SERMONS

I got a letter this week from Shirley Ryberg. I love getting letters from Shirley. I'm never sure if she's writing to disagree with me or offer some new perspective. But she always speaks her mind. And she always does it in a most generous and loving way. This time she was responding to my newsletter column about hate.

Dear Mary Katherine, Stop hate?--by all means. But-where does hate begin? I'm all in favor of "Stop the hate" and hope many join you on October 7. Like marching in a Gay Pride parade, which I did last year and the year before, it is a statement in public of private feeling. I cannot attend on October 7th because I have a regular commitment. But I want to talk about practical ways to stop hate. The October 7th is a nice gesture, but not much more than that. You and I don't come in frequent contact with haters. Or do we? My brother and I have been alienated for several months because of his "righteous" hatred of the Clintons. I live in a hi-rise for the elderly that is populated mostly by "good" Christians, and when I listen in to their conversations, I often hear cruel gossip. Their non-acceptance of diversity is very apparent, and is often just one step this side of hatred.

As he chronicles the changes in our attitude toward one another over the last three or four decades, Mills supposes "that it is futile to argue for social justice on the basis of a broad universalism." That's "universalism" with a small "u." (My spell check was confused.) I would suggest that the loss of a sense of broad universalism is the problem, itself. "Universalism" in this sense is a basic understanding of our shared humanity. An acceptance of our relatedness. And a commitment to affirming the inherent worth and dignity of all people. (I know, you're thinking you just heard this sermon last week and the week before…)

So, Mills supposes universalism is futile. I see where he's coming from in his analysis. Just try to stand up in public and suggest that people deserve civility, or worse, kindness. Just try to challenge those around you when they dismiss (is the current word "dis"?) another person because of race or gender or religion or sexual orientation. You may well be mocked. And then, if you dare, try to engage politically from this "futile" point of view. Try to suggest that we should treat all people with dignity. That we should embrace the "strangers" among us. That we should make a place for people who are poor. I've noticed that the insult used often several years ago, "bleeding heart" has been transformed into something even less flattering. That the name-calling has converted to a kind of accusation. And the plea for civility and kindness is now often interpreted as a conspiracy of some kind.

Try to live out a true compassion for others, a compassionate universalism-if you really manage to live this way toward all creatures, I'm certain you'll be called mad. That's what happened to the barefooted preacher from Assisi whose feast day is celebrated today. The townspeople watched as he recovered, slowly, from the illness that brought him home from the crusades. They saw him, it is told, follow a bird out on the roof so he could hear its song. Then slowly, as he was transformed in his faith, they watched in horror as he abandoned all he had known, all that had meant security, and embraced a life of poverty and compassion for all creatures. The young woman Clare, who would later become a follower of Francis and founder of the Order of the Poor Clares, saw something else in what the others called his madness.

In the movie, "Brother Sun, Sister Moon," it is portrayed in this way: One day when Francis is sitting in a field of flowers just watching the creatures around him, Clare approaches him. "People say you are mad. Do you know they say this?" she asks him. "People said you were fine when you went off to war. Now they think you're mad because you sing like the birds, chase butterflies, and look at flowers. I think they have it backwards."

Not even the church was very welcoming, at first, of his radical message of love. They must have been very frightened of him. It is told that he threw valuable silks and other materials from his father's business out onto the street and then when his father challenged him publicly he took off his clothes right on the streets of his town, handed them to his horrified father, and set off on his work. His message and his method must have made them very uncomfortable. Perhaps they saw their own madness reflected in his madness.

His was a time of terrible hate and violence and greed. But the story of the wolves really captures the approach Francis took to the world around him. It is an apocryphal story, no doubt; its value is in what it stands for. Francis met the wolves of the world with compassion and kindness. He recognized in all creatures their relationship with that which is most holy in the world. In his compassion Francis would inspire the people he met to understand and embrace their own holiness. Then he would reintroduce people. Like the wolf and the people of Gubbio. You thought you knew each other, he might have said, but look again. You've been too much in the habit of fear and hate. Give your heart a new habit-a habit that will awake within you the love of redemption and peace.

What a blessing it is that we have this saint of a man to teach us still. Our violent and hateful and greedy world needs him and his message. "Every hour someone commits a hate crime. Every day eight blacks, three whites, three gays, three Jews and one Latino become hate crime victims. Every week a cross is burned." These statistics come from the Southern Poverty Law Center. In a recently published booklet they also offer good news. "All over the country people are fighting hate. Standing up to hate mongers. Promoting tolerance and inclusion. More often than not, when hate flares up, good erupts, too."

One story from the booklet that I especially liked came under the section "create an alternative." "When the Klan rallied in Madison, Wisconsin, a coalition of ministers organized citizens to spend the day working in minority homes and neighborhoods. Volunteer Judy Dettwiler said she wanted to 'do something constructive and uplifting which would be in opposition to what the Klan stands for. 'So, I'm cleaning cupboards at the Hispanic community center this afternoon. I've never been there, but I'm looking forward to doing something for my community.'"

Then in Paltine, Illinois, when the Klan announced their intention to adopt-a-highway and clean up a stretch of road, "local teenagers flooded City Hall with so many applications that they claimed every inch of highway earmarked for the program and pushed the Klan onto a waiting list. The mayor, Rita Collins responded to their actions by proclaiming: "Truth and love and kindness and caring won out over hate."

The Southern Poverty Law Center suggests ten ways we can fight hate: act, unite, support the victims, do your homework, create an alternative, speak up, lobby leaders, look long range, teach tolerance, dig deeper and understand the complex issues. They offer stories of hope, stories of individuals and communities who are responding decisively to explicit hate language and hate violence.

Shirley Ryberg, in her letter to me, offers another approach. "I don't want to oversimplify, but I think one important place to start is with young mothers. They get blamed for a lot of things-but not by me. How can they turn out well-balanced, responsible children if they themselves have not felt loved, secure, and well-prepared to be mothers? As a society, I have long been convinced that we don't even begin to give enough importance to young mothers. Not sentimental 'honoring!' A child who feels loved and secure during his first years is far less apt to grow up angry. . . . Stop hate?--by all means. But-where does hate begin?"

I really appreciated Shirley's attention to mothers. (And I would add fathers as well.) She is pointing to something we as a society need to change-the way we value and support parents. But she is also pointing beyond that, I think, to a more fundamental change we can make.

Explicit words and acts of violence are, in some senses, only the easy and obvious problems. It is the pervasive nature of hate today that disturbs me. The many examples of hate that we've come to take for granted. That we've come to accept. Last Sunday's New York Times Magazine cover story on hate "What's so Bad About Hate" makes this point. (Thanks to Harry Ransom and Jean Dedman for making sure I saw the piece.) Though the author makes some interesting observations about hate and how it affects us, his overall tone is deeply disturbing. "A free country will always mean a hateful country." That revelation is buried near the end of the article, but it really sums up his message. I don't buy it; and furthermore I think this kind of rhetoric contributes to the problem.

Again, I want to emphasize the importance of all people receiving love and nurture from the very earliest moments of their lives, from their parents and others. Notice the language St. Francis uses. He addresses not only other human beings as brother and sister, but even the sun and the moon. His compassionate universalism is truly universal. His great gift was vision-the gift to see that which is holy in all things, in all creatures, in all people. This kind of universalism is not futile. Indeed, it is the only thing that will save us from ourselves.

Of course there will always be people who practice hate. But our acceptance of their practice amounts to complicity. Our participation in the current culture of meanness solidifies the habit. Our unwillingness to search for the spark of God, the light of holiness that dwells in every person will mean their triumph. It is often not easy to find holiness. On a day to day basis we have co-workers who frustrate us, drivers who cut us off, family members and friends who betray our best interest, and ourselves, as I've said recently, sometimes the hardest place to find that spark is in ourselves.

One of my favorite moments in the movie about Francis was when he and the other brothers were walking through town, looking quite mad, singing something like, "if you want to live life well, go slowly." I took this to mean that if you want to see holiness, go slowly. There seems to me to be a direct relationship between the speed at which we move and our inability to recognize that which is holy. We hear it all the time: slow down, there's too much stress going around, take care of yourself, and on and on. I'm pretty sure St. Francis wouldn't use quite this language. But the example of his simple life of universal compassion ought to be instructive to us in this era of what seems to be a growing acceptance of hate and meanness. Take the time necessary to find the holiness around you. Because hate lasts. Indifference lasts. Love lasts.