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Laughter rang out across the grassy acres of the youth church. Teenagers, huddled in groups, giggled into the clear sapphire of the night, journeying their way across the playground to the bonfire. They came together, circling the roaring rage of the red, yellow, and orange beast. The youth leaders gathered the kids, ushering them through the crisp night, herding the strays together. The stars laid out like pin pricks of diamonds above them, the full moon a crown in the sky.


A cluster of kids sat on the picnic table. Two guys sat clowning around, trying to push the other off the table. A girl sat on the table, french braiding another girl's golden satin hair, as she sat on the bench. Several other kids sat on the swings, pumping their feet into the air, trying to see who could go higher. Instead they only rocked the swing set, causing someone to yell over to them to stop. Laughing hard, they bend over at the waist, one even slipping off the swing onto the ground.


Next to the swing set, was a group of lawn chairs. The youth leaders claimed these lawn chairs. Trying to settle the rowdy crowd, they shushed the teenagers up. Finally one of them sat up with his guitar and starting strumming gently, singing softly, "When the music fades, all is stripped away, and I simply come… Longing just to bring, something that's of worth, that will bless your heart…" and slowly the others joined in with him. A soft chorus of voices grew strong and steady, lifting up into the air. A breeze danced past them, carrying their voices to the other side of yard, out into the alley way.


While the youth group sang, a young boy was traveling in the shadows of the night, carrying a heavy package in his heart and his pocket. Deep in his thoughts and troubles, he trudged along, determined to finish this journey soon. His aching body stepped silently, one foot after another, until a soft breeze caressed his soft brown hair, bringing the sweet melody across his ears. " I'll bring you more than a song, for a song in itself is not what you have required. You search much deeper within, through the way things appear, You're looking into my heart… "


Without noticing, he stopped and listened. The breeze tickled his cheeks, and flirted with the branches above. He watched as they swayed back and forth, inviting him to come closer. He took a step closer, still set within the shadows, wandering towards the soft melody of voices. How nice must it be to be so joyful, he thought enviously. What would I give to trade my pain to be happy like them. Still stepping closer, they transitioned to another song. Entranced in the way the breezed danced with the melody of the songs, beckoning him towards the rise of voices.


"Well, I know this life is filled with sorrow. And there are days when the pain just lasts and lasts." The melody carried to his heart, speaking to him, drawing him closer to the crowd. Coming past a curve, through the shadows he spotted the source of the songs. Surprised, he saw a group of kids around a bonfire, some with their hands raised, others with their heads lifted towards the sky. What the hell are they doing? Caught off guard from his original set of thoughts, he curiously snuck his way to a old, wise maple tree that sat further back from the crowd. Under this elderly tree hung a tire swing, in which the young boy sat into. Watching the group of kids and several adults, he sat baffled and puzzled. Observing the youth singing passionately, he wondered what this was all about. A powwow, he thought bitterly.


His heart so heavily burdened, it ached like a set of bricks sagging inside his chest. He leaned forward resting his arms on the top of the tire swing, exhausted yet in wonder.


"Love has come for us all," they sang.


He tilted his head and closed his eyes, thinking of his long journey. Such deep troubles he carried with him. Weary of the abuse, alcoholism, and threats. Tired of the disappointments, drugs, and cold nights on the streets. Exhausted from it all, he ached to reach the end of it all. To his home where the solution awaited for him. Once again he thought, what I would give to trade my sorrows. Not contemplating on it any further, he got up, ready to set on home and achieve some rest.


Just than, the guitarist started strumming a different chord. Along with him strong set of voices arose.


"I'm trading my sorrows, I'm trading my shame. I’m laying them down for the joy of the Lord." Widening his eyes in surprise, he tilted his head and sat back down. Resting his head once again, he just listened. "I'm trading my sickness, I'm trading my pain. I'm laying them down for the joy of the Lord."


Remaining still and silent in his movement and his thoughts, he just listened to them. They sang several more bouts of the song. Falling into the ease of the music, he closed his eyes, relaxed and at peace. In belief that it was because time was closing, he didn't question it.


Finally after some more minutes of singing, the youth leader set down the guitar and stood up speaking.


"That was a great song. How many of you think so? Give me a show of hands if you agree." Several hands meekly went up. "Aww, come on now. That is an amazing thing, and this is all of you that agree? You can trade your sorrows! You can trade your pain! You can take all of your burden and place them in the Lord hands. Is this not truly an amazing thing? Is this song not the truth that we sing? Now give me a raise of hands. Who thinks that that was a great song?"


Raising his hand in an upward motion, he encouraged a show of hands. This time, everyone raised their hands. Smiling in satisfaction, he grabbed his bible.


"Let's open to Psalm 55:22. 'Cast your cares on the Lord and he will sustain you; he will never let the righteous fail.' " He glanced up and looked around.


Meanwhile, the boy sat under the shadows, listening intently, forgetting where he was destined to go.


"Who knows what sustain means? Anyone? It means support, to bear, to hold up… So he will carry you on, he will support you, he will hold you up… He will sustain you… Hold you up. He will not let you fail."


"Now to Matthew 11: 28. 'Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.' He will give you rest from all of your pain. Rest from your troubles. Please turn to 1 Peter 5:7. 'Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.' " Looking around the crowd, the youth leader reread each scripture, emphasizing each word. He will give rest and ease. He will sustain you and not let you fail. He will hold you up when you are weak. This is the magnificence of the Lord. "


"Today we are going to do something different. Today we are going to give up our burdens onto the Lord. The youth leaders will be passing out sheets of paper and a pens. On this piece of paper you will write what it is that you want to lay into the Lord's palms. What is it that you want to give onto Him."


Giving them a moment of silence while passing out strips of paper and pens onto each teen, he prayed softly with them.


"Dear Lord Jesus, Today we are here in your name, ready to move on with you. But first we must be rid of what weighs us down, before we can travel with you. Lord, we give up our troubles and our burdens. We hand our pains onto you, no longer wanting to be burdened of them. Lord, lift the weight from us, and give us peace. In Jesus name we pray, Amen."


Lifting his head, he and the other youth leaders walked around with woven baskets, collecting the strips of paper.


The young man under the wise old maple tree, sat in surprise as the youth leader headed his way. Suddenly knowing what it was that he wanted to give up, he reached into his pocket and grabbed a small thing of cold metal. The youth leader arriving to the tree, handed him a piece of paper and a pen. The boy took it and scribbled two words onto there. Wrapping the small thing of cold metal secretly and delicately in the shadows in the strip of paper, he placed it into the basket. He then got up and shook the youth leader's hand, walking away towards the back alley.


Feeling at ease, he walked home with peace. He wasn't going to home to rest now. In fact he was at rest. Walking in the bright moonlight, he whistled with the breeze, which gently tousled his hair, speaking soothing promises to him.


The youth leader watched the boy walk away. Curious to see what the boy had placed into the basket that had such weight, he picked up the tiny wrapped bundle. Unraveling the paper, he stood in shock as a bullet fell out into his hand… than he read what was written on the paper. "My life."

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After the Tower Comes the Star

Stars can explain art to us.

I mean, think about it. In a thousand years, even at the staggering speed of light, we will never touch the star that twinkles in our eyes. That second star on the right? It's out of reach. We're out of time. That star may well be dead and gone, a champagne supernova or super-massive black hole well past its prime.

So what do we do? We reach out our hands, We grope and grasp at time-lapsed illusions.

Stars would burn us down to less than dust, but we still strive to dance with them. Stars lie far beyond any world we'll ever touch, but we still adorn ourselves in diamonds and feel beautiful. We wish on stars that will never hear our voices. We navigate by stars who do not know our journeys. We strive and innovate to reach the stars that promise nothing more than our own.

Amateur astronomers make terrible investors. Stars are just not practical.

Even so... Without a star? We'd not only have frozen, we'd have never even lived. Stars in the distance give us light. One gives us life. They give us our imaginary answers and a shining moon.

It's only natural to bring them down to earth with us.

Stars, after all, represent hope.

Prompt: a celestial Anonymous 

Anonymous asked you: Write about the stars

Can you see the stars from there, anonymous? Even if you can't, they're up there. Keep going...

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Send me prompts, questions, or review requests!

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To Pray

I. I am four bruises old and praying to the God I was told to believe in. I pray for sunshine, a swing set, and silence. By silence, I mean for the brokenness to stop ringing in my ears. By sunshine, I mean for another day just to know for sure I made it past this one. I’m tired of listening to the ringing in my ears, pretending it’s divine. I pray to make my way down the plastic slide without getting shocked, and for something stronger than a band-aid to heal me.


II. I am three sleepless nights tired and praying to a God I want to believe in. I pray for a kind word, a soft touch, a deep breath. I pray to be strong, but it takes so much more than muscle to win this fight. I pray for the strength to stand up and understand. I pray for a ring that won’t rust in the rain, and one I won’t find kept in my mother’s jewelry box but still echoing in her fingers.


III. I am two poems scrawled and praying to a God I can’t believe in. I pray for a word that will save me. For a bible verse to call my name. A holy ghost to blow me some breath. “God” knows there are plenty of ghosts around here, one of them must be holy. Sanctity is scarce. I pray for peace to let me sleep. The blind believe because they can feel. I close my eyes and hold out what’s left of my faith, but my fingers go numb. I hum songs I call psalms into my palms hoping they count.


IV. I am one scar away from breaking and my reflection says more than genuflection ever could. My fingers are callused from holding on too tight to a god whose grip was slack. I’ve seen Hell, so I know Heaven must be somewhere. I pray that I won’t have to pray. I whisper into my hands, two sweaty palms pressed together, shaking from the silence I’ve kept far too long. The words that escape my lips frost as they hit my lifelines. I pray to hold onto what I have left. I don’t want to be a pray-er anymore, I want to be the prayer.

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I heard a joke today. “You know what they say at an atheist’s funeral? All dressed up and nowhere to go.” I should have been mad but I wasn’t. I can’t ignore that this joke has a point, a truth. Why should an atheist dress up for their own funeral? I don’t have statistics but logically, since it’s a hell of a lot cheaper, I think most would opt for cremation. And atheists, like anyone, want to be respectable and have family obligations. But about that subsection of atheists who don’t give two fucks—why aren’t there more funerals where the body in the coffin is in a clown suit? At least something comfortable. I’m sure this has happened. If I didn’t think I was going anywhere I wouldn’t put on a suit to get there.

As an agnostic, I guess it’s like getting a party invite without a dress code. I’d feel really stupid wearing a pantsuit if my final destination was a swimming pool. Maybe I’ll layer up. Swimsuit on the bottom, jeans and a t-shirt on top of that, and then maybe a dress or a pantsuit. But what if, in the shuffle of Being, it turns out these clothes are permanently fused with my body just like my skin and bones. What if I turn out to be an Angel of the Lord and I have on my swimsuit-t-shirt-and-jeans-pantsuit combo I can’t change out of? Who’s going to think I’m God’s messenger then?

I think being mildly too warm for eternity because of postmortem fashion decisions would be worse than burning in Hell.

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A Sermon to the World’s Religious Leaders (Essay)




I’m an agnostic who’s thought about religion for decades and moderated a religion forum for two years.  After listening to lots of discussion of religion and a fair amount of preaching, it dawned on me that I have a sermon of my own for the world’s religious leaders. So listen up— this lecture has been a lifetime in the making, and may be the only sermon I ever give!

In order for me to join a religion, here are three things I would require.  Any religion that does not meet these criteria has the potential to do more harm than good:



Language is symbolic by nature and is therefore impossible without metaphor.  One can’t understand or interpret religious texts without understanding that some of their message is symbolic.  If you accept the fact that your faith is based on a collection of metaphorical truths, it will remain relevant indefinitely.

On the other hand, if you insist on a literal interpretation of  words spoken or written milennia ago, your faith will become less relevant as the world changes, and will offer comfort and guidance to fewer people as time goes by.


As a matter of fact, most religions tell the same story.  Joseph Campbell’s book The Hero With a Thousand Faces (1949) should have been a wake up call for religious leaders.  In it, Campbell identifies a story (The Hero’s Journey, or monomyth) found in all the world’s spiritual traditions.  The life stories of Osiris, Prometheus, the Buddha, Moses, and Jesus (among others) all follow the monomyth script:

A hero leaves his home and travels to a world where he battles
supernatural forces.  The hero wins a decisive victory and undergoes a real or symbolic death.  He returns home from the underworld with the power to bestow great gifts on his fellow humans.

The monomyth does not discredit religion.  On the contrary, it lends credence to the fact that religions serve as a universal guide and template for human lives.  The Hero’s Journey is a tale of one who, contrary to his instincts, sacrifices himself for others.  Isn’t that what makes us human?


The Abrahamic religions (Judaism, Christianity, and Islam) evolved in a harsh desert environment where nature was often an enemy and tribal cohesion was integral to survival.  Not surprisingly, there is little mention of caring for the earth or its inhabitants in their founders’ words, but plenty about caring for friends and family.

Now that we have “conquered” nature and it no longer presents the threat it once did, we find ourselves worshiping an Abrahamic Creator while simultaneously destroying His creation.

This is changing, and I’m gratified to see leaders of most religious traditions take strong environmental stances. But our spiritual leaders should have been ahead of the curve, not behind it.

Most religions worship an ultimate (often male) creator.  But our direct (proximate) creator is earth, from whose elements we evolved.  If we must worship something or someone, we should include our earth mother.

Copyright 2013 by Ann Marcaida

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Forward Thinking: What Are Our Ethical Responsibilities When Shocking Public Violence Occurs?

Amid the outpouring of blogging that tried to make sense of the Boston Marathon bombing — the tiny core of solid reporting and its vast, coruscating aurora of bloviating punditry and reciprocal finger-pointing — the sanest post I read was Arthur Goldwag’s round-up of “ the people–also driven by personal demons and/or ideology–who are certain that they already know all there is to know.” Goldwag, of course, is a self-taught hate-ologist, a journalist who tracks and reports on the various hermetically-sealed worldviews that pollute public discourse (at their best) and spin out crazy people with grudges and weapons (at their worst.) And for the first part of the post, he catalogs the usual crop of conspiracy theories and predictions that hit the airwaves while doctors in Boston hospitals were still amputating limbs. (If you really want a scorecard to identify those players, go ahead and click on the link above.)

However, what made Goldwag’s post truly helpful, what moved it beyond the usual tuttuttery about “the echo-chamber of the internet and 24/7 news channels”, was his analysis of the ways we often try to squirm away from horrible truth. We find someone to blame — at worst, we blame the victim. We critique the performance of first responders. We decry some tendency of human nature, generally one that is conveniently unfixable. And we distinguish ourselves from the victim(s), pointing out that we are careful, sober, health-conscious, well-organized, ample insurance-carrying paragons of planning ahead.

Goldwag notes: 

All of it is true, none of it is crazy or hateful–but to me it’s revealing that so many people feel the need to broadcast those thoughts out loud. What they are saying, in effect, is that the world is still rational and meaningful, even if terrible things happen from time to time. There is always an explanation; there are never victims, only martyrs or fools, and someone is always to blame. It’s a spontaneous act of theodicy, as if they all want to let God off the hook–and/or to reassure themselves that they are too smart to ever be a victim themselves.

I’m not criticizing the tendency; I’m just noting it. Alex Jones wouldn’t have the megaphone or the resonance that he has if there wasn’t a little bit of him in all of us.

If we take care to distinguish ourselves from the victims, we are even more frantic in our efforts to distance ourselves from the perpetrators of violence. While I hate to pick on Andrew Sullivan, whose writing I admire and who is by no means the worst offender on this score, his series of posts on the subject “Of course it was jihad” pushed most of the buttons remaining in my addled brain. 

His argument is that Islam is warlike because the Prophet led armies, whereas Christianity is peaceful because the Christ of the gospels is a peacemaker. (Notice he says nothing at all of the Christ of Revelations.) Speaking as a Jew, I am always tempted to call for a pox on both those religions’ houses, though, taking history as a whole, I think Islam has been less sanguinary. One wonders if Sullivan has forgotten the Troubles in Northern Ireland or the attempted genocide by (Christian) Serbs in Bosnia, or if he feels that Christianity has completely matured in the past twenty years…

One can only imagine what the New Atheists are saying — I am too easily bored by repetition to follow most of those blogs.

Everyone — Russians, Chechens, Dagestanis, Kyrgystanis, and gods help our education system, even the Czech Republic — have distanced themselves from the Tsarnaev brothers. Cambridge doesn’t want to allow the elder brother to be buried, partly, I’ll admit, for practical reasons. Muslim clerics don’t want to assist with the funeral.

But here’s the problem. While Islam (or religion generally, or ethnic identity, or colonial oppression) may provide the rhetorical fig leaves, the basic psychological mechanism is the universal tendency called “vendetta”. Someone — often a young man whose life is going poorly — adopts the pain and sense of oppression of a group, and acts as self-appointed family hero, revolutionary, freedom fighter, or soldier of God. 

Although the “virus meme” metaphor is overused, I think of vendetta as a bit like shingles. The original infection may be an armed invasion by conquerers or colonizers, sparking an outbreak of resistance and revenge that can be compared to chickenpox. But while the original situation is eventually resolved, seeds of buried resentment build protective cysts in the culture and wait to infect susceptible people. 

Revenge and vendetta are not, at base, religious urges — they may be among the few human customs that pre-date religion. They are responsible for most of the most horrifying examples of inhumanity. A small initial injury can cause cascades of violence, with the level of violence rising from one incident to the next. It is in this context that the lex talionis — an eye (rather than a life or a village) for an eye — was a step forward for justice, despite our disdain for it today. Religions have generally condemned revenge, but have not been notably successful in preventing it.

Revenge is not usually strictly proportionate. “For every one of us you kill, we’ll kill 100 of you” is a pretty common sentiment. Worse, revenge is often taken against someone who is considered somehow equivalent to the original offender, meaning that it targets innocent people. If you doubt that this tendency still continues, ask yourself this: why, after 9/11, did Americans allow themselves to believe the justifications for going to war in Iraq? I submit that it was because immediate revenge was blocked in Tora Bora, but SOMEBODY had to suffer. 

All the bad characteristics of revenge are amplified in vendetta. Vendettas can continue for centuries — remember, for instance, that the Bosnian Serbs were “avenging” offenses that occurred about 800 years earlier. By definition, the perpetrators of the original offense are dead, so vendetta never proceeds against the actual offending parties. And one of the reliable human tendencies is to improve the technology of killing from one generation to the next. (If we are killing tens of people at a time with drone strikes, can’t we expect to see the poisoning of major municipal water supplies or the bombing of huge stadiums in reprisal, twenty or fifty years from now?)

I have a spiritual practice I use to try to avoid distancing myself from either victims or perpetrators of violence. It is a variation on the charnal ground meditations described in the Satipatthana Sutta. We don’t generally have charnal grounds today, but we do have plenty of examples of horrid violence, often with graphic images. I hold it to be a duty to engage with these situations, and their images.

When I am confronted with such things, I focus first on the victims. I remind myself that I am subject to death, subject to injury, subject to illness, subject to the loss of those I love, etc. Nothing separates me from the sufferings of the victims except circumstance. 

When I come to understand this — and practice does, in fact, wear down the barriers to recognizing the facts — then I have every motivation to do what I can to help. Can I help this victim? Can I help other people in similar circumstances? If there is something to be done, that it is possible for me to do, I go ahead and do it. If not, I resolve not to forget. (After all, it might become possible to do something later.)

The second step in my practice is equally important. If there is a perpetrator, I think carefully about them. I remind myself that I am not a fully-enlightened Buddha, and that, therefore, I am subject to delusion, to hatred, to greed. What separates me from the perpetrator is… circumstance. I am fortunate that I have not lived that person’s life. I am motivated to practice toward enlightenment (when I can truly be free of bad inclinations.)

Also, I remember that there is no fixed self, and no immutable character. Yes, there are people genetecially lacking some of the important elements of morality, as psychopaths are lacking empathy. But for the most part, people’s character and moral choices are products of both individual tendencies and cultural norms. (If you doubt that a rotten culture can destroy the morals of ordinary people, I direct you to the scientific work of Philip Zimbardo.) For that reason, I have to do what I can to contribute to a healthy, humane culture.

Obviously, I am not advocating for specifically Buddhist practices. But I offer this example because it is one way of addressing what I feel is our main duty, not only in the aftermath of violence, but at every moment — resisting the tendency to squirm away from unpleasant truth.