mother’s grave site. Nothing macabre, no weeping or one-sided conversations; I just spend a minute in reflection and perhaps sweep a bit of stray grass clippings from the gravestone. I did so again this morning. In answer to my sister’s question, yes, she’s still there.

In reflection, I can still hear my mom’s voice, Boston accent intact. “Only three cookies per day.” “Do your jobs before you ride your bike.” “Who got into the Jim Beam?” But mostly I hear what she said every day of her life as a mother. Not really ever with words, but with every action and intention. “You are worth everything. I would sacrifice anything for you. That’s what love looks like.” Again, those were never her words, and I didn’t always understand it as a kid, but standing at her grave this morning, it was as clear as any words she could have spoken. Her life, once her children were born, was spent making whatever sacrifice was necessary to benefit her children. That’s what love looks like. It’s never about one’s self (at least that’s not the primary concern), but always about what benefits the other.

That’s my first voice–one that is deeply embedded in my past. Ellie Kilbourn told me with her life what love looks like. You do whatever you have to do for the sake of the other.

May I continue to hear that voice and grow in my own capacity to love like that. Thanks, Mom.IMG_20180707_100213

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Sabbatical Theme: “The Listening Tour”

Thanks for visiting this blog! It serves as my “missional church” site, and although I’ve not posted for a while, it has been active for several years. I invite you to look through it and see what’s interesting.

I am starting a 14-week sabbatical July 1st and will post on this blog periodically during that time.

The sabbatical is called “The Listening Tour,” because that’s what I plan to do. I will go to places I’ve not been to before and listen to voices and perspectives I’ve not heard before. For me, as well as for the congregation I serve (Lutheran Church of the Master, Lakewood, CO, USA), listening has become a vital endeavor. As we seek to go deeper into a relationship with our congregational neighborhood, we have to actively seek ways to listen: not only to God and to fellow church partners, but also to our neighbors outside the church. As we do that, not only is trust built but we can actually begin to discern what’s important, what’s concerning, what’s frightening, and what’s comforting within the scope of our immediate context. What’s more, through listening we can also discern what God is currently up to in our neighborhood. With that info, we can plan a strategy to jump into the Holy Spirit’s work of compassion (or need for it), mercy (or need for it), inclusivity (or need for it), and grace (or need for it).

My hope is that this sabbatical can give me “new ears” with which to hear what God is doing and how God is present in our world.

Go ahead and click the “sign me up” button under the “Email Subscription” heading on the right hand side of this page. That way you will automatically be notified when I post something interesting I’ve been hearing.

Join me on this “Listening Tour.” Perhaps with your input we can enter into God’s work in new and deliberate ways! I look forward to listening to your perspectives on this site!

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This is Just Exhausting

Mental Health Awareness Week can easily be written off as one more token cause that, yes, we all should pay attention to, but probably don’t. I am one who deals with clinical depression, and I still haven’t paid much attenion to it, truth be told. 

But I’m graeful this year for the reminder. I need to do what I can to make sure I’m OK. And that isn’t easy lately. My work as a pastor can become all-consuming, what with the constant demands, criticisms, problems, disagreements, and frustrations. I am privileged to have a job that calls me to see something better for our world, but that also forces me to live in the brokenness of our reality. Living in the gap between the two is exhausting. 

Then there are hurricanes. Three of them in the US in the last few weeks. The devastation is inconceivable. The suffering and despair is beyond my ability to imagine. I listen to the stories, the outcries, the frustration, and the hope and find myself becoming numb. It’s not that I’m apathetic, it’s that it’s exhausting. The fact that I don’t live in an “affected” area yet still am dragging adds a tinge of guilt to the mix. Which is even more exhaustting. 

I woke up today to the news of the horror in Las Vegas overnight. Almost 60 dead, over 500 injured. Not including ongoing trauma that will be experienced by many thousands more for years to come. The ideolgogues are at work on every side of the “gun” issue, with very few people willing to listen to anyone else. Guns should be banned altogether (why don’t those politicians develop a spine and do something?!), guns are not the problem at all (why don’t those politicians quit politicizing tragedy?!), and everything in between. Not having the luxury of avoiding these issues, I am exhausted by trying to be rational, reasonable, and finding a way through the ideologies all around. That is exhausting. 

I’m an Enneagram 5, which means among other things that I am greedy with (in my case) my time. I need time to recover, to process, to introspect, to be alone. When I’m feeling pulled to constantly address injustice, speak clearly for peace, listen well to those who are adamantly opposed to my very reasonable perspective, and hold fast to positions of integrity that seem to invoke the ire of friends and foes alike, it’s exhausting. It feels like this will not end. I’ll be beating my head against a wall forever without making any difference. Yet, I am obliged to not let up. Too much is at stake. 

Not that my voice is the one that must be heard if there is to be peace. But for my own sense of integrity I have to continue to speak, to write, to proclaim, to listen. Integrity sucks. Because it’s exhausting. 

So Mental Health Awareness Week gives me a little more perspective this year. I’ll likely be a bit out of balance for a while, but I’ll lean a bit more heavily on those who love me. I’ll make sure to watch carefully for signs of encroaching depression and take necessary steps. Now more than ever. I’m exhausted, but grace abounds. In the midst of exhaustion, that matters.

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