I too ~ not unlike current candidates fighting for your attention & affection ~ have been vilified by many and lived to tell the tale. But, whether I like it or not, the rain falls on the just and the unjust; the fundamentalists of the right and of the left; our friends and foes. So far in this election season, yelling, screaming, insulting, threatening and ridiculing have gotten us where? Representative democracy is a messy experiment. I repeat: experiment. I hope it works, although it does not seem to be growing by leaps and bounds on a global scale. I will not yet abandon civility, discourse, negotiation, respect, acceptance, change, humor and/or the possibility of spiritual transformation.

Tonight I will be at the beautiful, waterfront, Long Island home of my wealthy, die-hard Republican friend watching the debate with a few people across the political spectrum. I am bringing a chilled shaker of Pepto Bismol martinis. I am pleased that we all are patriots who are civil in our discourse, respectful in our differences, and accepting that while our differences aRE significant ~ our similarities are far more numerous. “Enjoy” the debate

God calls me to pray for my “enemies”, which is tough enough. But I do not feel called by God to always risk my own life or well being to rescue people from the consequences of their own stupid decisions. When to turn toward and when to turn away? Time for the Serenity Prayer…

Many people do not seem to know each other very well. In the breakups of everything from childhood friendships to marriages, the reason for the demise often cited is some version of, “He just doesn’t know the real me” or “She doesn’t understand me, and I don’t think she really wants to.” But there is One who knows us, ~ far better than we are known by others, and even far better than we know ourselves ~ even the things we know about ourselves but don’t like. God knows and accepts us. God never arrives and never leaves. God is always for us and with us. God has our back. God is a very real and present source of help in all our joys and sorrows before the cradle and after the grave.

I have read the Bible many times and have found no evidence that Jesus ever took the summer off. Therefore, my philosophy has always been that neither should we. But I am also confident that when the summer breeze wafted over the Sea of Galilee, Jesus took some time off to go swimming, grill some fish, and play Frisbee (or the ancient equivalent).

We should also keep the churches open and ready to welcome and serve because Jesus said, “the poor shall always be with you.” I take “the poor” to include those who cannot afford to go to some exciting vacation by land or sea. And I take “the poor” to include those who are grieving or in poor health and need support at a time when many other persons are at the beach and its “summertime and the livin’ is easy.” And I take “the poor” to include those who feel “poor” if they cannot start their Sunday and their week with one hour of devotion, prayer, music and message.

I really enjoy church in the summer. I enjoy the informality and the lack of fuss. I enjoy listening to soloists or other instrumentalists not on vacation or sabbatical until the week after Labor Day. I even enjoy fine recorded music if that is all there is to offer. I enjoy the intimate setting and the special bond with the Summer Service People. And I really enjoy and feel good knowing that we are “present and accounted for” in case someone needs us.

For the remaining Sundays between now and Labor Day ~ if you cannot physically be in church ~ then continue to be there spiritually, wherever you may wander, wherever you may roam. Pray for your church while you are away. And if indeed you are away somewhere ~ don’t forget that the church is still here “holding up the fort” and that the bills never take a vacation. Let us remember to thank those who keep the church open. And remember to thank God for a full-time Jesus in a summertime season.

“Returning violence for violence multiplies violence ~
adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars.
Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that.
Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”

~ Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

I speak what I am about to say from experience, knowing and accepting that some will differ: In the aftermath of a hate crime or other act of violence that may incite an individual or community to retaliatory violence ~ it is imperative to immediately include all “sides” in the process of seeking justice and healing.

As President Obama said at his press conference in the aftermath of the recent killing of police officers in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, it is important to involve, “People of good will who pledge to work together for the common good ~ that is what we need right now.”

As I mentioned, I speak from experience: Immediately after the 2008 hate crime murder of a person of color, Marcelo Lucero, by a group of seven teenagers from the local high that made national news for weeks~ and even before the funeral that was held at my church, and over which I presided ~ I contacted the families of the perpetrators and invited them to be a part of the community in our anger, grieving and healing process. I did so knowing that that process I invited them to join would undoubtedly send their children to prison. As I had anticipated, their attorneys did not allow them to respond. But I made the sincere gesture anyway. Eventually, after the trials that sent the teenagers to prison (one of them for 25 years), a few of the families responded and a productive, though not always painless or calm, healing process ensued. I did this with the conviction that half of a community cannot heal.

Immediately after the hate crime murder that ripped into the flesh, bones and soul of our community ~ I also reached-out to the police department, (which the Department of Justice later investigated and issued over 100 citations of needed change) ~ and told them that I did not consider the police to be the enemy. Hate was the enemy. I communicated the same conviction and sentiment to the executive levels of our county government.

Not surprisingly, not everyone was in agreement with me. Many persons, especially activists and advocates from the immigrant community, had seen many unreported hate crimes caused in part by the inflammatory rhetoric of elected officials. They had seen the repeated injustice that was tolerated and/or perpetrated by the schools, police, and elected and appointed government officials who were sworn to protect and serve all persons equally.

Shortly after the murder, our church planned an event where alleged victims of hate crimes were invited to come to the church and tell their story (many felt unsafe going to the police), with the assurance that they would not be not be arrested, deported or harassed. Many people involved with planning the event were seething with rage at the police and argued strongly with me against allowing the presence of the police in the church during the telling of alleged hate crimes. Anger, resentment, hate and fear were, as the saying goes, “just beneath the surface” waiting to explode. And explode it did. The potential on the streets for violence initiated by both “sides” of the hate debate was huge.

In the midst of this, I reached out, through a mutual friend, to Nobel Peace Prize winner, Archbishop Desmond Tutu. He had been the convener of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in post-apartheid South Africa. I asked his opinion on my efforts to include the families of the perpetrators, the police, and government officials ~ who many believed were partly responsible for the escalating climate of racism and violence in our community ~ as part of the justice and healing process. Archbishop Tutu wrote me a letter stating that he was praying for the murder victim and his family; for me and my church; for the community at large; and he was praying for those responsible for the murder, as well as for their families. Everyone deserves a seat at the table of justice.

This is not a happy ending story of an angel floating like a feature down from heaven to initiate a group-hug between hate crime victims and hate crime perpetrators. This is, rather, a story about a community brigade passing buckets of water to put out a fire of violence and hate that exploded into flames over seven years ago that sometimes appears to have been extinguished, at least until periodic smoke and embers arise.

My conviction ~ based on an experience of blood, death, hate and hope ~ is that, in immediate and intentional attempts at healing ~ it is possible for a community to go where fear and hate have no dominion over love and peace.

Our healing began with the realization that the worst level of violence, hate and terror is when you allow it to infiltrate your mind and soul and twist you into a version of what you deplore in others. The healing in our imperfect community is based on an experience that has proved, at least to us, that it is possible for a wounded people to seek common ground and to emanate a peace that surpasses all human understanding. All this is made easier when ~ right now ~ we drop the rhetoric that engulfs, inflames and burns us and begin to pass the buckets of water one person unto the other. The price of not doing so is very high. Our cities and our souls appear to be burning. May justice and peace flow down like water.

Many churches are dark six nights a week. However, in one, 24 hour period at the Congregational Church of Patchogue ~ we hosted a Performing Arts Latino Festival comprised of painters from seven countries, five dance troupes, poets, musicians, and a feature length, newly-released, independent Ecuadorian film. We also hosted the New Inlet Chamber Orchestra performance of Carmen, with guest classical guitarist, James Piorkowski. And in that 24 hour period, we also held a simple and serene worship service and baptized three beautiful children. God’s arms are open wide to receive us. May we also open our arms ~ and hearts ~ to receive each other.

Peace & Other Blessings,

Rev. Dwight Lee Wolter

When I was a child, my father asked me to help him move a table. On that table sat a vase that my father’s mother had given him many years ago. It meant a lot to him, so he asked me to be really careful. He picked up one side of the table and I picked up the other. We had to carry the table down only two steps, but in doing so, the table tilted. The vase fell on its side and started rolling off the edge of the table. As I clutched my end of the table, I started saying to myself, “Oh, my gosh! Oh, my gosh!” My father was saying loudly, “Catch it! Catch it!”

The vase rolled off the table and broke on the floor. My father was not happy. But I just couldn’t catch it. I should have put the table down and grabbed the vase before it rolled off!  I could have raised my end of the table as we went down the stairs to keep the table level. I should have taken the vase off the table and put it some place safe before I picked the table up. I must be really stupid, I thought to myself. I fell silent and stood on the stairs, holding the table and avoiding my father’s eyes.

At first my father’s face flushed with anger. But just as quickly, sadness replaced anger as he looked at the broken shards of something precious and irreplaceable. I wanted to put my hands over my eyes but I was still holding on to the table. I wanted to run but I was standing two feet apart from my father with each of us holding an end of a table. I had nowhere to go, and no way to protect myself from the blast of my father’s anger and the shame of causing his sadness that was engulfing me like flames from a dragon’s breath. The vase was broken and it was my fault. My father was not always what you would call a peaceful man, and I could feel his raging wrath was on its way.

We put the table down. My father stood, as if in a photograph, frozen and staring at a broken vase on the floor. I ran and got some glue out of the garage. My father looked on as I ~ kind of ~ fixed the broken vase. But it didn’t look very good. It actually didn’t look even remotely like what it looked like before its tragic fall.

My father watched me in my fear and sadness, as I called myself names out loud and desperately tried to glue the vase together with shaking hands. I looked up at him and said, “I’m sorry, but I fixed it.” My father placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “That’s okay, son, I forgive you.”

My father then took the vase and placed it on the mantle of the fireplace where it has stood for years. Every once in a while I look at that broken vase and think ~ not so much about how I broke it, and not so much about  the  flash of anger in my father’s eyes when I did ~ but I think about how my father forgave me for what I had done. And I wonder if I could have forgiven myself if he had not first forgiven me. Even though the vase is clearly made of pieces poorly glued back together; I do not see a broken vase ~ I see my father’s love and forgiveness.

I believe; I choose to believe that is how God ~ the father, mother and parent of us all ~ feels about us. When we make a mistake and call ourselves names; when we are wracked with shame and anger ~ God is slow to anger and quick to forgive as we try ~ sometimes successfully and sometimes not ~ to mend the broken pieces of our lives.

We Americans don’t have very good memories. We tend to forget people and events as soon as the person is gone or the moment is over. We’re even encouraged to do so by slogans such as “let bygones be bygones.” We say “bye” and then it’s “gone.” But Memorial Day is an attempt to remember fallen soldiers.

But remember that our prayers for peace have been answered many, many times. You could bury a skyscraper in the tickertape that has rained down upon countless cities during countless parades celebrating the “end” of numerous conflicts.

And so let us remember that Memorial Day is not really a day or a weekend. It is a way of life. Let us remember the people who will die as victims of yet another war in yet another distant land.

And so, as we build our memorials, let us place a stone on them in memory of those about to die. And let us pray for a permanent peace that makes it the last stone to be placed on the headstone of war as we beat our swords into plowshares and harvest the fruits of justice, mercy and peace.

In flu season, we avoid shaking hands with each other for fear that we will pass the virus to others, or that others will pass the virus to us. We believe in germs. We believe in viruses. We believe in transmission. We believe in hand sanitizers.

Some people do not participate in “the passing of the peace” because they fear they will inadvertently be passing germs and viruses to each other. They firmly believe they can transmit germs, but do they firmly believe that they can transmit peace?

The passing of peace may not be firmly rooted in science, but it is firmly rooted in faith. When we shake each other’s hand, fist bump, or touch each other’s shoulder and say something as simple and “Peace be with you” ~ we literally pass peace each unto the other. We transmit the virus of peace and we infect each other. And it has a lasting effect.

Imagine if we “passed the peace” before we went to war. Imagine if opposing sides at sporting events passed the peace before the games began. You may say I’m a dreamer. But I’m not the only one.

May the peace of God shine upon you; and out from within you; and bring you… Peace.