Category Archives: Tolerance

The New Colossus Rewound

“Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, the tempest-tossed to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

“The New Colossus,” Emma Lazarus, 1883

 Man, when did we get away from that sentiment? You have to go back to the LBJ years to hear the kind of hate speech passing as patriotism and Christianity that’s spewing out of the mouths of orators and commentators and letters to the editor writers these days.

When did all of this hate begin?

Oh, I understand why so much of it is aimed at illegal immigrants. They’re an easy target. They’re defenseless. They can’t answer back. You can accuse them of anything and hardly anybody rises to their defense anymore. Because once you do, you’ll get the hate mail and hate e-mails and hate phone calls.

I know my history. I know a certain segment of the population goes through these spasms of anti-immigration sentiment periodically. I know about the Know Nothings and the other groups that targeted aliens. I’ve seen the signs that read “No Irish Allowed.” Or Poles. Or Chinese. Or Colored.

Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

I’d like to believe that it’ll pass soon, like the squalls in Leonard Cohen’s wonderful song, “Democracy:”

 Sail on, sail on

O mighty ship of state!

To the shores of need

Past the reefs of greed

Through the squalls of hate

Sail on, sail on, sail on.

 I’d like to believe that we’re still capable of that as a nation. But it is very hard right now. I believe we’re in for a rough time.

And here’s why. In no case have I seen any attempt by these talk show hosts to understand the poor souls trying so desperately to reach the United States that they are walking through a desert through the bleached bones of thousands of Mexicans and Salvadorans and Hondurans before them to get here. They’re willing to sacrifice everything for a chance. Even a slim chance.

Are they breaking the law? Yes. But there is a good chance that so did your ancestors (unless, of course, you’re a Native American or an African American).

Are they taking American jobs? Not according to the people who grow most of America’s food, butcher most of America’s pigs and cattle, or roof most of America’s roofs.

Are they the terrorists of 9/11? No. Not even close.

But Lou Dobbs will never know because he’ll never get to know these illegal aliens.

You know, Jesus was real big on feeding the hungry, visiting those who are incarcerated, clothing the naked, and loving the stranger, the alien, the unloved.

You’re supposed to feed ‘em, visit ‘em, clothe ‘em, and love ‘em, if the New Testament is true.

In short, you get to know them.

That’s the key.

It was the Rev. Raymond Bailey who first brought Frederick Buechner’s novel Treasure Hunt to my attention. In it, the narrator (Antonio Parr) has been away for weeks. When he returns, his young son has made him a sign. It reads, “Welcome Hone,” with the last leg of the “m” missing. Antonio studies the sign for a moment, then smiles:

 “It seemed oddly fitting. It was good to get home, but it was home with something missing or out of whack about it. It wasn’t much, to be sure, just a minor stroke or serif, but even a minor stroke can make a major difference. ‘Welcome Hone,’ the sign said, and I can’t helping thinking again of (Abraham and Sarah and Jacob and) Gideon and … Samson … and all the rest of the crowd … who, because some small but crucial thing was missing, kept looking for (home) wherever they went till their eyes were dim and their arches fallen. In the long run, I suppose (that’s how) we would think of everybody if we knew enough about them to think straight.”

 I suppose that’s how we would think of everybody if we knew enough about them to think straight.

Through the squalls of hate

Sail on, sail on, sail on…

Whatever Gets You Through the Night

Mary and I just completed an epic five-week trip that included a very successful research stopover in Memphis and a jaunt across upstate New York, Vermont (I think I’m in love!), and down the eastern seaboard, seeing old friends and making new ones.

Our stopover in far western New York included a couple of nights in the villages of Fredonia, Dunkirk and Lily Dale. Perhaps you saw the recent HBO documentary on Lily Dale. Or perhaps you’ve read Christine Wicker’s Lily Dale: The True Story of the Town That Talks to the Dead. If you haven’t, Lily Dale needs a little backstory.

This is home of the American Spiritualist movement. About 150 years ago, a movement sprang up composed of people who believed you could gain wisdom (and perhaps salvation) by speaking with the dead. Mediums. Seances. Ghostly rappings. That sort of thing. Today Lily Dale is a small village (you have to pay an admission fee to even enter the place during the summer) and virtually everybody there still believes. In fact, before you can practice (or put out a shingle), you have to be certified by the Lily Dale Assembly.

The village is all but untouched since the 1800s — it looks like a set from Meet Me in St. Louis. (Well, except for all of the fairies, dolphins, spirits, witches, sacred herbs, and crystals everywhere.) Everything is brightly painted, every garden is a delight, and every other person you meet is a medium. Throughout the summer, an array of guest speakers, famous mediums, ghost-hunters, and authors give talks, seminars and demonstrations. It is, of course, a trip.

Now, not everybody would probably enjoy spending an afternoon in Lily Dale. I know there are folks who believe all of this stuff is of Satan. There are others who dismiss it out of hand. But Mary and I enjoyed it anyway. I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why I got such a kick out of the place until I read this passage in Christine’s book. It’s her description of Shelley Takei, a psychologist who summers at Lily Dale and who founded the Lower Archy of the Pink Sisterhood of the Metafuzzies and the Blissninnies. The group’s motto is: “We don’t know jack ***, but we care.”

Their motto reminded me of the controversial church t-shirt I mentioned a couple of posts back. This clearly works for the folks in Lily Dale. Nobody hassled us. Nobody preached to us. Nobody told us were were going to hell if we didn’t vote for a certain political party who shall remain nameless. Everybody was very nice.

Does it work for me? No.

It did get me to thinking about what I do believe. My beliefs have changed over the decades. I used to be pretty sure I knew all of the answers. I was a little dogmatic. I was judgmental. Now, not so much. I don’t sweat the petty stuff anymore (nor do I pet the sweaty stuff), particularly as it pertains to other people.

Instead, I’m kind of like David Oliveria’s mom. At least how David depicts her in his poem “Why I’m Not a Vegetarian”:

As my mother would say,
“Live and let live—
Just keep the details to yourself,
And pass the ketchup, please.”

(David Oliveira, from A Little Travel Story. © Harbor Mountain Press, 2008.)

And yet …

And yet … there is something I do believe strongly. Perhaps you’ve heard the story of Gavin Bryars, a well-known jazz musician. The short version is, while living in England in the 1970s, he was employed as a sound technician for a documentary on the homeless. Somewhere around King’s Cross, he recorded a nameless hobo singing a little ditty, which he recorded — and promptly forgot about for many years.

Eventually, he re-discovered the audio tape and played it back. Something about the little tramp’s voice struck him, so Bryars made a loop of the little ditty — it works like a “round” (like “Row, Row, Row Your Boat”) — extending it to 90 minutes. When he returned from tea, a group of people were standing around his studio, listening and crying.

Bryars took the raw vocals and eventually over-lay dozens of string instruments, creating an ebb and flow of music behind the voice, culminating with Tom Waits singing a duet with the nameless man for the final minutes.

Jesus’ Love Failed Me Yet was an underground hit. Bryars then returned to U.K., but never found the little man again. This CD has spoken to me in ways that few sermons ever have and I’ve used it to calm the storms of my life on many occasions. I’ve also given away numerous copies. And this all the little tramp sings:

Jesus’ love never failed me yet/Never failed me yet/Jesus’ love never failed me yet/This one thing I know/That he loves me so/Jesus’ love never failed me yet

That’s it. That’s what I know. That’s about ALL I know.

Everything else peripheral.

Which means that I’ll tend to my bidness and be happy. And I’ll be happy that you’re happy while you’re tending to your bidness, be it in Waco or Lily Dale or elsewhere.

Or, as another great poet once wrote:

Whatever gets you through the night, ‘s all right, ‘s all right
It’s your money or your life, ‘s all right, ‘s all right
Don’t need a sword to cut through flowers, oh no, oh no

— John Lennon, “Whatever Gets You Through the Night”