Love and Joy in Diversity

land j wedding 2“What means diverse?”

It was a question posed by a three-year-old who had not yet mastered the sentence structure of English yet was driven to master its lexicon.  Where had he heard this word, I wondered, and what had activated his curiosity to the degree that he would remember it and ask about it later?  I knew what the word meant, of course, but I wasn’t sure how to explain it on toddler level.  I don’t recall what I told him, though I do remember stumbling with some inadequate definition that I hoped would appease him.  I was pretty sure it didn’t.

It was the early 80s and “diversity,” neither the word nor its social implications, had become part of the daily news cycle as it is now.  Since then, technology has made our world smaller, and our nation and neighborhoods have become more diverse.  Legislation and court rulings have brought about much social change.  While many celebrate what they see as progress, others curse perceived threats to their values and religious freedoms.  For some people and in some situations, diversity has become a minefield.

But love conquers all.

And children grow up.

Earlier this year that three-year-old, now an adult, married the man of his dreams (assuming he even dared to dream of a time when such a thing would be possible).  The guest list of family and treasured friends reflected various racial and religious backgrounds, all gathered before a glorious Hill Country sunset.  The music was classical, the wedding service formal, all followed by a celebratory meal of down-home, Texas barbeque. This union, officiated by female clergy, created a multiethnic family and as much happiness as I have ever seen or felt.

This means love.l and J wedding 1

This means joy.

This means diverse.

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Love is a flame…

flame

Love is a flame that burns in our heart, Jesus has come and will never depart.

-from “When God Is a Child” by Brian Wren

 

But the greatest of these…

heart-grass

1 Corinthians 13 is one of the most quoted chapters of the Bible.  It’s used at weddings a lot, but it’s actually part of a letter to the church.  The advice within is sound for any relationship, marriage or otherwise.  Maybe you can spend a few minutes today reading, or more likely, rereading the beautiful, guiding words of the apostle Paul.  Here are some of my favorite highlights:

1 If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong…

2 …and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing.

8 Love never fails.

11 …I put childish ways behind me.

13 And now these three remain: faith, hope and love.  But the greatest of these is love.

I hope you will revisit 1 Corinthians 13 and see which ideas speak to you the loudest today.  Be sure to share.  And love each other.

Down the River

down the riverDown the river, we pray for one another.
Down the river, we hold on to our dreams.
Down the river, hard times make us stronger to get by,
And leave this world behind down the river.
Malcolm Holcombe

Current events have me feeling a little like a character in a Dickens novel, surrounded by tragedy and injustice while those who have the capacity to help seem like nothing more than unfeeling caricatures of leadership and strength. From global terrorism and oppression to presidential candidates’ buffoonery, from irresponsible journalism to a religious debate over non-religious coffee cups, I am overwhelmed with the amount of strife at every turn. I wish I had the answers, but of course, I do not.
This weekend, however, I think I got a glimpse of some things that could lead us to the answers. Or maybe they’re just things that can provide respite for a time as we attempt to navigate this chaotic maze of negativity in which we find ourselves. I’ll share it here, and you can take what you need from it.

I went to a wedding.

The bride has been my friend since first grade. In nearly 50 years we have witnessed lots of ups and downs as one would expect. The greatest “down” of all was when she lost her husband to a lengthy, terminal illness. It was the cruelest kind of disease, the kind that ravages the mind and leaves a lingering, failing body. Watching her provide care and advocate for her husband was one of those situations that makes you say things like, “I don’t know how she does it,” or “I could never do that.”
She did do it. She did it well and for a long, long time. Anyone would have understood if she had emerged on the other side tired or bitter or just ready to focus on herself. But after her husband passed away, her heart remained open, as it has always been, to new possibilities, new love, new life.

On Saturday she married again. It was a small wedding as weddings go, but it was grand in many ways. Her three grandsons walked her down the aisle and gave her away. Her granddaughter stood with her in the wedding party. The weather was grand, sunny and warm, on an incredible Texas autumn day. We were reminded, in the words of the apostle Paul, that while many things we value are temporary, three remain: faith, hope, and love. A grand idea for troubled times.

And then I went to a concert.

It wasn’t a big venue event, but a house concert in the home of a friend. Malcolm Holcombe was the artist. I had seen him several times before and heard him, recorded, long before that. Malcolm is a force of nature, someone you must see to truly experience. He is both childlike and ancient, his conversation moving in a direct path from juice to Anita Bryant to black and white TV (“as it should be,” he says) to matters philosophical.

Malcolm plays guitar with his entire body from his furrowed brow to his tapping, stomping feet. His chair moves back and forth like a rocker on the back porch. It is not a rocking chair, but a simple metal folding chair that he balances first on front legs then on back. For much of his time on stage, he is balancing on two chair legs and one of his own, the other three on the way up or on the way down. On the rare occasion that the chair is fully grounded, he is sideways in it, and soon the rocking begins again. He is a teacher’s nightmare, but an audience’s delight.

Holcombe’s rasp suggests years of smoking and drinking, maybe whiskey, maybe sand. Tonight however, he drinks coffee and pineapple juice. His stories and songs make me nostalgic for places and things I have never known. He stares, trancelike, into the audience during an instrumental piece, and I know he has gone somewhere else for a moment. He returns, and eventually ends his show with words that, despite his colorful language, can only be described as a benediction. I feel like I have been to church. Or down the river.