Toting Tolerance

Yassim is a bright-eyed student leader who attends a high school in Brooklyn, N.Y. She’s also a devout Muslim and was much challenged by an insensitive school rule; ‘to hold elective office, you are required to attend school dances.’ Like my former high school Baptist friends, dancing was forbidden. So Yassim was forced to resign her leadership position, but definitely unwilling to let it go at that.

Her story is recounted in Moustrafa Bayoumi’s riveting survey of growing up Arab in America, How Does It Feel To Be A Problem? As he tells it, “this heavyweight fighter stuffed into a tiny, ninety-five-pound frame wearing the hijab” battled that school rule for over two years of letter writing, soul searching, and googling. Finally, a pro bono lawyer attracted to her case skillfully led the school to reverse its decision out of court. The coordinator of student affairs, a sharp, principled man, finally acknowledged the inexcusable harm done to this outstanding student. Today, amazingly, they are good friends.

I find this story one of shining perseverance as well as exemplifying hopeful possibilities for change in unbending institutional environments. Mostly I think Yassim’s youthful struggle represents the ever-enfolding story of learning to honor God’s different faces.

As far as I can remember, my convent years of being totally wrapped in religious garb never brought on anything like Yassim’s incident of hurtful prejudice. Even earlier, during my school days at Winter Park High surrounded by a bevy of Baptist friends, I rarely ran into any of the anti-Catholic taunts making the rounds during the fifties. Blessedly, some of the mindless hatreds we lived with then, e.g. the Pope is the Antichrist, burned themselves out in the wide bin of falsehoods.

More recently exist hatched versions of inhumane mindsets still making the rounds. At a Rollins College diversity workshop a few years ago, my Muslim friend Luby, shared how she found herself suddenly ostracized from public school chums after years of close classroom and extra curricular experiences. Christian companions were suddenly mouthing attitudes fresh off a minister’s pulpit: “Luby, my Bible is the only true source to finding God. I’m sorry we can’t be friends anymore.” 

Luby, pondering how the winds of global conflicts had inevitably blew onto her own environment, wound up years later conducting lectures and seminars she calls Connecting Cultures, now much in demand to clients the world over. Ah, how those winds of change sometimes blow in our favor.
     
Some years ago, I again heard another plea for evenhandedness at a New Year’s ecumenical retreat. A Jesuit priest and a white bearded rabbi, led the evening’s session, calling us to take turns speaking from raised symbols of our particular messages. Holding up a handkerchief, one beloved Jewish friend announced, “this represents the hundreds of tears shed over religious discrimination. Christians quote Jesus saying: ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life.’ Why can’t that divisive statement read “I am A way rather than THE way?” 

That heartfelt plea deeply affected me. Could Jesus, love itself, have really intended to separate us from our brother Jews and non-Christians. More recently, having seen the documentary of James Carroll’s book, Constantine’s Sword, I realize how our Christian tradition has chosen to separate itself from, and inexorably had moved even to exterminate our close Jewish neighbors.  

Though I walk and deeply appreciate the traditions of Catholicism, I hold that God’s presence vibrantly lives in diverse religions: Jew, Hindu, Moslem, or Baptist. And best selling religion scholar, Karen Armstrong, has written extensively on this subject of tolerance for the other. She notes the basic truth that abides in all beliefs: LOVE. “Do not do unto others what you would not have done unto you.”   

Perhaps this tolerant love happens only one person at a time. Perhaps, as Yassim shows, it can even be launched at a little high school in Brooklyn.  





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Hail to the Chief

Hail To The Chief

I stand with my husband in our heavy coats. We mingle easily, shoulder-to-shoulder in this sea of people. Barack’s sonorous voice breaks through on nearby speakers as he repeats the sacred words committing him to the care of the country. A deafening cheer sounds. At the final “so help me God” my explosion of tears surprise me. I am not alone: countless mittened hands around me soak up countless tears. Yes, freed at last. Freed from years of dismal crookery, from this free-fall into chronic me-ism. We are renewed, pledged to one another. Or as President Obama put it, “to work alongside you to make your farms flourish, let clean waters flow, to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds.”

Who could have dreamed of such a possibility! An old teary-eyed African-American nearby loudly sums it up: “I have lived to see the day!”

At last we have a leader prepared to really lead. President Barack Hussein Obama gives me back the America my immigrant father believed in, a country of limitless possibility, without torture, without spying, without fear. Constitutionally guaranteed values are about to lead once more. Who could’ve guessed they’d ever be in peril.

I stand on the threshold of an America about to remake itself - yet again. America’s “patchwork of culture and religion” will be all the stronger now. Black and white, Jew, Muslim, Christian, Hindu, nonbeliever: E Pluribus Unum. We are one again, as on stage renowned Jewish-American violinist, Itzhak Perlman joins with celebrated Chinese-American cellist, Yo-Yo Ma to revive the deep call of the Quaker hymn, “Simple Gifts.” The celebration turns mythic.

The energizing myth extended itself into instant enthusiastic communities of citizens. Riding the crowded Metro to the inauguration, I struck up a conversation with a young Jewish mother standing alongside her African-American spouse and their striking 14 year old, curly-headed “Obama” child. When my feet began turning to ice, we bonded even more as Stephanie Weisman bent over to help place tiny warmers inside my shoes. Behind, diamond in her ear, a smiling Indian woman held tight the hand of a young daughter with huge doe-eyes. To our left, a savvy young council member and champion pumpkin chunker from Teaneck New Jersey entertained us with nonstop hilarity. Suddenly he uttered something that propelled me beyond his easy humor: “My life” he said, “has been guided by kind forces.”

Having set out without a chance for tickets, on our flight, we were surprised at meeting Member of Congress John Mica. Before we landed, the legislator graciously arranged for an aide to meet us at the Sam Rayburn Building and hand us tickets. It seemed our new friend’s “kind forces” had us in mind as well.

As the inaugural poem, recited by Poet Elizabeth Alexander echoed over the loudspeaker, we began our trek home. Hoards of street walkers knotted together at a choke point around the metro station, suddenly making it impossible to move in any direction. For the first time in that crowd my husband and I became suddenly aware: if a mob incident were ever to happen, here were all the right conditions. Clinging to Jim, tempted but unwilling to panic, I edged on. The spirit of the man who had just called us to community prevailed and calm remained with us all. Jim and I found our way out. Later, I could well appreciate the press report that not a single person had been arrested, not a single one injured in that record-setting melee.

We’re home now, still digesting the momentous happening. A line I once read came to mind: “A rising tide lifts all boats, and each of us empties his or her own cup into the ocean of spirit.” We know that Obama’s promise cannot be kept without our own work. From where I write, here in Sanford, I aim to pay attention, to learn and do what I can.

Gaza

When Bill Clinton was President, I worked for Mideast peace alongside Jews, Muslims and Christians in Central Florida. We labored together in the Foundation for Mideast Communication. We gathered people of ethnic diversities around tables where we could safely talk, create dialogue and understanding, destroy old myths and hatreds. Arabs heard a Jewish woman share how back in the forties, her family had saved pennies, clothing, anything to welcome the new state of Israel for Holocaust victims. A Palestinian man who had lost his home on that land, now a successful American business man, was moved to understand better what the creation of Israel meant to Jews. Within the gathering, the dialogue continued. This was but one example of how dialogue helps create understanding. Ours was a community of safety releasing enormous pent up feelings.

In those workshops, old attitudes fell away, friendships formed and remained, some even to this day. Dialogue was key. Peace was possible. The Christian Bible, the Koran, and Hebrew Scriptures all led us to dutifully embrace one another, different or not. Joyfully, our work bore fruit.

I am an offshoot of that fruit. As an Arab American, I now have Jewish and Muslim friends. We had met at those tables. We shared beliefs. We grew in the process.

It is hard to know what to write about in this recent Mideast brutality. Words like “Tragic” or “massacre” don’t even come close. American F-16 and Apache helicopters with Israeli markings have dropped over 100 tons of bombs on dozens of locations in the Israeli-occupied Gaza Strip killing over 300 civilians. I want to shout: Stop! Just stop! I can’t look at the computer image of a father weeping desperately over the body of his dead son. It hurts too much.

In his book, The Road to Joy, Thomas Merton, dismayed at our involvement in the Vietnam war, wrote aptly for this current crisis in Gaza:

“In our technological world we have wonderful methods for keeping people alive and wonderful methods for killing them off, and they both go together. We rush in and save lives from tropical diseases, then we come along with napalm and burn up the people we have saved. The net result is more murder, more suffering, more inhumanity. This I know is a caricature, but is it that far from the truth?”

This is no caricature, In the Mideast, at the same time Israeli trucks were bringing in humanitarian supplies for hungry and medically denied Palestinian, their planes were bombing these civilians. Isn’t this a kind of insanity? Is this Merton’s truth repeated? We have wonderful “methods for keeping people alive and wonderful methods for killing them off?’

I am a Jewish ally. I dialogued to honor and uphold the state of Israel. I am torn that the Hamas government has yet to recognize the state of Israel. Yet, Israeli occupation of Palestinians will not encourage the duly elected leadership to recognize Israel while Gaza Palestinians sit easily angered, unable to feed families no matter how hard they work. As long as this continues, neither side will e safe. Have both forgotten the dream for a peaceful homeland?

That Jewish woman mentioned above has started a dialogue right here in Central Florida between Jewish, Muslim and Christian school children. Her project is called the Multi-faith Education Project, HYPERLINK "http://www.multifaitheducationproject.org" www.multifaitheducationproject.org. That’s the constructive kind of peacemaking for which the world cries out.

Remember Jimmy Carter was successful in bringing peace between Egypt and Israel through months of dialogue. He cared. I believe in dialogue. Rather than sending bombs and money to Israel, I encourage America to send peacemakers, young people, a kind of Mideast Peace Corp, to dialogue. We can show the world that we care, that we are so much more than simply a Department of Defense. How about a Department of Peace? It’s not a new idea.

So what can you do? No idle question. Surely there is always something whether it’s letter writing, making a phone call, or simply dialoguing with God about these unfortunate suffering civilians.

Shamed an aspiring entreprenaur

I write what I've heard. A lovely young woman approached me after a talk on money as sacrament. This is what she said: "I had a Catholic upbringing. I can't help but feel guilty as my vitamin business is now making lots of money." We talked further and I heard how her business had grown but anxiety had grown with it. "Being rich means I'm not following the poor Christ." Susan felt isolated, unworthy of an abundant income, and conflicted. Is there not a better way our churches can preach the good gospel about earning money? About having money and the good we can do with it?

Testimonial for Money As Sacrament

Dear reader,

I received this email from a woman who gave me permission to share parts of it. Since I'm still speaking and writing about money issues, I felt her words might encourage you, my reader, to order Money As Sacrament. Like S., I know you won't be sorry.

This is, in part, what S.had to say:

"I want to thank you for writing Money As Sacrament. It was an answer to my prayer. I have been on a spiritual path for many years, probably all my life, although the early years too, in the form of religion - Lutheran and Pentecostal - because my Dad was and now is a retired minister. .... (then)there was a drastic transformation from religion to spirituality which stated in 1990 and now, I feel closer to God than ever before.

... Though unique circumstances, this amazing book became a major turning point of my journey. I am one of six kids and having a minister father and being born in a third world country like Guyana, money was scarce. We grew up in Canada, but still, I felt like Dad was protecting us from the 'evil' of money. ....

I firmly believe God wanted me to change the way I saw and thought of money, stuff I didn't even know I had in me. ... Your book brought all of this to the surface and I was forced to look at myself and tell my own money story, which I did in my journal.

.... So Adele, thank you so much for this book. I will always cherish this time in my life when the transformation was made inside of me. ..... my mantra is now 'money is my friend, and my friend will always be faithful to me.' I own money. Money doesn't own me. I am not scared to be rich anymore and I do not have to make excuses for my wealth. This is good.

With eternal thanks and gratitude,
S.M.

Hatching Lifetimes of Resentments

Women have been hatching lifetimes of bottled up resentments and money quandaries. At money gatherings, I hear their cries with compassion and sadness. “I hate dealing with money. I just don’t fit with it.” One even thought it sinful to want to be rich. Sinful? A single mother was so depressed about a particular money loss that she couldn’t get out of bed for a week.

Okay, so historically, men did the business, woman did the dishes. Yet if we look closely, I make no exaggeration, we women have been money specialists all along. Haven’t we handled thousands of family dollars over the years Haven’t we written checks, received salaries, cashed the checks or deposited them. Haven’t we handed lunch money to our children, cash to our spouses and aging parents. Often, aren’t we’re the ones who pay the taxes, collect unemployment, and most always, the ones to figure out how to squeeze more money from tiny piggy banks. We are far more educated about money than we express.
So dear ladies, not only do we do dishes, we do finances. Not only do we fit in this society but perhaps, we run it. Take heart.

It's All in the Bread

Dropping a piece of bread on the floor raised my young mother’s eyebrows. “Kiss it! she’d say. No matter the kind of bread, no matter the dust on the floor, bread was holy! If we dropped it, we kissed it. We not only kissed it, we touched it to our forehead.
An Arabic custom, bread was not considered ordinary food. Bread was representative of a man’s labor and basic sustenance. Bread was divine a symbol for God, the real nutrient of life. “You must honor bread with complete respect,” Mom would direct.
Mom was the faithful bread baker back in the forties, the kind of bread that most of us now call “Pita Bread.” Although I was only seven, I still see it all: the mixing, the kneading, the baking. Blend flour with water, create the right dough consistency, pull and separate the spongy stuff into small balls, roll each into tiny mounds on the dining room table. “Now, they have to sleep.”
In the Florida heat, the mounds swelled under the additional warmth of an old Army blanket. “It’s like pregnancy. We have to wait until it’s time.” Every few hours, mom escaped clerking in our Orlando 7-11 type grocery store on highway 17-92 to climb upstairs and peek under the blanket at her growing babies until she’d finally smile: “They’re ready”.
Now, she’d pull away the blanket, flatten each of them into circles, turning them like pizza dough. And yes again, a couple of rounds of sleep time until they finally made their way into a 500 degree oven. Sweat like a mini waterfall dripped from her face as she leaned down before the magic oven to pull out each browned loaf with her flat wooden shovel and toss it into a pile on the kitchen table. (I still have that dear flat wooden shovel) We stood by wanting to grab that first warm loaf, to pour real butter all over it and go at savoring the joy.
“Let’s give thanks.” Mama never forgot. Like a yeasting, a waiting, a solemn gathering, we circled for a ritual of thanksgiving. Though panting and sweating, mom retained enough saintly strength to remind us of bread’s deeper force. “If you drop a piece, make sure you kiss it.”
There is a custom in the Catholic Ritual that echos mom’s teaching. If when the priest is giving communion, the holy bread falls to the floor, the priest must pick it up and kiss the sacred bread as well. My mother knew well her ritual, and perhaps under the influence of memory, mom’s practice stemmed from her religion, a Greek Orthodox ritual.
Now, forty years later, I drop a piece of bread, I can’t help myself: I instinctively kiss it and touch it to my forehead and feel an automatic connection to my adored mother. But even more, I instinctively feel linked to something holy.