"and may Thy Word..."

"they said
i would never make it;
but I was built
to break the mold.

the only dream
that I was chasing
was my own..."
- Alicia Keyes

My dear friend, Carol, posted Alicia Keyes' profoundly beautiful song,"Underdog," in celebration of the Supreme Court of the United States' landmark decision to uphold DACA today. It brought me to tears.

This post isn't about that decision per se. Its merits or political implications. I will not add to the opinions or rhetoric that will follow. I believe that the majority opinion by Chief Justice Roberts and Justice Sotomayor are worthy of their offices and stand on their own.

This post is simply a humble celebration of our common humanity. It is to affirm for myself, once again, that Love overrides even the most tightly held political and religious codes and creeds, when those certainties face the law of Love.

Here is the prayer - written by Mary Baker Eddy - that has held me in its steady assurance during the days leading up to this Supreme Court decision -- as well and through months of waiting for last week's ruling on workplace protections for LGBTQIA+ employees under the 1964 Civil Rights Act.

It is found in the governing document of The First Church of Christ, Scientist, The Manual of The Mother Church, which outlines the discipline of its members:

"Thy kingdom come, let the reign
of divine Truth, Life, and Love,
be established in me
and rule out of me all sin;
and may Thy Word enrich the affections
of all mankind and govern them."

This "Daily Prayer," as it is titled in the Manual By-Law -- that bears both its name and its purpose -- sustains my hope and undergirds my confidence in our common humanity. There are no underdogs. We are all worthy. And we are all governed by "Thy Word." Not the words of political leaders, pundits, or the opinions of others, - but the Word of Love operating in each human heart.

I will leave this here.

with Love,


Kate

"he mus' know sumpin'..."

"...Ol' man river,
dat ol' man river
he mus' know sumpin',
but don't say nuthin'.
He jes' keeps rollin',
He keeps on rollin' along..."
Jerome Kerns

October, 2008.  "Obama Headquarters" the notation in my calendar reads. It makes me happy.  It is a beautiful day.  Campaign headquarters is about 5 blocks from our house and I love walking through the "old neighborhood."  It is a neighborhood that once heard the sounds of the 1904 St. Louis Worlds Fair,as they were happening...within earshot...just across Forest park.

I walk from our block filled with University housing and stately re-furbished turn-of-the-century brick homes, through less gentrified streets noisy with children playing and plastic flowers in peeling window boxes, to quieter blocks where men, who were once boys, sit on porch steps, and women who were once girls...fan themselves with folded paper, smooth the skirts of voluminous housedresses, and laugh from their place-in-the-shade just under the sloping roof of a once-grand porch. 

Songs like William Warfield's "Old Man River,"  Louis Armstrong's "Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen," and Judy Garland's "Meet Me In St. Louis," provide the inner soundtrack for this loved journey through streets that I love.  I can't help but open my heart to the beauty of the day, the once-upon-a-time grandeur of what this neighborhood was, and the promise of the future. 

This is the poem that I found as a journal entry for that day:  

"I love this
neighborhood,"
I think,
as I walk
briskly
along
broken concrete
sidewalks
lifted and cracked
by the roots
of hundred year old
sycamores
planted for the
1904 World's Fair.
I am
on my way to
somewhere
else...
a place where
I have purpose,
somewhere
I am needed,
where I have
"things to do
and people to see"

The houses are
like
once-upon-a-time
grand dames
who still
show up in
boucle' suits and
pillbox hats
as ladies-who-lunch
and go for
martinis-at-5
but their
lipstick is
not as straight as
it once was,
and
orthopedic shoes
have replaced
open-toed
red pumps with ankle straps and
real silk
stockings with
seams up
the back.

He calls to me from a
crumbling stoop.

"Ma'am.."

A tip of his brown felt
fedora,
the other thumb looped
around a striped suspender,
his wing-tipped oxfords are polished
to a  spit-shine
a skill learned by many-a-soldier
in 1944.

"Sir,"
I cheerfully parry back, without
missing a beat in the
staccato of my late October
step...
I am happy.
I am
gaily skipping along
under leaves of gold and
scarlet filtering the
bright light of
an autum blue
sky.

"sweet tea?"
he returns.

"pardon?'

"sweet tea?"
he repeats, lifting a glass and a
round pitcher filled with
tea and ice and mint-leaves
floating on top
like
barges on the
Mississippi.

"i would...."
but I have places to go
and people to see.

I have a campaign to volunteer for.

why, we are going to elect the first
black man ever nominated, to be
the President of the United
States of America. 

"sweet tea?" he asks
again.

And I remember he is the man. 

"yes," I say, "that would be
lovely."

And he makes room for me on
his crumbling porch steps.

But first he pulls a pressed and
neatly folded handkerchief...from the pocket of
his white button down shirt, yellowed with age, but
perfectly starched and ironed...and
lies it on the top step for me to sit upon
like a flourished cape across
a muddy rivelet.

I am a princess and he is a gentleman with
sweet tea and  a
handkerchief, a voice like
Dr. King, a smile like
Satchmo, and
stories I will listen to
with the hunger of
a granddaughter
aching for her
history.

Stories that will make me laugh
with the telling of,
break with the knowledge of,
and weep over, long after
his grandson arrives home,
and I have continued
walking down a sycamore-shaded
city street on
a crisp October day.

His stories will fuel my resolve,
and inspire my prayers...

...not for the election of "a man"
but for the emancipation of
all men, women and children...
emancipation 
from the slavery of
"time-honored systems" and
the kind of hatred that is borne of
ignorance...
ignorance,
and
years of never
being willing to sit with
one another,
linger on a porch step,
accept a jelly-glass of
iced sweet tea,
and hear
each other's
stories...
and
weep...

still, with hope...audacious hope,

Kate
Kate Robertson, CS

"...nobody's right if everybody's wrong..."

"…There's battle lines being drawn,
And nobody's right if everybody's wrong.
Young people speaking there minds,
And getting so much resistance from behind.

It's time we stop, hey what's that sound,
Everybody look what's going down…"
-Stephen Stills

As I watch candidates and voters in farming communities and cities across Iowa preparing for tonight's caucuses I can't help but remember my own early forays into the world of political campaigning, protest marches, and cause-specific rallies.   I loved uniting with others who were passionate about social justice and deeply committed to what we believed.  We were right…well, actually we were left…but either right or left, we were right…right?   Most importantly at the time we, at least, thought we were right.  And if we were right, everyone who didn't agree with us, who didn't hold similar positions on policy…were wrong.  Right?  It got very confusing.

I still love the fellowship of a shared vision for social change, justice and reform, but an epiphany I had almost fifteen years ago altered the way I approach "campaigning".

It was late Spring of 1994 and a small band of men and women from selected cities across the United States had been invited to a retreat near the ocean.  For the most part we came without question.  We came because we believed in a message,  and we shared a vision for how to better disseminate that message to a larger audience.  Little did we know, although most of us intuited, that the demands of carrying out that mission and the resistance we would face in doing so, would be great.  Before long, campaigns were launched in each of the cities we represented to rally opposition.  The key points in opposition to our mission and focus were echoing through the chambers of thought and spreading like wildfire through a late summer field of prairie grass.

Soon meetings were being organized for each of the cities in question. It was our hope that through these meetings we could control the blaze.  Our intent was to provide a forum for addressing known objections, while also providing each city's point person with a platform for answering some of the questions, misinformation, and concerns with relevant facts.  We hoped that this would free us up from the constant need to correct misunderstandings about our mission,  and allow us to better carry out our objectives.  So that our messages - from city to city - were consistent, talking points were developed and conference calls scheduled so that we were all speaking with one voice.

As the date for our first informational meeting drew closer I found myself going over and over those talking points hundreds of times a day.  But a funny thing started happening.  Instead of just rehearsing the facts, I began having imaginary rejoinders with make-believe opponents.  I would imagine their objection and then I would argue, based on the developed talking points, for the rightness of my case, our mission.  These fantasy arguments always put me in the role of being right…and thus leaving anyone who objected to my position as…wrong.    Right?

One day, after a long flight to Baltimore from Denver, I found myself exhausted from what I thought was preparation for our first meeting.  I had spent the entire five hours of our flight going over those same talking points, praying for courage in facing expected resistance, and mental arguing with a fantasy opponent.  Like an athlete after a rigorous workout, I was finally ready.  But for what?   I thought it was for our first "confrontation" with the opposition (even though I didn't think I was thinking of everyone who would be coming to our meetings in those terms), but what I didn't realize was that God had other plans for me that day.

As we arrived at my friend's home she headed into the kitchen to pick up the phone which was ringing as we opened the door, and I placed my luggage on the floor at the foot of the stairs just inside the entryway.  While she took her call I placed my hand on the newel post at the bottom of the stairs and it was as if that post was connected to a hot electric wire.  A shock went through me with such force that I seemed to be stuck to the wooden post, unable to move and frozen in time.  Now, it was a beautifully carved wooden post…there was no electrical shock involved, but a phrase asserted itself with such force that I was suspended in thought, unable to shake myself free…free from a uncontrollable freefall from the heights of self-righteousness. 

The phrase that came was:

"free moral agency"

Nothing more…nothing less.  It is a term that Mary Baker Eddy uses in her writings three times (I've copied all three following this post for your reference), but this thought didn't come all tied up gently in a neatly quoted passage.  It came with the simple and direct power and force of an electrical jolt that held me suspended in time until I heard the impact of its message.  And I did.  I heard…and more importantly I felt,  these words with new meaning.  For me, the message was, "Do you not trust that each individual has an indissoluble relationship to the divine and that He alone acts as the only agent of change, the only voice of reason defining right and wrong for that individual…it is not your right to trespass on that holy ground…it is not your right, duty or privilege to convince anyone of anything.  You can share your experiences, you can share your perspectives, you can answer questions based on facts you have gathered or been given, but you must leave their conclusions as to right and wrong to God….the only one who has access the that province…the kingdom within them".  

I suddenly felt this absolute certainty that God really and truly was all-present in the hearts and minds of all "men", that He truly was the only power able to steer, control, or govern the thoughts and desires, motives and actions of anyone.  And because He is Love, I need never worry about where He will lead.   The word "moral", for me, became a word that described that sacred sanctuary of communication between God and man…a space that was inviolate and private…never to be trespassed upon, judged, or manipulated by others.

With that realization the world around me started moving again, I could hear my friend concluding her phone call and I was free.  I was free in a way I had never known before.  I didn't have to convince anyone of anything.  I didn't have to worry that they wouldn't get it, that they might misunderstand our motives, or that I was responsible for changing their minds.  In fact, the thought that I might actually say something that would change their way of thinking was laughable, ridiculous, nonsensical.  I could only be willing to share my experiences, share my perspective, share the facts that had been gathered, but I had no right to trespass on their "free moral agency" or to think of anyone as "wrong"...vs. me as "right". 

Their positions are, for them, as right as mine are for me.  I can trust any adjustments that need to be made...in either of our viewpoints or positions...to God, the only power in the universe.

So, today as I watch campaigns, rallies, marches…and yes, even caucuses…I am rejoicing in our individual  freedom to ardently express our ideas, freely share our vision, generously communicate our passion for a vision…knowing all the while that it is only God who holds sway in our hearts...and the hearts of all men, women...and children. 

On to New Hampshire!

With Love, 
Kate

Citations on "free moral agency" by Mary Baker Eddy
(bolding added for emphasis)
"If, as is indisputably true, "God is Spirit," and Spirit is
our Father and Mother, and that which it includes is all
that is real and eternal, when evil seems to predominate
and divine light to be obscured, free moral agency is lost;
and the Revelator's vision, that "no man might buy or sell,
save he that had the mark, or the name of the beast, or the
number of his name," is imminent.

Whoever is mentally manipulating human mind, and is not gaining
a higher sense of Truth by it, is losing in the scale of moral and
spiritual being, and may be carried to the depths of perdition by
his own consent.  He who refuses to be influenced by any but the
divine Mind, commits his way to God, and rises superior to
suggestions from an evil source."

This conclusion is not an argument either for pessimism
or for optimism, but is a plea for free moral agency,
--full exemption from all necessity to obey a power that should be
and is found powerless in Christian Science. Insubordination to
the law of Love even in the least, or strict obedience
thereto, tests and discriminates between
the real and the unreal Scientist.

Woman should not be ordered to the rear,
or laid on the rack, for joining the overture of angels. 
Theologians descant pleasantly upon free moral agency;
but they should begin by admitting individual rights.
-Mary Baker Eddy