Immoral to resign?

“We believe it would be immoral to resign,” says Johnnie Moore, a lay evangelical leader who has served as an informal spokesman for the Evangelical Advisory Board. “As faith leaders, we have been given an opportunity to speak directly to various members of the administration, to provide not just policy counsel but personal counsel. We’re personally involved in the lives of all these people, praying for all these people, and answering their questions.”

Trump’s Evangelical Advisors Stand By Their Man.

What a load of crap!

If you read the profiles of the religious leaders who comprise this panel, some common words will jump out at you……”megachurch”…..”prosperity doctrine”

IMHO, these two heresies have been much of the driving force that has corrupted Evangelical Christian leaders and are at the core of the stinking rot we now see from these “leaders.”

They live in opulent mansions with huge garages to house their collections of luxury vehicles. They adorn themselves in designer clothing and fly around the country in their private jets preaching their heresy.

This is not what Jesus meant when he commanded his disciples to go into the world and share the gospel. Jesus’ version of the gospel was to be humble, love humankind, feed the poor, take care of the widows and the children.

Jesus’ megachurches were the wide open spaces like the mountains where he preached about love, humility, prayer (Matt 5 -7) or like the deserted places where he retreated and where he shared the loaves of bread and the few fish he had with the hungry crowds that followed him there (Matt 15:29 – 39). He didn’t stand in public places and recite flowery prayers but retreated to solitary places like the Garden of Gethsemane where he threw himself on the dirt, and called out to God, alone, aggrieved, in agony.

These religious leaders who serve on Trump’s Evangelical Advisory Board are the antithesis of the Jesus I love. Their religion of megachurches and prosperity doctrine profanes the fundamental messages of Jesus and his brand of Christianity.

 

 “White Privilege” & Confronting My Own Racism

When I read the essay I’ve linked below, I remembered a conversation about race I had several years ago with a black coworker, a man who I respected and who was a friend, and a safe person to discuss such things…I knew he would not be offended by my questions and would be honest in his answers. He commented that he knew that many white women were uneasy around him when they encountered him on the street. He told me he noticed the women in their cars as he walked by, the expressions on their faces as they looked to make sure their doors were locked. I thought to myself, “I do that too when I’m in my car.”

It opened my eyes to the insidious racism that infects my thinking. When I catch myself, I take conscious effort to root it out. It is a continuous effort.

At least I am aware that it exists. Awareness at least challenges me to be better, to do better, to confront these thoughts.

In the last several months , I have been confronted with the concept of “white privilege.” I’m not sure I fully comprehend yet what it means to me as a white woman, how I need to acknowledge it, and what actions I need to take in my own life to root it out, but I am trying.

“It isn’t Richard Spencer calling the cops on me for farming while Black. It’s nervous White women in yoga pants with ‘I’m with Her’ and ‘Coexist’ stickers on their German SUVs.”

A message to Charlotteville from a black farmer

Atlanta’s Women’s March for Social Justice

Here’s an impressive picture that was taken of the March for Social Justice & Women in Atlanta yesterday. (I didn’t take the picture…I was one of the pink dots in the picture).

I got home too late last night to watch the evening news but my husband watched the news and told me the count was at around 60,000 marchers in Atlanta! The organizers had estimated about 10,000 marchers and yesterday morning we all woke up to pouring rain, thunder & lightening. I did not rethink my decision to go, but I hoped that the rain would not prevent others from showing up.

When took the subway to town, and when I exited the train at the CNN station I was elated to see the crowds of people that were in the station…As I emerged from the station, it was exciting to see the large crowds that were gathering up on the street level….And the rain stopped !

The subway stop was several blocks from the starting point and as I walked the crowds who were walking beside me just got bigger and bigger. It was like I was floating along in a river with branches and tributaries dumping more and more marchers into it….

It was hard to get a sense of the numbers of sisters & brothers who showed up to march, but I knew it was a lot. Every where I looked I saw crowds of people.

When I approached the park where all the crowds were gathering I was at a higher elevation and I could look down and see a large body of people. It was amazing!

Today as I read about the march in Atlanta, DC, Chicago, Los Angeles, Seattle, and across the nation and across the globe I am humbled, joyous, elated, encouraged, and energized. And now the real work begins….

My Mom, an Alaskan Artist – Dorothy F. Liggett

My mother was an artist and sold most of her paintings. Her specialty was Eskimo portraits.

Shortly after we moved to Alaska, my mother befriended an Eskimo woman named Mary Walker. She walked up to Mary during the annual Fur Rendezvous festival when many Alaskan natives were out in the streets in all their beautiful parkas, introduced herself, told Mary that she was an artist and would like to paint her portrait. A close friendship ensued between Mary and my mother.

My mother painted Mary’s portrait and over the years she also painted many of her extended family – Mary shared her family photos with my mother and she painted many of her portraits from Mary’s old black & white photographs of Eskimo life and love in the frozen Alaskan arctic.

My mother died almost 30 years ago. Over the years my sister has found some of her paintings on eBay and bought them. Last night she found and purchased these lovelies, painted by my mom such a long time ago!

 

I am joyous and filled with many happy memories of my mother today.

#3 Let the Music Carry Me

Barber’s Adagio for Strings from The String Quartet, Opus 11

 

I listen to Barber’s Adagio for Strings from the String Quartet, Opus 11, and I am filled with longing for all the things I’ve lost in my life.

The violin bows pluck at my heart strings and my heart swells and swoons and catches in my throat. My eyes fill with tears as I fill my lungs with the joy of living. I close my eyes and let the music wash over me. Climbing high and higher, I soar and then dip down to the ground and then peace sweet peace washes over me like a whispered breath that blows through my soul and I am aloft again, soaring on the wings of eagles, rising higher and higher and then I feel the warm kiss of my Lord as he envelopes me in his loving arms and covers me with sweet kisses. I am filled with ecstasy and delight and my heart swells and feels as if it could burst! Oh, my Lord, come hold me and take me to those unforeseen reaches. And the music stops and my journey takes a somber turn and I am again filled with hopeful longing.

Take me up, and let me touch the skies. Oh, yes, take me higher and set my soul free to see you and be with you again. My face is wet with my tears of joy and longing and sorrow. Now softly hold me close and let me be one with your love.

 

Rachmaninoff’s Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini in A Minor, Opus 43, Variation XVIII

 

The piano begins, plucking the cords, I sway with the music like a tree sways in the breeze. I am in love and my lover holds me in his arms and we dance across the floor, twirling and twirling, and he looks into my eyes and smiles and I am enthralled. He is so tall and handsome and strong. Love is here and holds me and we merge and become one leaf floating along the melody. and the song plays on and we look into each other’s eyes and love.

 

Tchaikovsky’s Overture from the Nutcracker

 

I am a child at my first ballet. The music starts and I am filled with anticipation. I bounce my legs and move my head from side to side swaying with the music. The beautiful ladies dance across the stage and I become them. It is magic and I am beautiful, dancing and dancing, so graceful and beautiful. Twirling and twirling and so very dizzy that I stumble, recover myself and I’m twirling around and around and then up on my toes and I am a ballerina dancing across the stage so beautiful and graceful. There is magic in the air and every eye is on me as I dance around and around. I am warm and happy and life is pure and simple. I am wearing my red velvet dress, holding my wand and the music lifts me and carries me across the stage and I am twirling and dancing and jumping so gracefully across the stage. I am happy and free and I am eight years old again.

#2 A Room with a View

I wake up slowly this morning, groggy, disoriented. I lie quietly for several minutes to get my bearings, and then open my eyes and sit up. I slept hard last night, dreaming active dreams that were peopled with the faces of long departed loved ones, beloved pets, friends…many I lost decades ago. My dreams were active and continuous and in most I was traveling along rivers and oceans, up and down mountains, floating through the heavens, spinning through a hallucinogenic mishmash of colors, sensations and emotions.

I am still a bit groggy, disoriented and sleepy. I look around the room. To my right I see a futon that doubles as a couch and as another bed and a small chest of drawers.

On the left wall is a closed doorway that I know leads through a small closet to the bathroom, with a chipped sink, leaking toilet, and broken tile. I hear the shower running. To the right of the doorway, along the wall, is a rickety entertainment center that houses an old analogue television set and beside that is a linoleum counter top sitting atop a small refrigerator and cabinet. A microwave oven sits above the counter top on open shelving that shows a limited inventory of mismatched plates, pots, and drinking glasses.

Directly across from me is a large sliding glass door that spans almost the entire width of the room except for an area to the left where the small kitchen sink sits. A square table with three chairs stands in the middle of the view. If I open the sliding door and step outside to the small balcony, I can look out beyond the swimming pool and parking lot, over the sand dunes and the waving sea oats, across the craggy driftwood forest and see the ocean, with its gentle, rolling waves, lapping the shoreline as it deposits its debris of starfish, scraggly seaweed, broken shells. I am on the second floor of an old house that has been divided up into a fourplex that is managed by the old rundown motel right next door.

The last time I stayed here was at the end of the summer of 1985. My mother was coming for a visit and wanted to go to the beach. When I called to make the reservation, the manager told me, “Hope you don’t mind, but you’ll be the only guests here that week and the last guests we house. The very next week the bulldozers come in and level the whole place. It’ll be some new expensive condominiums next time you come out this way.” My mom and I had a wonderful time.

I was 27 years old and had finally gotten through the most painful parts of a divorce from a man who had been demeaning, abusive and who had managed to squash my self image to a place of worthlessness. Enough time had passed that I had gotten back some confidence, gained some perspective and was taking some positive steps to rebuild my life.

My mom was 54 years old. Our relationship had been a little strained after she ended her 26 year marriage to my Father. Not because I had a hard time accepting her decision, but because she had become a person I could not recognize as my mother. On past visits, I had a hard time relating to her.  On this trip, she had finally settled down a little and I could see some bits of my mother in her. We were still mother and daughter, but we had begun to forge a new woman-to-woman relationship. It was the last time I saw my mother so happy and the last time I could bask in her unconditional love and acceptance.

The very next Memorial Day, my older brother died in a motorcycle accident, on a remote stretch of Alaska’s scenic Seward Highway. There at the turn off to Hope, Alaska where the road makes a deep curve, my brother hit the curve too fast, swung out into the other lane of traffic and hit a truck head on. The attending paramedic told me at my high school reunion a few days later, “It all happened so fast, he never knew anything.”  His body was cremated and on my 28th birthday we took his ashes out in a fishing boat from Seward Alaska to Thumb Cove and spread them in Resurrection Bay.

Turns out, I lost two people that day. For when my brother died, my mother disappeared into a deep abyss of grief and mourning and I never saw her smile again. Later that fall cancer wrapped its tenacious tentacles around my Mom who was stranded in the abyss and a year later we made another trip to Thumb Cove with my mother’s ashes.

I stand up from the bed and walk over to the sliding glass door. My 56 year old self stands at the window, gazing out at the gentle waves, the careening seagulls, thinking about the day ahead. I hear the door open behind me and a voice, “Rise and shine sweet Jujubean. The day’s waiting!” I turn and smile into my mother’s eyes.