Bridge the Aisle of Difference

Every day we bear witness to people’s lives that change the world – philanthropists, heads of state, cultural influencers. Every once in a while, we have the privilege of bearing witness to lives that change the world for good.

The late Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg and the late Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia were both such people. They both loved this country. They both held the Constitution in the highest regard. They were both justices of conviction, integrity, and resolve. They were committed public servants. They were ideological opponents, and they were best friends.

There was a time in my life when I championed Scalia’s conservative political opinions. In this present time, RBG was one whose liberal political and judicial perspectives gave public voice to my own, personal beliefs. I believe she is an icon of both the American dream and the best ideals of what and who we can be as a society. I mourn her passing.

In this time of bitter polarization and deepening divisions that threaten the very foundations of democracy, I believe these two late giants of the judicial branch have something to teach us. They showed us how to bridge the aisle of difference. They were polar opposites in their politics, but they found common ground in their humanity. They cultivated and nurtured a deep and abiding friendship. They liked one another. They respected one another. They found worth in one another. They were kind to one another. They believed that they had something to learn from one another.

As people, we are never all going to agree on everything.  In fact, differences of opinion are necessary to enrich the common good. A different perspective helps us see our own blind spots. When we value a difference of opinion, together we can create a community, a country, that isn’t “my way” or “your way.” We can create a country that is a better way – our way.

When I worked in campus ministry, I helped students learn how to have dialogues that built understanding and respect for those with whom they disagreed. In those conversations, we used the metaphor of playing in the same sandbox. It is really quite simple. How do you play in the same sandbox? You recognize that the sandbox belongs to all of you. You take turns. You play by the same rules. And most importantly, never throw sand at one another. That is how you bridge the aisle of difference.

That’s what justices Ginsburg and Scalia showed us how to do. Let’s honor both of their memories by electing leaders who desire this kind of society, and by their words and deeds, empower us to make progress toward it.

A Letter to My Hometown

Dear Editor:

I was born in the hospital here in Westbrook in 1965. I went to school here, graduating in 1983. Since then, life has taken me to all sorts of places that, in my youth, I never anticipated I would get to live. My life has been enriched by people all over the world who have expanded worldview and my understanding of what it means to be one, common humanity.

A little over a year ago, I was able to move back home here to Westbrook. I have a job that allows me to live anywhere I want, and work remotely. I chose home. I chose to move back to the place that formed me and sowed seeds in my heart and mind as a child. I love my hometown, but Saturday morning, this place broke my heart a bit.

My political affiliations are not in the majority in this community. In fact, my perspectives represent a very small minority. I can respect that. We do not have to share the same opinions or ideas to be good neighbors to and for one another. At the end of last week, I think there were only four “Biden for President” signs in this town. Saturday morning, there was at least one less. Someone stole my sign. My sign was not near the street. It was set back on my property, up against my ramp and deck. Someone intentionally came up on my lawn, crossed my sidewalk, trespassed on my property and stole my sign. The only reason could be to silence my political voice.

Part of the reason that this action so disappoints me, is that such behavior does not reflect the values of this place that, in my heart, has always been home. The education that I received in my youth from really good teachers in this town taught me about the values of respect, integrity, civic responsibility, community, compassion, dignity of self and the other. Here, in this community, I learned that differences of opinion make us stronger when we work together to hear and understand each other. Here, in this community, I learned pride in country, care for the neighbor, love of those whose stories are different from my own. Here, in this community, I learned that part of what makes this country unique is the weaving together of a vast, and seemingly endless array of the diversity of the human community. Here, in this community, I learned that free speech is a fundamental cornerstone of a democratic society, and yet someone in this community thought it appropriate to take away my freedom of speech by stealing a campaign sign.

I wonder: what is someone so afraid of that they need to steal a presidential campaign sign? My vote is not going to turn this red corner of Minnesota blue. But I wonder, is someone so afraid that one or two votes might eat into their vast majority that, well, they need to intimidate, to silence that one or two? Seriously, people? That’s not what democracies do: that’s what dictators do. That’s not what people who support a freely and fairly elected president do. That’s what people who support tyrants do.

In my years living away from this community, I often heard that rural America wonders why its children grow up, move away, and rarely look back. At present, I have countless friends who live in big cities all across this country. When I posted on Facebook about the theft of my Biden sign, several friends told me that this same thing was happening in the big cities where they live. Perhaps it is nostalgia, but in my memory and in my hopes, rural America was and can be better at valuing each other and actually being community because of we have a chance of really knowing one another. Here, we can model that we do not all have be the same, to think the same, to vote the same, in order to be one community, one people who fundamentally hold dear life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

I’m not writing this letter to persuade or change anyone’s vote, come November. But I am writing it to put into practice what this community taught me: exercise your civic responsibility. Engage in the political process. Don’t just complain about things you don’t like: strive to make things better. I’m writing this letter in the hope of reminding us who we are – a community, made up of people with different stories, different experiences, different ideas – but a community still that same – one that intentionally strives to bridge the aisle of difference and work together toward the common good. That can’t happen when we sink into petty actions against one another, like stealing the campaign signs of those whose perspectives are not our own.

In 1983, as a senior in high school here, I was the Minnesota State Voice of Democracy speech champion. Near the end of my speech, I said, “our hands that show our actions prove that to the U.S. we belong.” In some ways, those were the naïve, romantic sentiments of someone in late adolescence who had not yet experienced the complexity of the world, but I want to still believe that there is some truth in those words, that this country can rise above this abysmal time of polarization and become the beacon of hope for the world that our founding documents inspire us to be. If that is to be the case, however, we need to try reaching out and shaking the hand of someone with whom we disagree, rather than using our hands to try to eliminate a difference of opinion. When you reach out in goodwill, you might just discover a human being with whom you have a whole lot more in common than you think.

One last thing: to the person who stole my sign – I’d love to have a conversation with you – in the light of day, that is. I’d love to hear your story, learn why you think and believe as you do, and I’d love to tell you my story, too. That is, if you’d listen, if you’ll crawl out of the darkness and show your face in the light of day. Cowards sneak around and steal things at night. Citizens sit down for a cup of coffee, listen to each other, and learn from each other. Let’s not be cowards. Let’s be good citizens together who seek understanding and compromise to make our community, our country, and our world a better place. Who wants to join me for that cup of coffee or tea?

Sincerely,

Charlene Rachuy Cox, a child of this community who has come home

Christ-like or Christian?

In 2009, I found the above note outside my office door. I’m pretty sure it was left there by some students, but I could not be certain. When I received it, I remember taking it to my desk, holding it in my hands, considering its message, and wondering about the identity of the secret messenger.

I recognized the quote from Bill Maher in “Religulous,” but I was surprised and humbled to find it anonymously left for me.

For the past nine years, this note has had a prominent place near my desk. I literally see it every day I go to work. Sometimes it has been tacked to a bulletin board. Sometimes it has been propped against a lamp. These days, it sits next to my collection of a commentary series entitled “Feasting on the Word.” That seems uncannily appropriate. Feasting on the Word, Christ-like — they seem to go together.

Or do they?

How often is the Bible used as a bludgeon to beat up some designated other?

How often is this sacred text used to exclude, rather than include?

How often is this holy wonder used as a check list for moral superiority rather than held in awe as the mysterious cradle that holds the Christ-child, God-as-one-of-us, God-for-us?

To feast upon the Word that others might see me as Christ-like, not just Christian – now there’s a spiritual discipline for the season of Advent! I think I might give it a go.

How about you?

The 10th Leper: Practicing Gratitude

With the Thanksgiving holiday now over and Advent just around the corner, I have been thinking a lot lately about gratitude. I have read the studies and heard the Ted Talks that remind us that those who live lives of gratitude are happier, healthier, more content with life and tend to have a deeper sense of well-being. But what does a life of gratitude look like? How does one actually practice gratitude ?

In the Christian Scriptures, in the 17th chapter of the Gospel of Luke, there is a story about ten lepers who are healed by Jesus. Out of the ten, one thanks Jesus, but the story tells us that he does more than simply say “thank you.” There are seven things that the tenth leper does that, taken together, teach us how to practice gratitude in our daily lives.

See. Return. Praise. Worship. Give Thanks. Get up. Go.

That is tenth leper gratitude. That is how one “practices gratitude.” What if, each day, you sought to live this practice? How might your life change? How might gratitude become not simply something that you practice, but an actual way of life?

Here’s a plan to get you started. Find a few minutes each day to reflect upon each of the questions below.

See

Where do you see the grace of God in your life today?

 Return

How might you return to God today?

 Praise

What words of praise are you moved to speak to God today?

 Worship

To what acts of worship is God calling you today?

 Give Thanks

For what do you give thanks to God today?

 Get up

What is holding you down in your faith life today?

 Go

Where is your faith calling you to go today?

God Bless your practicing gratitude now and in the days ahead.

 

Surely God is in This Place

It was an unexpected surprise.

Last week, I found myself looking for something to do in the western suburbs of Chicago. Something that would refresh my spirit. Something that would take me outside on a gorgeous summer day. Something that would not “bust my budget,” but that would be worth my time and energy.

Just for fun, I did an internet search of “western Chicago suburb gardens.” The entry at the top of the page read “Cantigny Gardens, Chicago Western Suburbs, IL.” A closer look revealed that it was only about 20 minutes away, and the only fee appeared to be a $5.00 general parking fee. Intrigued, I decided to give it a try.

It was an unexpected surprise.

Rich colors. Intoxicating scents. Lush greens. Delicious flowers. Lovely, does not even begin to capture the gardens – or the experience.

Roses. Lilies. Sunflowers. Succulents. Hostas. Zinnias. Dahlias. Oaks. Willows. Maples. Firs. Dogwoods. And more, and more, and more.

I took my time moving from garden-to-garden within the 500 acres of Cantigny. Drinking in the light and the shadows, the colors and the contours, the sights and the sounds, I was rather lost – in a good way – in my own thoughts, when I turned a corner down a shaded path. As I looked up, my breath literally caught in my chest. The sight before me was remarkable. Stunning. Beyond-words-beautiful.

It was an unexpected surprise.

Weeping willow trees blanketed in light provided a backdrop to purples and whites and pinks, with a rhythmic splash of yellow. In the middle was a tree with a flowing green canopy – a tree of life amid a garden of wonder.

As I made my way toward a bench to sit away in this eden-like place, my heart and mind filled with an affirmation: surely God is in this place. The longer I sat, the more I realized that I had wandered into a holy moment, a liminal experience, a thin space where the veil between the holy and the mundane blurred with intricate delicacy.

After sitting awhile, I wandered, and then returned. And then did it all over again.

It was an unexpected surprise. Surely God was in that place. 

Since that day at Cantigny, I have kept those words close to the surface, and I have kept my eyes and ears open. Where else might I be moved to say, “surely God is in this place?” In what other places might I step into the intersection of the sacred and the ordinary, if only I have the intention, the presence of mind, to notice?

Even now, as I write these words at my dining room table, surely God is in this place.