JonathanBenz.com

My Spiritual Experience While Protesting Today

I've not been sleeping well for a few weeks. Last night was another such night. The sleep aides aren't really working. When they do work, I wake up the next morning groggy and irritable.

Today I awoke itching for a fight. You know, that underlying feeling of discontent when you just hope that someone will say something really stupid on Facebook, and then you will be justified eviscerating them intellectually. And if you can publicly shame then in the process, even better. That's the kind of mood I woke up in.

 

So I partook in my morning coffee ritual and looked at the morning news. I try daily to watch a little bit of CNN, MSNBC, and Fox. Yes, all three.  I find all of them have glaring biases anymore, and it gives me a good idea of what people are being fed and from which silo they choose to feed--especially when I see them posting polarizing opinions on social media. 

 

After a few minutes of hearing more about Trump than I care to hear in a whole day--both pro and con--I turned it off and got about my day. Having not worked for well over three months, establishing some normal daily routine is essential to keeping my psycho-emotional wellbeing intact.

 

My Friday ritual for a couple of months has been to volunteer delivering meals to New Yorkers who can't get food on their own. I have developed a little community with my Friday volunteers. Most of us lost our jobs during the pandemic. So we share a bit of a trauma-bond. We also are starting to get to know each other better. I look forward to seeing these faces every Friday, including the people who peer behind their doors retrieving the bags of food I leave at their threshold.

 

In times of pandemic and civil unrest, it's good to know your neighbors and even count some of them as friends. We really are all in this together, whether we feel it or not.

 

After I had dropped off my last bag and descended from a three-story walk-up, I was shvitzing from the heavy air. I turned onto Minetta Lane from MacDougal. It was then that I heard the familiar chants: No justice, no peace! Know justice, know peace!

 

I scurried up the block and joined with the march. It was a smaller one than the ones I've seen from my balcony or actually participated with in-person on the street. Perhaps only about fifty people, we were black, brown, white and probably a few other shades in between. Parents were marching with their kids in tow on scooters. Older adults were pushing their bicycles decorated with rainbow streamers and signs calling for police reform.

 

I had left my sign from earlier in the week in my backpack so I pulled it out: No turning back. This group was marching towards my home, both literally and figuratively.

 

That's because the home of my heart has always beat to the rhythm of justice. At the age of fifteen, I was serving in one of the poorest slums of Port-au-Prince, when a Haitian man read my mail. He told me I was a prophet and to always use my voice. It was an inflection moment in my life that I've never forgotten.

 

About ten years ago, a minister visited my home church. She called me out of the congregation and told me that when she thinks of me she thinks of the Fourth Beatitude, "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied." She told me I was called to lead a life of justice, to speak out for the poor and oppressed. And as my brother recently reminded me, what are we called to if anything but to do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly?

 

So how could I not march? How could I not let my voice be heard? How could I not join the throngs of those crying out for justice? For it is goodness and mercy that follow us when our hearts bend towards justice.

 

This particular protest today was not as somber as some of the others. We chanted but we also danced. We celebrated all that Juneteenth meant and means today. We hoped for the realization of emancipation--not just in our hearts--but also emancipation that carries with it actionable policies and equal justice under the law, not just for a privileged, white few.

 

As I neared the end of my portion of the march, I stepped out of the street onto the sidewalk to wipe the sweat from my brow. At that moment, I heard a gruff voice to my left growl, "Mother-f*cker, get out of here with your f*cking bullsh*t." 

 

My head jerked in his direction, and suddenly, this wave of compassion flooded my soul, emerging from I-know-not-where: Sir, bless you. God bless you. My voice was so tender in that moment, even I didn't recognize it. I was surprised by this overwhelming sense of grace.

 

HIs big, burly white frame buckled a little. He backed down and went quiet. My mind immediately went to the words of Dr. King, "Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that."

 

In that moment I felt this profound sense of compassion for man who was cursing us from the sidelines, taunting us from the cheap seats. It's as if the eyes of my heart were opened, and I could see the condition of his soul. I didn't want to curse him in return. He's already living a life full of curses. He didn't need mine. He needed to know we can live from a place of blessing instead of cursing. Maybe I needed to know that too.

 

Now I recognize that there are many people who oppose these protests. I recognize that there are a many good-hearted, sincere, Christian people who even oppose those of us crying out that black lives matter. They find this too political or too extreme or too radical. They discredit the whole movement because agitators spew hate or rioters loot in the streets. Perhaps in discrediting, these naysayers feel more justified about their personal inaction or just don't want to be roused from their seat of comfort.

 

But all I can tell you is that today, I woke up itching for a fight. And after I went out and let my voice be heard, after I proclaimed sight to the blind, liberty to the captives, justice to the oppressed, my heart was softened. My heart was broken and in the best sort of ways. Not just for the systemic racism against black and brown lives, but also for those white souls bound up with prejudice, fear, and hate. I no longer needed to tangle with foes on Facebook. A deeper work of transformation had been accomplished in my heart.

 

A few people have asked me, should I go out and protest? I can't answer that question for you. I can only tell you to listen to the still, small voice within you, pointing you in the direction you should go. Then do your portion, and have faith that good will follow.

 

You may be changed for the good in the process, and in so doing, change the world.

 

 

Corona Diaries: My Re-Discovery of Meaning

The incoming, unpredictable tides shift the sandy grains of my mind. One moment I'm feeling as if I can do this, and a few moments later it's as if the shutdown shutting me down.

Such is my daily grind in recent weeks. I haven't felt like writing, and the creative juices have tasted mostly bitter, if even present at all.

I have had to mind my mood, but most days it feels like my mood is minding me. It's temperamental and petulant, impulsive and unpredictable. Just when I feel like I'm getting a grip, a wave of je ne sais quoi hits me and the relentless tide is pulling me out to stormy seas. And trust me, these seas are rough.

I wonder why I can't get a hold of myself, why I can't navigate these waters. After all, I understand mental health. I have fairly good coping skills and decent spiritual practices. I have dedicated most of my life to helping others navigate difficult times. So why can't I tame these lions roaring in my soul?

I am fairly convinced these lions don't want to be tamed. They prefer to roam my inner savanna, preying on my emotional vulnerability, devouring any mental stability.

Fifty-seven days into stay-at-home I'm basically just as mystified by this experience as I was at the beginning. What is going on? I ask myself. I feel frustrated and cantankerous--and this is on the better days. On the bad ones, keep your distance!

I've self-diagnosed myself with Pandemic Personality Disorder. I'm not sure who I am when I wake up or what day it is.  (To be clear, I lost the day of the week around Day 11, and I'm pretty sure, my solid sense of self around Day 18.)

One's interior world can be a dicey game. It takes exceptional coping skills to bounce back from the barrage of daily Twitter tirades, Facebook rants, media spin, and the mindless malaise that consumes most our days.

Mainly, we've lost our markers. We've lost our syncopated rhythm of life.  We can't gather for holidays, birthday celebrations, dinner parties, religious services, or nights-out-on-the-town. This loss of meaningful interactions is causing our souls to wander and wane.

Interiority longs for meaning, and the normal rites and rituals that produce meaning have been stripped of us. So we feel a profound loss, even though we can't always readily identify exactly what that loss is.

Psychologists call this ambiguous loss, the loss that occurs when we are denied a normal sense of ending, closure or resolve. We search for answers, and they are denied us. The longing and searching that results from ambiguous loss make us very, very weary.

The Irish poet John O'Donohue writes, When weariness becomes gravity, it destroys your natural soul protection. He says we become like Sisyphus of the underworld: condemned to an eternity of rolling the huge boulder up the hill, only to have it slip and come crashing back down, then doomed to repeat it again.

This weight of weariness has chipped against our natural soul protection. That's a big part of what we are feeling. We've lost some of our soul armor. It's been chipped away as the days melt into weeks, the weeks melt into months.

So I've set out to combat said weariness and fortify the walls of my inner castle. I've been giving back where I can: donating to food banks, delivering hot meals to shut-ins, and providing telephonic support to elders who are isolated home alone.

I am meditating more--sometimes with music, other times with a guided podcast.  I'm finishing the stack of unread books on the nightstand that have been beckoning the last year. I continue checking in with family and friends in urban as well as rural areas, because those in the heartland increasingly realize that what has faced us in NYC may now be lying in wait at their doorstep.

All this provides me meaning and the unexpected benefit of getting me out of my head.

In short, I've decided to make myself available--more available for service, support, and hopefully, some substance. Perhaps unlike Sisyphus, I can choose to not push that boulder up the hill. I can put down the weight of weariness by doing something different, creating meaningful moments on days threatened by meaningless. 

Today I awoke with the usual existential dread, but it rolled away as I moved about. Life wasn't as heavy as it was the day before. It awakened with new meaning.

Anxiety in the Age of Corona

The chest tightness triggers anxiety, and the anxiety increases the chest tightness. Spring allergies trigger asthma which triggers sneezing which triggers more anxiety and irrational fears of infection. And so it goes.

Five weeks of stay-at-home and an extension through mid-May does little to alleviate the anxiety, as well as the guilt about my anxiety. I begin to feel like I should be stronger or not feel claustrophobic or be more thankful for how good I have it. I feel that I am in some way weak or ungrateful because I'm not doing this pandemic-thing perfectly.

Well child, none of us are.

Psychologists call this meta-emotion. It's when you feel emotion about your emotion. There's lots of that going around these days. We feel feelings about our feelings. It's layered and nuanced, interconnected and complex. It can be explained on a psychological level, but that certainly doesn't alleviate the unpleasantness.

So I've been working on moving through the feelings, letting them pass over me or me pass through them, whichever makes the most sense in that moment. And I've been working on not judging myself for feeling what I feel. As a friend reminded me last night, Be gentle with yourself.

I needed to get out of my head--get out of my apartment really--so I volunteered. I signed up online and hopped on a mostly empty subway train towards downtown. Approximately twelve volunteers gathered in the Anna Wintour Volunteer Center at God's Love We Deliver. All of us kept our distance from one another, wearing masks, heads buried in our phones, afraid to make too much eye contact because, who really knows how this virus spreads?

We were divided into two groups for meal deliveries to New Yorkers who can't get out to get food on their own. Most people went with the 72nd Street bound volunteers. I grouped with the 42nd Street crew because I knew I could walk home after and avoid the train.

The bags of food were bigger than we expected. We organized the meals with the assigned addresses and one of my delivery partners said in a shaky voice, "I can't take the train." 

But with such weighty bags, it was apparent we would have to. So I helped route our path to get us as quickly as possible to Times Square on the E Train. It would take only about 12 minutes. 

One volunteer had walked 90 minutes from Brooklyn to avoid taking the subway. So getting on this train was going to be a remarkable leap of faith for him. 

But leap on the train we did. We distanced in the middle of the car while a couple of homeless people slept on the other end. One awoke and began to cough violently. You could see the sputum spray through the air to the other side of the car.

One in my group fled to the opposite end of the car, a wild look of terror in his eyes. Our eyes met, and no explanation was needed. He clearly did not want to be infected.  When we got off the train, I assured him we would be above ground very soon.

And then it began.

As we trekked through the long underground corridor, people began to approach us. We were no speedy Meals on Wheels, slogging these clear, plastic bags of food. So it was easy for people to catch up to us.

People asked where we got the food or if they could have some of what we had. One man said he didn't want food, only a warm coat, as it was a cold spring day.

Years earlier I had learned to discern the look of hunger in a person's eyes, through my many experiences in Haiti. When you look deeply into the eyes of someone who is genuinely hungry, you sense both humility and desperation.

On any normal day in New York City, most people begging on the streets are fairly sophisticated in their approach. They hold signs with funny quips or emotional pleas, which often are enough to open the wallets of passing tourists.

These people on this very un-normal day were not that way. There were no clever signs. They carried the recognizable look of desperation, and I knew the hunger and need were genuine. For hunger is the same whether traversing subterranean tunnels of New York City or the back bushes of Haiti.

I delivered my meals, hanging the bag on the doorknob, knocking loud, then backing up six feet. "This is God's Love," we were told to announce to the recipients. If there is such a thing as God's Love, surely it looks like this: human hands serving another human in time of need.

I ventured back towards Time Square and stopped at a friend's locally-owned coffeeshop. I ordered a latte and an additional hot coffee for the cold, homeless man out front, as the barista verified that he was in genuine need.

But I am not so certain his genuineness or lack thereof really matters. Everyone seems to carry a degree of desperation these days, whether a hunger in the belly or a hunger in the soul. Freely giving a hot coffee on a cold day says more about the heart condition of the benefactor than it does the supplicant. For freely we have received, freely we give.

As I walked through an empty Times Square during lunch hour, my senses were once again assaulted by the grim, apocalyptic cityscape that typifies this city these days. My chest was still tight but not quite as anxious, and my emotional state ceased to matter as much as it had before.

 

My Experience from the Epicenter - Saving Grace

Some mornings reality rudely awakens my dreamscape, and the thought of facing the day is more than I can bear. I roll over to my other side in hopes that I can descend back into restful bliss and avoid earth's current doomsday scenario.

And most mornings that doesn't work. So I get up and go ahead with my morning routine because honestly in times like these, routine helps.

Routine hems borders to the frayed edges of my nerves. It provides banks to the river rapids of my soul. Routine brings back some semblance of normal.

Yesterday was such a day. After twenty-seven days at home, my mind had decided to have a mind of its own. The day started dodgy. From brewing the coffee to making the bed, I strained against my simple, morning rituals. 

My psyche was living life on its own terms and did not want to behave. I felt irritable and easily-agitated. Watching the news, looking at my Facebook feed, or listening to the daily White House briefing only served to wind me up more.

So much blame-shifting and finger-pointing and fear-mongering. It seems like stay-at-home orders have turned the world upside down. Or maybe it's just revealed the true nature of our deeper selves, when left to our own electronic devices. 

Either way, this prolonged shutdown of most of the earth's population is giving us time to look at ourselves, our systems, and our solutions in new ways. Some say that innovation comes out of such times. If that's the case, we are in for a windfall of wonders and miracles in the months and years to come, because this has not been easy.

But back to my conflicted mind and heart. I escaped for a walk while keeping physically distant and found myself on a huge boulder in Central Park. For a few moments, I felt grounded on that warm stone while spring sunlight attempted to baptize my wintry sins away.

Bless her heart, Spring really does want us all to bloom.

It's Passover and Holy Week after all. It's supposed to be a season of renewal, a time of rebirth, a moment when the Angel of Death passes by and the plagues don't come near our door. A time when resurrection of lost things occurs when we least expect it.

Spring is hopeful. She doesn't give up. She stretches out our days trusting we will lift our gaze to the sun and come back to life.

So much for that, I thought. I know people who have died just this week, as do many of my friends and family.

Where is light when darkness seems so impenetrable? 

Where is joy when we are faced with such sorrow?

Where is healing when we see so much death?

I mean, what if this goes on through the the end of the year? What if it cycles, spins, and returns for the next flu season? What if it mutates and becomes something stronger, more nefarious in weeks and months to come, all before scientists can develop a vaccine?

The weighty pressure of so much uncertainty bore down on my mind and body. The inner rhythm of my soul was not staying on beat, and try as I might, I couldn't get in sync. I found myself drowning in a deep hole of despair with no ladder to climb my way out.

And then I paused, and took a breath. It didn't immediately silence the questions or the feelings. But it did cause me to question the fear behind them.

You see, we are living through an extraordinary time. And it's more important than ever that we be gentle with ourselves. 

We've never traveled this way before. We don't have all the answers to this pandemic. Science doesn't have a cure yet, and clearly, the Federal Government doesn't either.

If we listen to all the outside voices, our hearts will surely fail. That's why it's important to step back, get quiet, and take perspective. 

Perspective-taking allows me to see the bigger picture and find some empathy for myself and others. It doesn't always come naturally, and I do believe it is a skill that can be developed. Such times are primed for developing new coping skills that allow us to plumb emotional depths with newfound nimbleness, delicacy, and dexterity.

I believe these times call us to become much more compassionate with ourselves and demonstrate graciousness to others because none of us is doing this perfectly, and that's okay.  That means we all have to be nicer to each other if we are going to come through to the other side.

I also believe that a lot of this division and rancor is fueled by great fear and assumptions about the way we think life should go.  And when it doesn't go our way, we get overwhelmed and lash out at other people. Our smart phones make it that much easier because the other person is not standing in front of us. We can say what we want with much more limited consequence.

Perhaps things would look and sound different if just for a moment:

Bernie-supporters were kinder to Biden-supporters, and Biden-supporters were kind to everyone. 

Conservatives would loosen up on their rigid adherence to legalistic standards that puts party over people, and liberals would be less snarky in their rhetoric regarding those on the other side of the aisle.

Media outlets would begin reporting more facts and drop the one-sided political bias.

The President and elected officials would measure their words and work together for all the people, not just their own political tribe.

Fundamentalists would stop declaring God's judgment on everyone else, and the rest of us would stop becoming so emotionally reactive to them because that's exactly what they get off on. It's how they justify their tepid theology and shore up their fragile souls.

Because in times of pandemic, words and deeds must carry with them the balm of healing, not the politics of war. We can debate all this stuff once we aren't losing hundreds of thousands daily to this virus.

It's too much to expect us to grieve the dead and fight the living all at once. Our souls are not equipped to do both right now. We are weary, we are tired, we need a little more time to take all this in and process these enormous life changes that have come.

That's why this starts with me and with you. I am allowed to have a bad day and not beat myself up over it. I am allowed to have a bad day and not beat you up over it. 

I can read a post on social media and not become emotionally reactive just because I feel powerless and alone. I can look at it, give the person a little benefit of the doubt, and move on. I can change the channel or turn off the tv.

I don't have to respond to every contrarian that presents before me. Sometimes, the best response I can give a provocateur is my silence.

This doesn't mean that I give up my strong opinions or that my momentary silence is mistaken for assent. I think it just means we will have more strength to work this stuff out once the death rate falls a little lower.

I believe we would benefit from being more forgiving and less judgmental in these times, especially when it comes to the media, religion, and politics. Or we may just keep devouring ourselves over and over again until we end up broken, bitter people who are alienated from our neighbors, friends, and family. I am not convinced all of the relentless backbiting, name-calling, and over-sensitivity is serving us very well. 

We need to give each other a just little bit more room to be human and to make mistakes, or none of us are getting out of this thing alive. We need lots of grace. In doing so, we just might save ourselves.

If there is anything this virus is teaching us, I think it is that we are all interconnected. The virus doesn't observe political borders nor discriminate solely based on gender, race, sexual orientation, identity, tribe, nation, or creed. So why do we?

It's as if Mother Nature herself is screaming at the human population, calling back her unruly children to their divine nature, reminding us that we really are all One.

Let's begin acting like we really are all in this together because the reality is we are.

Let's be kinder to ourselves and each other because gentleness will heal our tender wounds.

Let's go a little easier on ourselves and each other because compassion will carry us forward.

During my meltdown on the hot rock in Central Park, a friend rang. She lives only across the bridge in Jersey City, but in times like these that might as well be a million miles away. It was good to hear her friendly voice.

She said I had been on her mind and wanted to check in. We began to catch up, giving updates on friends and family. Her call gave me a a much needed moment to reconnect my disjointed parts. We talked about the great suffering humanity is collectively enduring and how the virus doesn't care about our differing perspectives.

She then observed, "It really is all about grace, you know."

Amazing grace. 

Reconciling grace.

Saving grace.

May we all be overcome by this grace, and may we never recover! 

And let it begin with me.

My Experience from the Epicenter

The silence day and night is really only punctuated by the intermittent sound of sirens passing by on Sixth Avenue below. Normally the noise of traffic is so loud it penetrates the re-enforced windows of the apartment. But not the last few weeks.

I also now notice the church bells a few blocks away. They toll on the hour, and on any other day I wouldn't hear them. But now they have become to me a regular reminder to still my soul, silence my mind, and go to that place in my spirit where I find solace.

The streets are eerily quiet, like the photo I took from my balcony mid-afternoon today. When I do go out for groceries, I avoid the few people I see on the street. The only people who do approach me are the homeless or mentally ill who seem more desperate now than in non-pandemic times.

I haven't wanted to put anything in writing about what it's like to live in the heart of Midtown Manhattan in the current epicenter of the pandemic. It feels insensitive and narcissistic to share my experience when I don't know anyone personally who has passed away. Yet.

It's really just a matter of time, I suppose.

So I measure my words, manage my emotion, and stay as focused as possible throughout the day. And I pen these thoughts right now because so many lovely friends and family from across the world have checked in wanting to know how I am doing.

Yesterday I did a mental tally of the people I know personally who have gotten the virus. I stopped counting because it was too overwhelming. There were just too many.

It's likely many more of us--myself included--have been exposed and resolved with little symptoms. At least that's what I hope for. 

My social media feed is filled with accounts of friends and acquaintances who are suffering immeasurably. In between those talking about their own illness--or their friend who died-are the reports of healthcare workers, most of whom I know personally. They share their experiences of vulnerability and courage of being on the front line, working to save lives, fighting for us all. 

As of Thursday, it's been 21 days stay-at-home for me. And while I would like to say this has gotten easier, it really hasn't. The pathos is great. My heart is heavy.

It feels a little like the movie Groundhog Day. Not working takes away the normal markers so that weekdays flow into weekends. I've forgotten the day of the week more than once.

But, this is not Groundhog Day. This is real life. This is the new normal--at least for a few more weeks to come.

I try to stay consistent with my spiritual practice. That is what grounds me. It's where I find my strength to not give into the dark abyss of fear and uncertainty.

When I silence the chatter of my mind, it's as if I can then feel the pain of those suffering throughout NYC. So I breathe in and out, trusting my sighs are sacred and might somehow carry peace and healing to others in need.

The virus teaches me how very much connected the whole world really is.  We are all in this together. No woman or man is an island, even though we practice social distancing and maintain two meters apart.

At this time I'm not overly worried about Ian or myself. He is doing an amazing job in the medical response at Bellevue, fighting this demon on the front line. He is an American hero. An evening doesn't go by that we don't shed some tears when processing our day. We weep for ourselves, for our friends, and for our city. We weep as well for the sick, the suffering, and the dying.

I am mostly concerned about my friends and family across the country, especially in states and regions where the government hasn't responded early enough. I am not convinced that everyone realizes how overwhelming this thing is. And I want them to be prepared for the coming tsunami.

Having said that, I am not sure you can really ever be fully prepared. You say a prayer, take a deep breath, and then go and do your very best.

This is what my Grandpa Benz meant when he would say, "Put legs to your prayers." The Great Depression and World War II taught his generation how to do that. I hope we can learn how to as well.

During this time, I remind myself of my deeply held values, foremost, that all life is sacred and connected. And it is the responsibility of those in positions of authority to enact measures to protect the vulnerable in our society, especially in times of pandemic and national crisis.

It disturbs me when I see this not happening.

I'm angry because some parts of federal and local governments did not do their part early enough to heed the words of scientists, medical doctors, and public health officials who were sounding the alarm.

I'm disgusted that many people were posting online that the mainstream media was sensationalizing the threat.

I'm alarmed that people minimize what is now upon us and compare this to the flu. This is not the flu. 

I'm sad that those sick in hospital can't see the compassionate faces of their care givers due to protective masks.

I'm overwhelmed at the thought that people are dying alone without their loved ones by their side.

I'm shocked that some people can't even go to the morgue to touch their deceased loved one and say goodbye.

I'm beside myself that pastors are holding church services in the name of religious freedom when in reality the are placing people in harm's way. These snake oil salesman misrepresent God and profiteer off their congregations. They abdicate the high calling on their lives.

I'm undone because none of this should be this way. It shouldn't be happening here. But it is.

I trust that as a nation we will take a long moral inventory when this is over and make changes. Because after this, everything must change.

I also humbly recognize that my strong emotion will not change things. For now, it only serves to tie me up in knots of angst and anxiety.

So I choose to let it go and refrain from engaging in online arguments. People often speak from a place of fear, ignorance, or invincibility. It is not my job to correct those with whom I do not have ongoing relationship. Thank goodness for that!

My emotional energy is better served in building up those around me, encouraging those who are in fear, and connecting with those who feel so very alone. 

It's as Governor Cuomo said a few days ago, we need partnership over partisanship.

Because the new patriots are agents of healing, not agents of war.

So I gather together the distressed parts of my soul and remind myself, this is hard but we are in this together. We are not alone.

I lift my gaze and shore up my optimism that we will get through this.

I count my blessings.

I make my gratitude list.

I check in with friends and family.

I choose to be gentle with myself and show compassion to the weak.

I look for the helpers.

When I hear about someone who has died, I say their name out loud, giving witness to the Universe that this person's life matters and they did not die in vain.

And I as hear the screeching of sirens and the tolling of bells, I allow this experience to work something within me greater and deeper than I have experienced before. 

 

 

 

Reclaiming My Voice

I have not written in recent months. Truth be told, I really have not written much in recent years. It’s been a challenge to find my voice. I have lists I’ve made of quotes, inspiration, and wisdom—all waiting to be put to pen and expounded upon. But I’ve lacked the creative juice to make it work.

This is tough because I really do enjoy writing.

There are probably a multitude of reasons for this disconnect. Relocating to NYC nearly three years ago. Transitioning yet again professionally. Building a strong foundation for my relationship. Establishing new relationships. Letting go of affiliations that no longer serve me well. Bringing closure to financial obligations. These kinds of tasks take lots of energy. It’s hard to find the wherewithal to collect ideas and then articulate them in a way that is fresh and engaging.

So I’ve been grappling with this, knowing that there are things inside of me that must find voice. For I believe I am as much responsible for what I don't say as for what I do.

I’m not the only one who sees this about me. Over the last several years multiple people have said to me: When are you going to speak again? When are you going to write again? What are you doing? We miss your voice!

Oh, I’ve spoken at a few conferences and special meetings along the way. I’ve blogged here and there. But I haven’t communicated with the strength, clarity, and consistency of which I’m capable.

About this incapacitation I’ve thought long and hard.

Years ago I had a very successful career in the church world. (I call it my “first career”, my second being my work over the last ten years in the field of addiction and mental health).

I was privileged in my first career to address many congregations, diverse denominations, and even different faith traditions. I was able to build bridges and bring reconciliation to communities that desired it. That work and service carried me to many, many cities, nations, and zones of conflict. Each place I traveled to and each person I met left a deposit within me that I still hold dear.

But I knew I could not be true to who I was and stay in environments that would not receive all of who I was. So I decided to leave those places behind because I could not stand the thought of being duplicitous. I also did not want to risk bringing others down who weren’t ready for me being fully me.  

You see, there are ramifications when we come out of one thing and enter into a new way of life. Not everyone is ready for the change it brings. The empathetic, sensitive part of me realized that. So did the fearful part. I did not want to be judged, condemned or rejected, because I really do love people—even the ones who don’t “get it”.

But the good news is along this journey I’ve picked up many unexpected friends. I’ve listened to the stories of those who have suffered at the hands of family, society, religion, politics, and various systems of injustice and inequity. I’ve stepped in and encouraged and helped to bring transformation where I could do my small part.

But there is still this gnawing desire to speak out, to stand in my truth, to give a voice to the voiceless, to let others know that there are other ways of living than the ineffective, impotent ones they’ve inherited. There really are other fantastic ways to live life.

These better options are what bring me to the life of Rachel Held Evans.

Last Saturday my social media feed began to be filled with the posts of friends who knew her well. I did not know her personally, but I had celebrated her voice for nearly ten years. Her sudden departure has been very jarring for me, her untimely death mystifying to me. I’ve contemplated why voices for justice are cut short, while voices of injustice continue to grow louder in the vitriolic rhetoric that permeates our culture.

Learning of her death has also been an indictment against my personal silence. I think stopped speaking out because I ultimately I couldn’t handle the vitriol, judgmentalism, and criticism that I knew would come my way. I had experienced more than my fair share of judgmental religious folks in my first career and did not care to be on the receiving end of their hell, fire, and brimstone.

I do believe religious people can be some of the meanest on the planet.  They feel their actions and words are those of God so they are justified in whatever they say and do—even if it is illogical, unethical, immoral, or unconscionable. If God’s on your side you can really justify doing anything you want, even if it is harmful to others, right?

Rachel Held Evans spoke out against mean religion, and it cost her. She spoke out for the marginalized and those on the edges. It is said that because of this she had to change publishers, change churches, and find new communities that would receive her. She wrote candidly about her experiences and personal faith. She gave those of us who felt our voices had been snatched away a consistent hope that a different truth and reality could still be realized in today’s world.

I believe in that kind of world. I believe in a world where people are embraced and not just tolerated, where those on the edges are sat at the head of the banquet table, where the misfits, malcontents, and outcasts are accepted for the unique gifts and talents they bring.

When I was fifteen-years-old, I toured the slums of Cite Soleil in Port-au-Prince, Haiti. I helped bring medical aid and food provisions to some of the poorest of the poor in the Western Hemisphere. I experienced extreme injustice and inequality. This impacted me very deeply. I can still recall the stench of disease and death that day.

My Haitian tour guide sat me down at the end of the day on a curb surrounded by rubbish, refuse, and human waste. We talked about the people we had visited and their plight. He looked at me squarely and exclaimed, “Jonathan, how is that you are so young and you speak of things the way you do? You are a prophet!”

The words of Emmanuel stunned me. In the midst of some of humanity’s worst suffering and squalor, I had a spiritual experience. I heard clearly the prophetic challenge being delivered to me, calling me to a higher purpose in life. I have never forgotten that encounter.

So during this season I’m reclaiming my prophetic voice that has always been a part of me. I may politically offend. I may step on religious toes. I may challenge deeply-held beliefs. I may expose prejudices. I probably will do these things because that’s what I do to myself on an ongoing basis in the pursuit of truth, justice, liberty, and equality.

If my thinking is not being challenged, I’m not really growing. And it goes the same for you.

We are not promised a tomorrow. All we have is this present moment. For today, I have breath in me. I’m going to use it.  I will continue to stand for the “other”. I will speak out for the poor, the despised, the outcast, the foreigner, the parentless, the voiceless—until we all come to a place where differences are celebrated, neighbors are loved, captives are set free, the lost are found, and those wandering come safely home.

 

Grief, 5 Months On

My maternal grandmother died just over 5 months ago--on March 10--two days after my birthday.

It was about 5:45 p.m. when the call came. I was looking forward to an enjoyable birthday weekend and saw my dad's number on the iPhone. He rarely calls--let alone at this time--so I knew it couldn't be good news.

Unfortunately, I was right. How I wanted to be wrong.

The weeks and months since have been intense, in spite of starting a new job which is relatively low-stress. This is a welcome respite from working in the behavioral healthcare industry when the phone could ring at any moment with a crisis.

It's been the dreams of her that jar me the most. She's normally in good form, smiling, and looks even more radiant than she did in life, her hair coiffed to perfection and skin smooth and clear. Whether it's how my subconscious chooses to see her or a glimpse into the afterlife matters not to me, it's just good to see her. Then I awake and realize it was just that: a dream.

Also difficult is the occasional void that hits when I least expect. Like a deep, dark chasm swallowing you whole. There's no light of day there, nor goodness. Just existential dread that we all may end up in that black hole separated from the ones we love.

It comes with the desire to pick up the phone to call her and the sudden realization you can't. It comes when you are walking through the store and spy the chocolate chips that remind you of her chocolate chip cake. It comes when someone at work mentions red hair. It comes when you lie in bed at night and the only option is to let the tears carry you into a state of sleepy disconnect. But the feelings indeed do come. They are faithful reminders that she is gone but so, so remembered.

For years I've conducted grief counseling for individuals and groups. I've taught on the subject. I've developed curriculum to help people move through grief. Move through it, not get over it. While I've had grief, I question now if I really helped those individuals as much as I may have thought. Deeper grief gives you a more profound connection to this human experience of impermanence, death, and suffering.

I suppose the greatest impact of the grief has been my inability to write for the last five months. It took my creative voice for a while. I've sat at this computer more than once wanting to compose a post for this blog. I open the laptop to write, and nothing comes.

But gratefully, today isn't the case. The words come. The emotions flow. The heart aches for connection. And I'm okay.

The difference now is that the grief doesn't overtake with such ferocity as before. It may come in again. More than likely it will. But hopefully not with the frequency, intensity, and duration as before.

I'm thinking more these days about the need for rebound. Some call it emotional resilience. I've written and lectured on it. It's that thing that some people possess that allows them to bounce back a little more quickly than others.

I've learned it's an emotional muscle you train. Just as in weightlifting, it only comes after some ripping, stretching, and pain. But it does come.

The pain comes and may even remain just out of sight, but resilience gives you the ability to rebound a little quicker than you did before.

I think that's what my grandmother would want for all of us who miss her so dearly. She'd feel the pain and then get busy with the rebound--probably by baking a chocolate chip cake, calling her nursing home volunteers, checking in with family, or going to the salon and Chik-fil-a with her sister and friends.

May I rebound as well as she did while on this earth.

 

 

Anna Marie Denham 1922-2017

My maternal grandmother died late Friday afternoon peacefully, it appears, after lying down to nap. We called her Momo. This was her moniker of choice as she felt she was too young to be called 'grandma' when grandchildren started coming along. She was not old enough to be a grandmother. (She was roughly my age now when I was born so I can relate to that sentiment.)

I was very blessed to spend the first few years of my life with her and Dado, as my parents lived in the same city. Some of my earliest memories are at their home in their kitchen. Throughout childhood I can remember her being a night owl. Perhaps that's where I get it from. Dado would go to bed and I would crawl in with him, just touching his side, eventually falling asleep listening to him snore while she busied around the house.

That is one of my best memories and when I recall it, I am filled with a sense of warmth, security, and wellbeing. It's important to remember things like that in life. It give us the strength to move on when faced with difficulties unimaginable.

Anna Denham was saintly. I'm not sure I ever heard her speak a negative word about anyone--even when on one occasion she talked about a parishioner in Louisiana who was very ugly to her and my grandfather. She stated the facts about the situation but never spoke against him.

She was slow to speak, and quick to smile. She served willingly and put others first. That's how her faith compelled her to live. And she indeed lived according to her faith.

She would tell me more than once how she came to this faith as a young person through a evangelist that came to her church near Portland, Oregon. This particular female evangelist had been trained through the famed (and somewhat controversial) evangelist and preacher, Aimee Semple McPherson. She talked about going to the altar and having a profound spiritual experience that changed and shaped her life for years to come.

I believe this experience planted seeds in her that a woman can make an impact as a leader, even in the a church world dominated by men in leadership. In my opinion, she was clearly ahead of her times in this regard. Alongside my grandfather many years, she led by example and when necessary, used words for emphasis.

Once I was with my cousins around her kitchen table. I did something naughty (hard to believe I know). She reprimanded me with a surprised tone, "Jonathan Benz". I was devastated. The thought of letting her down was more than I could bear. That was the first and last time that happened.

My grandmother told the Knoxville News Sentinel in 2011 that the West Coast was a "very progressive" place to live. She had wanted to go to college in California but instead met Ed Denham in Kentucky saying, "My education was marrying a minister." Anyone raised in a minister's home can attest to the veracity of that statement.

I think she carried this progressive spirit throughout her life, even when she lived and ministered in places that would be considered "less than". She showed us that people were more important than policies, relationships more important than rules, spirit more important than letter of the law. 

She embodied this spirit of service whether hosting children's radio Bible hours in the 1950s, bringing hope to the poor in Appalachia, ministering to grieving families who lost soldiers in WWII and Vietnam, or ministering to the aged in nursing homes. She once told me that she hoped she would never finish out life with the elderly in a nursing home. "They act so old" and then added laughing, "I'm older than most of them already." She valued an energetic life and in recent months the only lament I overheard was that she couldn't move more quickly and be more active in her day-to-day life.

Over the Holidays, I was in Florida for Christmas. She was making breakfast one morning and asked if I wanted bacon for breakfast. I obliged, in spite of her ever-weakening physical capacity, because I knew that this was a small gesture of love that would in turn bring her great joy. It reminded me of the many times in her kitchen she served me and other family and friends. I believe it's the simple, mundane times that shape us the most profoundly and that we end up longing for most.

I will miss her chocolate chip cake and the late night phone calls. I will miss her red hair (never colored or died, of course).  I will miss her spirit, smile, acceptance, embrace, and always reliable kiss on the cheek.

I will miss her dearly. I already do.

Some Post-Election Thoughts on Gratitude

I recently was invited to share some thoughts on "gratitude during difficult times" at Marble Collegiate Church in NYC. Marble has a rich history in the USA, founded in 1628 as well as the congregation of the great preacher and motivational speaker Norman Vincent Peale. 

Here is some of what I shared. It is helping me post-election as I prepare for Thanksgiving and the Holiday Season. (Please forgive the writing style as this was delivered via spoken word.)

I've been more conscientious recently about living from a place of gratitude. Mostly because this year I transitioned career paths and re-located back to NYC from Fort Lauderdale after being away for 7 years. It's been a big, exciting, thrilling, life change but it hasn't been without struggles along the way. 

Now one would think in my line of work that gratitude would just come naturally to me. I've worked in the religious world plus secular, clinical settings and people for a long while have looked to me for inspiration whether through writing, blogging, or speaking. I've even taught the spiritual practice of gratitude to patients in a residential healthcare setting.

But I've got news: for the most part, gratitude doesn't come naturally to me. I find it more often than not a choice.

I must choose to be grateful. I must choose to celebrate life. I must choose to live life intentionally and not be dictated by the winds of emotion. I'm wired emotionally and I sometimes find myself swept away when circumstances aren't lining up perfectly to my liking.

Emotions are a funny thing. I find they usually are not right or wrong--in a moral sense, that is. They are more markers or indicators of what may or may not be happening on a deeper level within me.

Sometimes emotions might be hormonally-induced and no indicator of outward circumstances at all.

Sometimes I wonder if they are influenced by the alignment of the planets spinning around us, exerting invisible, forceful pressure on us that's way out of our finite control.

I mean, did you see that Supermoon the other night?  Think about it: if the moon controls the tides of the oceans, who's to say that the planets can't also impact us internally? Is there a planet-soul connection to our existence? Boy, that would give me a good scapegoat when I'm in a particularly foul mood. You know, blame it on the moon!

Mostly though, I think emotions may be full-on indicators telling us to change our environment or challenging us to change ourselves. That, my friends, is more easily said than done.

That's why I think choosing to be grateful is so important. A positive affirmation or statement of thanks can help to shift dodgy emotions--especially when we enter the Holiday season and discover that our lives don't necessarily line up with the idyllic Christmas special on the Hallmark Channel.

I have a former colleague who lives this way. She's survived cancer, addiction, and the death of her son. And she would still smile at me when I see her and say, "It's a beautiful day, I'm alive!."

She reminds me that any day I'm alive is a beautiful day. And guess what? Any day that you are alive is a tremendously beautiful one too. That realization doesn't mean I'm going to feel great all the time. But it does mean that when I experience difficulty I can choose hope over despair, gratitude over grumbling, thankfulness over complaints. I've learned my complaints don't change my circumstances, they merely bring me down. And I prefer being up over being down. That's one of the reasons I've enjoyed Marble Church the last several months. When I'm down, the music, worship, and motivational preaching bring me up!

So I remind myself to be grateful. I remind myself to be thankful. Gratitude is the attitude that changes me internally so that I can navigate what's going around me externally. I choose gratitude today.

After all, it's a beautiful day, I'm alive!

And guess what? It's a beautiful day, and you are alive!

"I'm praying God elects my candidate (and so should you)"

My Facebook feed was littered with a lot more political posts than usual this morning.

One was an invitation to join an online prayer meeting to pray that Trump would win. A few posts later was a minister calling for people to pray that Hillary would win.  Right after that was a formerly-religious individual calling for the Religious Right to f-ck off. Then came a very devout Evangelical woman recruiting people to join the Trump Movement promising that God is going to use him bring a new-found freedom to America.

You know it's very important when you need God (and others) to back your cause!

But these diverse posts got me thinking:

• For people who believe that a higher power is involved in national affairs, is God taking sides?
• If prayer really works, then do the prayers for opposing candidates cancel each other out?
• How does someone know that God is actually on their side?
• If one's preferred candidate loses does that mean that evil won and their righteous cause(s) lost?
• Does God even become entangled in the political divisiveness of American society?
• Would God perhaps step back in disgust and have us sort it ourselves?
• For spiritual people, is their well-being and peace centered in the next President or in the meaningful faith they profess?

It's all become quite confusing at times--even disheartening. I don't have the answers to the above questions, but I have lamented with friends our inability to "do unto others as you would have them do unto you".

Do we really dare to "love our neighbors as ourselves" anymore? Or does that only happen after national tragedies?

I'm not sure how prayer plays into getting someone elected but I do know that if prayer doesn't result in a restful, peaceful spirit within me then it probably isn't going to work nationally either.

When we manipulate religion and spirituality to further our political agenda, we are missing the point. Meditation, reflection, contemplation, and prayer are first tools to transform me internally, not to further my agenda of changing others externally. I can't change another, but I can perhaps do the soul-searching work of changing myself and hope that others do the same too.

So I will continue to unfollow some and even unfriend when necessary. I also will thoughtfully consider and engage those with whom I disagree, as long as the tone remains civil and respectful.

I think that's how we become better as a people and as a society: showing kindness to another, one person at a time.

So by all means, share your convictions and vote. And of course, be kind to one another while doing so.