Procreation Versus Evolution

We live in the age of Family Values. Beginning in the late 70’s and early 80’s there grew up a large political and social body convinced that families were on the verge of destruction and had to be preserved at all costs. The nuclear family was on the Endangered Species list, threatened by terrifying forces such as single parenthood, abortion rights, feminism and the growing gay rights movement. Quickly, agencies were established to combat these dangers: The Moral Majority, The Eagle Forum, Focus on the Family, Friends of the Family, the Christian Coalition. Each with tens of thousands of followers convinced that we were facing the extinction of the traditional family. And what was the focus of this fear? Who was so susceptible to these outside threats that they became the weak link in the family system? Why, it was Mom, of course! Mothers, those idealized June Cleavers who spent each day cleaning the house and grocery shopping and each afternoon baking cookies for the children returning from school and preparing supper for her man returning from work, were being slowly led astray by dangerous, even deadly new ideas.
When Betty Friedan wrote the Feminine Mystique in 1963, she sent shock-waves through the American culture. Claiming that women actually had abilities and aspirations beyond their kitchen walls was an earth-shattering idea. The only thing more scandalous than talking about the “problem that has no name” was the fact that more and more women were agreeing with her! After decades of being told by religious, educational and familial authorities that their place was in the home; women started to disagree. They gathered together to talk about these disagreements and dreams, and out of this quiet rebellion was born the women’s movement of the 1970’s. The American family would never be the same. The ability to control reproduction, through the use of birth control and the legalization of abortion; expanded benefits for working mothers and even social policy change allowing biracial marriage, single parenthood and eventually in some states gay adoption has radically changed what we mean by the word family. The battle to prevent these choices from becoming socially accepted is one that the religious right has fought for thirty years now, if not longer. Motherhood must be preserved in its accepted form: homebound, joined to a dominant male figurehead (also known as a husband), pregnant or raising children, and submissive to conservative, which in this case means male-dominated, cultural norms and practices. We are seeing this backlash against feminism in many ways, most obvious the recent roll-back of abortion rights in several states, but there is another, far more subtle attack on women occurring today- the debate over creationism versus evolution.
Allow me to digress for a moment. Throughout most of prehistory, the Earth was acknowledged as being conscious, feminine, nurturing…in short, a mother. Most cultures throughout the world viewed earth in this manner and ascribed any number of names to: the Greek Gaia, Roman Demeter, Sumerian Innana, Mesopotamian Astarte, Teutonic Nerthus, Hindu Prthrivi, Maori Raomoko, and even the ancient Hebrew Ashera, were all viewed as the personification of the earth. Women, by extension, were viewed in most of these cultures as the personification of the Goddess. In the Temple of Solomon, the altar of the Earth Mother was placed at the right side of Yahweh and she was worshipped as his bride and consort. This embodiment of feminine divinity coupled with reverence for the sustaining planet existed for millennia. Eventually, as we all know, it ended. Many historians and theologians, such as Marijta Gimbutas and Leonard Shlain, trace the decline in women’s societal status to a corresponding diminishment of the cultural acceptance of the divine earth. As monotheism crept in, and the Earth slowly changed from Goddess to Rock, so did women change from vessels of divine authority to mere receptacles of male progeny: the early ancestor of our modern “barefoot and pregnant” stereotype… Which brings us back to today.
The creation/evolution debate has as much to do with our own perception of women, especially their roles as mothers, as it does to do with science or theology. To deny the cosmic reality of evolution is to deny the autonomy of women both in regards to society and in their own bodies. If we seek to honor and respect our human mothers, those whose bodies knit us together, carried us in safety until we were capable of thriving, nurtured and protected us throughout our lives; we must also recognize the Divine Mother, who carries out those same endeavors on a grander, yet less perceptible scale. I want to tell you a creation story. Close your eyes, if you choose, and imagine this:
Imagine a tiny sphere floating in blackness. Cradled within an infinite womb it is warm, safe, and, as far as it knows, alone. Imagine that sphere starts to feel a pressure, an insistent urge to move. This gentle pressure builds and builds until it explodes in a burst of light and energy, rushed along onto paths unknown. It grows, changing slowing, growing and expanding, protected and nurtured by the same gentle, force, compelling it onward. It first grows in size, large and larger; it expands outward to fill the space around it. (Big Bang) Then it changes, the bones form and harden, the new life grows larger. (Archaeozoic) Stem cells multiply, building blocks of life, capable of becoming any number of new creations, fill in this new space and building up mass in this new creature. (Proterozoic) These cells band together, creating complex new groups, forming organs, muscles, hair and skin. (Paleozoic) Hair develops, and the body grows and its organs begin to function interdependently, fulfilling their roles in ways that compliment and support one another- circulatory system, nervous system, band together and begin to collaborate. (Mesozoic) Finally fully grown, this new entity pushes forth, seeking independence and autonomy in ways as yet undiscovered. It has become its own creature, and although guided and protected by the larger force that has sheltered it while it grew, it now breaks away and declares itself wholly its own. A new life has been created.
If you closed your eyes, now open them. Look around you at the faces of the Mothers in this room. Their eyes are softer, they smile a little. Because they recognize this story from their own histories- from the months of pride and queasiness. From the days spent reading their “What to expect” books. This is the story of every child’s growth and every Mothers journey. This is the story of gestation, a child, cradled in its mothers' womb until the final birthing moment, when this new life breaks away and becomes something unique and aware. This is also the story of evolution, the process by which our own planet has evolved from the time of the Big Bang. Is it any wonder that the ancients saw the mysteries of the Earth within the bodies of their women? Is it any wonder that the fundamentalists of today feel so threatened by evolutionary thought? To acknowledge that we are born of the forces of the Earth means also reclaiming the fact that women are inherently symbols of these forces and thus, deserve honor not just as lower-case mothers, but as representatives of the Divine Mother, the Goddess, the feminine face of God.
But the idea of Planet Earth as Mother doesn’t end with creation. Our planet fulfils the role of Mother to its inhabitants far beyond the point of creation. Dr. James Lovelock first expounded the “Gaia Hypothesis” in the mid-70’s, at the height of the free-thinking era and just before the conservative backlash. Lovelock hypothesized that on some level, the Earth itself had be sentient. That in some way, the planet functioned as a living entity, consciously maintaining the tenuous balance necessary to maintain life. I don’t want to spend too much time on this subject, but to give one example, if our orbit was just a little closer to the sun than it currently is, everything on earth would burn. If it were a little farther, it would be so cold that life could not exist. But somehow, we do exist in a perfect balance, exactly as we need to be. Lovelock theorizes that this could not be maintained without some sort of conscious effort- the Gaia effect. Much like a mother watching over her child, making sure they are safe and protected, the earth itself holds us exactly where we need to be in order to thrive.
This does not mean that anyone who accepts the theory of evolution is automatically a practitioner of Goddess Religions. It does not even mean that they believe in an external deity at all. But it does open a door to people of faith, those who secretly see God with a Mothers face, enabling them to recognize that patterns of oppression that have existed for centuries become null and void once we recognize the power of both planet Earth and mother’s womb. This is part of why the control of reproduction is such a necessity to those who view women from a patriarchal viewpoint. To allow control of the processes of conception and birth is to allow a measure of divine right to women- essentially, authority over creation.
To deny the reality of evolution is to deny the power and autonomy of women. When we recognize mothers on days such as this, it’s important that we not honor them as stereotypes or archetypes, but as the one who created us, who protected us, who sustains us even into adulthood. This further allows us to better appreciate the world around us, seeking to protect and preserve it as we would our mother. James Thackeray said that “Mother is the name for God on the hearts and lips of every child.” It is time that we reclaim the Divine Feminine, within our mothers, within our women and within the very earth itself. The creation/evolution debate is more than a scientific quarrel- it is a battle for hearts of children, the status of femininity, and the direction of our society. When the same debate raged in 1850, after the publication of Darwin’s “The Origin of the Species”, a Unitarian minister named Eleanor Gordon wrote “if all things are really evolving and people are not fallen angels but rather rising souls, then our corporate structure is also designed to reach higher levels. It follows then, that everyone who is a part of this changing universe is a reformer, collaborating with God in the daily process of natural progress.” This is the struggle today: do we view ourselves as capable of becoming more than the fallen creatures that the Religions of the Book hold us out to be? When we look at ourselves or at others, do we see the same hope and potential within that their own mothers see? This is the promise of evolution on the spiritual level- that we are not simply creatures of dust, created by a disapproving, authoritarian Father, willing to disown or even condemn us. Rather, we are the product of a Mothers loving creation and continued hope- capable of rising above our humble beginnings to achieve spiritual significance far beyond what the world expects of us. To recognize that evolution is a form of gestational creation, mimicking or inspiring the processes within our human mothers, is to recognize the potential for Divine Motherhood. And once we view the divine with a feminine face, it becomes easier to see her present in the faces of all mothers, all women. And when we begin to view women as well as men as faces of the divine, then can we begin to create a new paradigm within our religions, our culture and our world.

Our Experiences at Eyes Wide Open in D.C.

We arrived in Washington on Thursday morning and went straight to the William Penn House, the Quaker hostel where we would be staying. After checking in, we took Rory to the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History, since we knew that it was going to be a busy weekend and we wanted to keep our promise to him to see the dinosaur bones. This was great fun and Rory was much impressed with the T-Rex, Triceratops, Stegosaurus, and Allosaurus bones. We also went through the gem room and saw the Hope Diamond, Marie Antoinette’s earrings and some other amazing jewels. After we left the museum, we decided to head over to the National Mall to see if the Eyes Wide Open display had been set up yet. As soon as we left the museum, a torrential downpour of rain began and we were all soaked. We tried standing under a tree for a while, but it wasn’t much bigger than Rob was and provided little actual shelter. We decided to make a break for the Military Families Speak Out (MFSO) tent.
When we arrived, we wandered through the rows of boots in the storm looking for Walters’s boots. His were stiff and brand new, with a laminated tag that read “Specialist Walter B. Howard, 35, Michigan”. Rob struggled to hold himself together and while he was visibly moved, he did not cry…yet. After staying there for a minute, to reflect and let the reality of the exhibit set in, we went to the tent that was being shared by MFSO, Iraq Veterans Against the War (IVAW) and September 11th Families for a Peaceful Tomorrow. There we met Rosemary, the MFSO staffer who’d arranged our scholarship and basically made it possible for us to be there at all. We did our best to dry off and when the rain stopped, we went back to the hostel to rest.
That evening, we received a phone call from Nikki, another MFSO staffer who told us that the candle light vigil had been cancelled due to a tornado watch. Rob, Rory and I left to get dinner at Quiznos, about 7 blocks from the hostel. On the way back, the rains poured down again, and while we’d purchased an umbrella at this point, and a poncho for Rory, we were not prepared for the incredibly bad drainage in D.C. and had to navigate huge (3’ across) streams of water at every curb. It was very difficult for Rory and by the time we got back to the Penn House, we were all soaked to the knees or higher.
Friday morning began our legislative visits. We were supposed to be catching up with Deb Riegal, the new Michigan MFSO chapter coordinator, but we somehow missed each other and so Rob, Rory and I made our way to Sander Levin’s office on our own. In hindsight, I wish that this had been our last stop, because I was very nervous and a little thrown off by having to speak entirely on my own about our concerns about the war. Add in the fact that the legislative aide that we met with was very hostile to our cause and more than a little condescending, and it made for a rough visit. I think that I was the embodiment of the express “speak truth to power…even if your voice shakes” at this office. I stuck close to our talking points; even through I was trembling from the adrenaline and nerves. There was one point, though, when I really feel as if I “got him”. He’d told us that “well, we can’t possibly pull out, because if we do, it’ll be all-out civil war in Iraq!” About five minutes later, I asked him when he did think that we’d be able to leave. One of MFSO’s talking points was the fact that about half a dozen arbitrary milestones had been set for withdrawal, and yet, whenever we reached the specified point, the administration would just set a new milestone. My question to Sander Levin’s aide was simply this: when did he see us leaving? At what point would we finally bring the boys (and girls!) home? He stated that the only way he saw that happening soon was if the situation in Iraq devolved rapidly into civil war, to the point where there would be no reason for us to continue to stay and risk our service personnel’s lives. AHA! I got him!
I said “so what I hear you saying is two things: first, we can’t possibly leave because then civil war is going to break out. And yet, the only way we’ll leave is if civil war erupts. Why then, don’t we speed this up, save some lives, and pull them all out now?” There was nothing he could say to that. As overwhelmed and anxious as I was, Rob and I walked out of that visit feeling pretty good. I decided, however, that I will never vote for Sander Levin again. His willingness to hide behind the argument of “I didn’t vote for the war in the beginning” and yet do absolutely nothing to prevent future deaths is completely unacceptable to me.
We quickly walked across Capitol Hill to Debbie Stabenow’s office, where we met with her Legislative Aide for Military Affairs. He was absolutely wonderful! Very concerned, kind, and receptive. He asked thoughtful questions and expressed a strong (perhaps stronger than his boss) anti-war position. I was so pleased with his responses and involvement that I was better able to exert our positions naturally, confidently and effectively. We were strongly encouraged to make contact with Senator Stabenow when she was in Michigan, and to push her at the local level for a commitment to bringing the troops home now, and to taking care of them when they get here. We were assured that this local action would be met with favorable responses from the Senators office and staff. This had proven to be an exhausting endeavor and we decided to stop for lunch between our 2nd and 3rd visits. Somehow, Deb and her friend chose the same spot to have lunch that we did, and we were able to meet up with Liz, the D.C. chapter coordinator, who decided to come along, so finally we had “reinforcements” for our third visit, this time with Carl Levin’s office.
I have to say, Senator Levin’s office was perhaps the most intimidating, just because, as Rob put it, “he’s Carl FREAKIN’ Levin, man!” His aide was very polite and courteous…and completely detached and non-committal. He listened to our stories for about an hour. Rob and I talked about Walter, why he joined the military, and how the effects of his death reach far beyond the reported casualty statistics that are tracked by the government. Deb spoke eloquently about Secondary Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, and how the children, spouses and parents of deployed personnel are also left with lasting mental heath issues and psychological scars. Liz told the Aide about her boyfriend, and how he was an M.P. in Iraq whose watchtower was set in the middle of a known chemical waste dump. When he questioned his C.O.’s about why the tower was put where it was, the answer they gave him was “because no Iraqi would think that we’d be stupid enough to put a tower in a toxic waste dump- they won’t know we’re there and they wouldn’t be stupid enough to cross the area to get there if they did.” No one cared that the M.P.’s stationed at this particular watchtower were getting severe headaches within 30 minutes of arriving for duty….or dizzy spells within the first hour….or that they were expected to stay there for the duration of their 12 hour shift every day for the length of their deployment. No one provided follow-up care or ran any investigatory medical tests on them when they came home. Much like Agent Orange exposure, this group of M.P.’s probably won’t know for years if they are okay, or if they actually died back there in that watchtower. When Rob heard this, he walked out of the meeting, too overcome with anger and grief to remain.
We spoke extensively about the lack of family support. About how the parents of the fallen are completely disregarded when it comes to the funeral planning or moral support offered by the military. About how the “re-entry” counseling provided to the National Guard and Reserve troops is bare-bones, if it’s offered at all, and is usually provided by a third party contractor with no understanding of military issues. The Aide smiled politely, nodded often, and said very little. When we finally left, I had a sense of catharsis, knowing that even if it made no difference (and the Aide made it clear that it did not) I had at least had the chance to drive home exactly what they were doing to military families and personnel. I decided that my new mantra would be “if I can’t change their minds, I’m going to make them feel guilty for holding the positions that they do.” It seemed to work in Carl Levin’s case.
This was a very, very long way to spend a morning. Rory had been with us the whole time and had been incredibly good. Amazingly good, really. He finally fell asleep in Carl Levin’s office. We decided to do something more touristy and fun. Since Rory’s been obsessed with cemeteries recently, Rob suggested that we make a pilgrimage out to Arlington. We took the tour shuttle around the monument, and saw the Eternal Flame, with John and Jacqueline Kennedy’s graves, the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns, and Bobby Kennedy’s simple, white cross. One thing that occurred to me there was that when other countries accuse us of being “ugly Americans”, it’s not that we’re culturally insensitive…it’s that we’re truly crass, disrespectful and tacky people even at our own sacred sites. This was best highlighted by the woman smoking near the Kennedy’s graves, who threw her cigarette butt on the ground and then gave Rob the evil eye for having the audacity to pick up after her. It was the closest I’ve ever seen Rob come to punching someone in the face.
Saturday was a very busy day. We arrived at the Eyes Wide Open exhibit at 10:00 am, after stopping to have a picture of Walter laminated to attach to his boots. We also brought a rose to lay. I volunteered to help out the American Friends Service Committee as a mediator in case of any counter-protest or altercation. Unfortunately, they’ve had people try to disrupt the silent march/vigils in the past and now plan for such a circumstance. I was given an AFSC t-shirt and volunteer badge and wandered back over to the MFSO staging area. Rory was eager to hang out at the AFSC children’s area, and contributed to their “Children’s Response to War” exhibit by answering the question “What would you do to create a more peaceful world” with “No more world ‘doom’ination.” When asked to draw a picture of what a more peaceful world, he drew an ice cream truck.” The AFSC children’s coordinator asked Rory if he wanted to go with us, or stay and help out with the kids’ area, he elected to stay with the children. At the end of the event, they told us that Rory had helped hand out flyers, carried signs and marched in the children’s contingent. He was such a big help, that they gave him his own volunteers shirt and badge.
Meanwhile, Rob and I had been standing with the MFSO contingent when we saw the Iraq Veterans Against the War assembling. I told Rob to go up with them and he said no, that he didn’t feel as if he belonged with them. “They’re Marines and Army…people who did multiple tours. I’m just a Guardsman.” I told him that he belonged with them and that I wasn’t going to walk with him, so he might as well join IVAW. He went over and I watched as they each shook his hand, patted his back, or hugged him. He was immediately welcomed and accepted. It was wonderful.
The march itself was quiet and uneventful. I made a point of looking in the eyes of those who stood along the perimeter and watched the parade of wounded, killed, and walking dead go by. Many nodded in agreement. No one showed open hostility, and one man stood and clapped loudly as we walked by. One woman was sitting on the lawn with her family having a picnic. As she watched us walk silently by, she sobbed. It was so very emotional. At the end of the silent march, Rob and I saw Cindy Sheehan. I had already walked with her a little ways in the vigil and she had hugged me and asked about Walter. I explained that calling him Rob’s cousin was so inadequate. When Rob approached her, she extended her arms and said “I’m so sorry about your brother.” This was the moment when Rob finally broke down and sobbed. He cried in her arms for what seemed like a very long time as she held him and gently talked to him about how hard the loss is. It was an incredibly powerful moment. It meant the world to Rob and me. A cameraman filmed this entire scene, and I was speechless with disgust- this is the second time that Rob’s mourning has been filmed for public consumption. First at the funeral, and then at the closest thing to a graveside that we have for Walter.
At the end of the walk around the National Mall, there was a time for speakers. Gold Star mothers stood and talked about how the Army told them that their son had been killed by a bullet to the head fired by an insurgent. She later found out that he had stepped on a daisy cutter after his unit was sent at night through a field that had been laid with the landmines by the Air Force earlier that day, without ever being told of their presence. Another mother spoke eloquently of the long wait at the airport, when she arrived to receive her sons’ corpse. Because of military orders forbidding the presence of a flag-draped coffin during daylight hours at a public airport, she was forced to wait all day until night fell; when no other passenger might see the evidence of her loss. One father told us about how he was denied citizenship, even after his son was killed in action fighting in the United States Army. Another spoke of how his son was diagnosed with PTSD and hung himself 17 days after being released from the military hospital that had held him, with no treatment and no follow-up care. This man was especially moving, because he told Nancy Lessin, one of the founders of MFSO, told me later that this man had pulled her aside to tell her what a striking resemblance Rory bore to his son in childhood. He told her “when I see their little boy, it’s almost as if my son is alive again.” I cried when I heard this.
Many of the Iraq veterans spoke. Some told of how they were 100% in favor of the war when they first got over there, and of how their opinions changed when ordered to fire upon unarmed women and children. One went as a combat medic, a non-combatant, and yet many times when being transported from one location to another, had a weapon thrust in his hands and was told to scan the horizon for potential threats. This is a violation of the Geneva Convention. One of the most amazing things that happened on Saturday was the attendance of Richard Pearl, considered to be the Administrations architect of the war. He was the only administration official to stop by and observe the boots exhibit; and the IVAW members “jumped” on him when they saw him. Encircling this man, who’d made the decisions that had affected so many lives so profoundly, they demanded answers to questions that had no been sanitized by carefully controlled press conferences. They demanded a simple answer to a simple question: Did you send us to Iraq for a lie or a mistake? He could not answer them. The exchange went something like this:
“We had all the intelligence indicating WMD’s presented an immediate threat.”
“So it was a mistake”
“No! It was not a mistake!”
“Well then, it was a deliberate lie.”
“No one lied. We had the intelligence.”
“So then, you made a mistake.”
“There were no mistakes. We had the intelligence.”
“Intelligence the CIA told you was incorrect. So it was a lie”
“We did not lie! We had concrete intelligence.”
“Then you made a mistake.”

I still can’t stand this man, and I hold Richard Pearl partially to blame for the 2437 (as of Sunday) military deaths in Iraq thus far; but I will give him credit for this: he had the courage to show up and face those he’d damaged. Only one Congressman attended and not a single Senator showed their face. But Richard Pearl had the fortitude to look at the destruction he’d helped wrought. I know that seems melodramatic, but it’s very, very true.
Finally, Rob and I spoke. Rob stood in front of the 500 or so assembled people (not counting random passersby on the Mall) and took off his sunglasses. He said “I am a veteran of this war. I am still in service today, and I’m not afraid to say so. But I have a question for those sitting in the Capitol Building today. Look at this field, Congress! Look at these boots, Senators! This is your down payment, my President; my Commander in Chief. WHAT HAS IT BOUGHT YOU?” It was an inspired and passionate moment. Usually, I’m the speech crafter in the family, but he took my breath away. I don’t know what I said, but it wasn’t my top form. There was nothing I could say to follow him up. We left not long after that. Rory had been just about as good as he was going to be for one day. He, Rob and I were drained, physically, emotionally and spiritually. We took a breather and went to the Smithsonian American History Museum where we were just able to see the First Ladies exhibit before it closed. That night, we attended a meet and greet/national meeting for MFSO where more stories were shared, along with action plans, initiative ideas and other information. We laughed, cried, hugged and then went home and slept.
Sunday morning we woke at 5:00 am in order to make it to our 8:30 flight. After walking with Rory and all of our luggage the 7 city blocks to the nearest Metro station, we discovered that it was closed and had to walk another 8 city blocks to the next station up. We didn’t get on the train until 7:00 AM and had to run through the airport in order to get to our gate. Upon arriving, we realized that our flight didn’t leave until 11:00, and we finally, after three days of non-stop walking, crying, laughing, caring, talking, debating, educating and peace-making, were able to sit and just enjoy the stillness.

And then we came home.

Immigration Reform Fearmongering

This is a true story of fear and trust. Many, many years ago, in a small frontier town, a wild group of Indians on the war path sent many settlers fleeing to a nearby fort for safety. Their tribal life ruined by the encroaching whites, the native people were desperate to reclaim their rightful homeland. Among to fearful settlers there was one man who, along with his family, decided to trust in a God who said “I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.” They did not have guns or other weapons, but just stayed in their little cabin.

In those days, the door was fastened by a heavy, wooden latch,
Raised from the outside by a thong of deerskin. This latchstring could be pulled in for no admittance. When the string was left out, all who came would be welcome. Trusting in the way of peace, this family left the latchstring out, day and night. One night though, the man began to fear for his wife and family. With a trembling hand, he drew in the latchstring. But, his wife could not sleep and she told her husband that she felt they were not truly trusting to the power of goodwill. The man sighed, knowing his wife was right. He put the latchstring out again. All who came would be welcomed.

Just then, they heard the cries of the Indian braves. Soon, the little cabin was surrounded. Suddenly, the latchstring snapped tight and the latch was raised by an Indian brave, pulling the string from outside. Astounded, the war party saw that the door had been left unlocked. The braves grew quiet. From their window, the family watched as they began to slip away into the woods. But, a tall chief held back and came strolling up to the cabin. He took a long, white feather and fastened it above the door.

There the feather hung, season after season, year after year and the family never again saw the warring Indians. One day, a friendly Indian who could speak English came by and he looked at the feather with a serious expression upon his face. Then, he told the family what it meant: this is the home of a man of peace. Do not harm him. Robs parents came to Michigan from the Ukraine in just after World War One. Refugees from Bolshevism, they settled in Hamtramck and raised five children in hard-working poverty. My own maternal family came from England in the mid-1800’s after migrating there first from Scotland. My father’s parents were migrant workers on farms throughout California. I’m sure most of you gathered here today could share similar stories. We have always prided ourselves on being a nation of immigrants. Regardless of whether we arrived here on the Mayflower, a World War Two coffin ship or through the harsh Arizona desert, the vast majority of our own families came here to escape poverty, oppression, famine or war. America is a country built on the hopes and dreams of far away peoples. This shared heritage is what makes the debate we are currently engaged in as a society at once both frustrating to me personally and vitally important to us all. Timely and vital issues have been raised, from National Security, to the rights of churches to offer humanitarian and charitable aid to anyone in need, but it seems that the basic struggle is with our own human struggle between extending a latch-string and building a wall. It comes down to a simple matter of trust.
But that’s an over-simplification, you say! In this post 9/11 world, trust is not something to be lightly given! We live in a time of imminent danger, war and fear. Let me come back to the story Stefani told earlier. During the mid to late 1800’s, the same could be said for the Settlers and the Native peoples. Both groups believed themselves to be under imminent danger at any moment from a terrifying and utterly foreign enemy. Both groups were mostly correct. Much like today, the Native peoples found themselves attacked by seemingly alien forces: utterly different from them in appearance, dress, and language. Much like today, the Native peoples were victims of Weapons of Mass Destruction- aircraft in our era, smallpox in theirs. Crazy Horse, the famous Sioux chief who defeated General George Custer at Little Big Horn explained their perspective by saying "I was hostile to the white man...We preferred hunting to a life of idleness on our reservations. At times we did not get enough to eat and we were not allowed to hunt. All we wanted was peace and to be let alone. Soldiers came...in the winter..and destroyed our villages. Then Long Hair (Custer) came...They said we massacred him, but he would have done the same to us. Our first impulse was to escape...but we were so hemmed in we had to fight. After that I lived in peace.”
The Settlers ironically felt much the same way. Many families came West seeking a new way out of poverty or a chance to own a parcel of land, something they would never be able to accomplish in the overcrowded, overburdened cities. Yes, they brought their prejudices and Manifest Destiny with them. We cannot forget and should not excuse the injustices the military and militias perpetrated on the Native populations. But we today, who are able to look back over the centuries with a more enlightened eye, cannot forget the cultural context of not just America at that time, but of the world as a whole. We must step outside our modern realities and consider the perspective of a settlement family in the Wild West. For the vast majority of pioneers, they too simply wanted, as Crazy Horse wanted, to live in peace.
Can you imagine the courage it would take for both sides, to leave that latch-string out? The level of trust in the basic goodness of humanity to extend a hand of friendship and welcome even as you know that the night is filled with angry and hostile strangers is astounding even today. Perhaps, most especially today. Much like the family in the legend, we are faced with a choice about whether to leave out our latchstring and place our faith in mankind’s desire for peace; or else build walls both literal and figurative in anticipation of the “others” worst nature. We don’t have forts we can run to when confronted with someone strange and unfamiliar anymore. I believe most of us here would see that to be a good thing. Unitarian Universalists are by their very nature more inclined to embrace the unfamiliar and see what there is to learn from it. We are more accepting of diversity and difference and better able to see the positive contributions rather than focusing on the divisions between ourselves and the outsiders. So what is the role of our community in this age of fear and mistrust?
Our first and most basic course of action is that of changing the language of the debate. Regardless of where each of us falls on the spectrum of the debate, I am confident that we each strive to fulfill our commitment to the inherent worth and dignity of every person, as stated in our UU principles. This means that we strive to set ourselves as role models of peaceful language and discourse as the most direct form of action. When I turn on FOX News, CNN or most talk radio stations; I don’t get a sense of respect for the dignity of the undocumented residents. The term “alien” is most commonly used, a pejorative that most in the community of immigrants both legal and illegal, despise. America has a long history of xenophobia and prejudice, and the term “alien” stems out of these class and race biases. It dehumanizes the other, making them less-than ourselves and easier to view as hostile. Among the definitions of alien are someone who is “strange”, an “outsider”, and of course “from outer space”. The verb form is “to alienate”, which means “To cause to become unresponsive; isolate or dissociate emotionally” or “To cause to become unfriendly or hostile”. Our very language becomes a wall between ourselves and those in our community most affected by this debate. The question of how best to handle undocumented residents will never be settled without cooperation, dialogue and input from both sides. To cause a large segment of the population to be isolated, hostile and unresponsive is not an effective strategy in creating change. History has shown that people most respect laws and policies that they have had a hand in crafting. If we want to reform our immigration policies we must work hand-in-hand with the immigrants themselves, respecting their insights and taking their concerns into consideration. Failure to do so only creates policies that are disregarded and disobeyed. The first step in resolving this crisis is to reframe the dialogue. Words, as we all know, have great power. Rather than defining this debate as between “civilized, rational, human beings” and “uncooperative, strange, hostile aliens”, let us honor the dignity of those we seek discourse with and about and thus extend a hand of peace.
Our Second step as UU’s considering the immigration debate is to reaffirm our common heritage, rather than reinforcing superficial divides. A recent Slate.com article stated that if any individual on the planet were able to trace their genealogy back to the year 1000 B.C., they would discover that they were directly related to every single human being alive at that time. Now, 1000 B.C. is not such a long time ago. So, if you will allow me to get a bit New Agey for a moment, we really are, biologically and genetically, one large family, intermarried for millennia and united by a common ancestry. Not that this argument will carry much weight in the political and economic debate, but it’s important that we realize just how close we are to the Hmong cleaning lady at our office, or to the Columbian gentleman working at our corner store, or to the people sitting right next to us here today. When we can recognize that these people are not alien to us (in every sense of the word) but rather extended cousins; we can start to trust that their motives aren’t much different than ours- peace, security, love and community. When we can begin to trust our extended family in the same manner is which we trust our spouses, siblings and community here; we are then able to discuss solutions that don’t involve building a 700 mile long wall along our Southern border.
But genetics aren’t our only bond. America is a nation crafted out of strongly disparate backgrounds and cultures joined together to make something new and uniquely, well, American. Those of us who grew up with Schoolhouse Rock no doubt remember “lovely Lady Liberty and her book of recipes” and the message reinforced over and over that we are a melting pot of assimilation. Many today are questioning that analogy and comparing our society to tossed salad instead; made up of lots of different and distinct parts that do not blend into one another but rather join together to create something new. The tossed salad analogy has been used by Canadians politicians and by Jesse Jackson to describe North American society, although in some ways I still think that my mother in law has it right when she says America is most aptly described as a fruitcake! Joking aside, it is true that what we consider to be “American” is actually a unique blend of contributions from around the world. Halloween, a holiday considered a thoroughly American event by the world community, was brought here in the 1800’s by Irish and Scottish immigrants and enhanced by Mexican and Native American practices before evolving into its modern form. The more that we as a religious community can remind those around us that our way of life is not threatened by the presence of new voices; but rather enhanced by new perspectives and cultural realities, the more that we will continue to flourish both nationally and globally. When we honor and recognize the dignity and value of the other person, we create a relationship wherein trust can begin to grow.
At this point you’re probably wondering when I’m going to talk about the elephant in the corner. You’re saying “cute story Rob and I agree with you in theory, but we live in a different world now!” and it part, you’re correct. We do have to acknowledge that we live in a time where jobs are scarce and fear is high. We are at war, confronting a faceless enemy in a battle without clear rules. Believe me; I know that better than most. But I have to ask, as a veteran and as a Unitarian; at what point do we acknowledge that we can’t stop the fighting until we stop the hate? Our borders are not secure, that has been proven through government testing and by the sheer number of people entering the U.S. every day. We would be wrong not to ask ourselves “what if?” There comes a point at which we have to acknowledge that we can never do enough to minimize the risk completely. It’s boxing at shadows to think that we will every make our borders completely secure and if and when we do, rest assured, those who truly mean us harm will find another way.
The issue of jobs is an important concern as well, especially in an economy such as Michigan’s. There has been a great deal of talk about “jobs Americans won’t do”. Usually, this is because the wages are below subsistence level, the task is especially dangerous or demeaning, or because the average American is overqualified for the position. US News and World Reports ran an editorial recently stating that the job crisis is not a result of immigration so much as it is an issue of education. Most Americans have at least a Bachelors degree, whereas 50 years ago, the majority of American males completed their education at the High School level. This has caused a crisis in qualifications, where many Americans are overqualified for menial jobs such as housekeeping, dishwashing or fieldwork and yet under qualified for many professional fields such as engineering and medicine. By producing so many bachelors’ level graduates, we have effectively created a nation of middle-managers. The answer, the writer said, was not to limit immigration, or to define jobs as being “beneath” an American worker, but rather to rethink how we educate our population. In the meantime, we must actively work to promote fair labor practices among these low-esteem professions. We must call not for immigration reform, but for better regulation and enforcement of labor laws, especially as they relate to hourly wages and worker protections. Once again, we are re-framing the debate, restoring the dignity of low-esteem workers and promoting change that creates equitable change without isolating populations.
So the question then, becomes one of social justice. Are we really protecting ourselves from terrorism when we suggest making it a felony for churches and charities to leave water in the desert, or offer food and housing to a hungry migrant family? Is it truly a benefit to our economy to have millions of undocumented workers wages that don’t allow them to be self-sufficient? At what point does the balance shift from protecting ourselves to harming others? And is that harm ever justified? Albert Einstein said “In matters of truth and justice, there is no difference between large and small problems, for issues concerning the treatment of people are all the same.” There is no issue that better defines this than that of immigration, a debate as large as our economy and as small as one child crossing the Rio Grande on his mothers back. But in these times when many options seem right, often for very different reasons, Einstein had the best barometer: how does the issue concern the treatment of people? Are we placing the abstracts of fear, pride and mistrust over the cold reality of people’s lives? Are our actions as a nation in keeping with the principles we espouse, those of dignity, justice, compassion and equality? When we enact policy at the national level through legal reforms or take action at the local level through groups such as La Raza Unida and the Minute Men, are we keeping the greater interdependence of humanity in mind?
In closing, let us stand together as liberal people of conscious, committing ourselves to working for peaceful reform that preserves the dignity of our family worldwide and protects the values of inclusiveness and equality that America was founded upon. Let us act as role models in our community, re-framing the language of the debate and calling others on their own use of slander and slang. Let us actively strive for social justice and policy that acts not to isolate and persecute an already minimized population, but rather positive change that benefits everyone, regardless of their class, background or status. Let us work to resolve these difficult issues not by isolating ourselves in fear, bolting our door with heavy wooden beams, but by leaving out our latchstrings and hang the peace feather, trusting in the goodwill of mankind and the rational logic of those most affected to resolve these issues collectively and with respect.

An Army of One

I have been married for eight years. My husband Rob, a civilian technician in the Air National Guard (a position I like to describe as “just like Active Duty!!...with none of the benefits”) has served in three war zones since September 11th, 2001. But thankfully, I had never had to attend a military funeral until recently when we lost a family member to an IED outside of Ashraf, Iraq. Corporal Walter Howard was more brother than cousin to Rob. They grew up across the street from each other, went to the same schools from kindergarten through high school and participated in Civil Air Patrol together. Walt was the one who beat Rob up on a regular basis- and defended him should anyone else attempt to do the same. The loss, as all are in these circumstances, was unexpected and devastating. But what I’ve been thinking about isn’t Walt, who has been eulogized so beautifully over the past few weeks; or even Rob, who had been slated to return to Iraq in the very near future. My thoughts have been on Jamie, Walt’s wife of only two years…and myself.
In my research, I found a lot of writings on military wives, most of it saccharine sweet and full of the same kind of “support” that usually results in the affixation of a magnetic ribbon to one’s SUV. To be fair, there were many eloquent words written by wives themselves, much describing how devoted they are to being a support team back at home for their beloved who has been so often far away in recent years. I do not fit neatly into either category. I am a military wife adamantly against the war, who sits powerless and heartbroken as she waits for this time of rash aggression and foolhardy attempts at diplomacy to be over. I am reminded every day that the fate of my husband and my family lies in the hands of an administration run by people I personally wouldn’t trust with a pet rock. I feel powerless. Most military wives feel this way at one point or another- usually more often than any of us would care to admit. We are not angels of patriotism, tying ribbons around trees and baking homemade cookies while we wait for “our men” to return to us. Most wives that I have known are grateful simply for surviving the day without fixating on the terror of not knowing where he is…if he’s safe…what the day (or worse, the night) will bring. We often become more isolated, cutting ourselves off from friends because we don’t have the energy, or the childcare, or because it’s awkward to participate in “couples” activities when our own spouse exists in circumstances very different from hat most of our social circle can comprehend. We experience a jolt of terror whenever a car we don’t recognize parks in front of the house or uses our driveway to turn around…always afraid that it might be bearing an officer, a chaplain, and the end of the world.
The night we heard about Walter’s death, my husband left the house to be alone, to process, to grieve. I remained huddled on the couch, sobbing uncontrollably- it wasn’t about Walt really; it was the closest I’ve ever come to my own worst case scenario and the proximity to tragedy terrified me. At the funeral, I was transfixed by Jamie- the beauty of her composure and her grief. It was like watching my own life unfold in an alternate universe: it could just have easily been my Rob and her Walt. There is no logic, no safety, no respite in was. “There but for the grace of…” I was overwhelmed by the interchangeability of it all. If Rob were killed, it would’ve been the same six men in the honor guard, the same Chaplain wearing the same black stole. The same twenty-one rounds fired into the same blue sky. The same flag carefully folded into the same stiff triangle. The same empty shell casings tucked inside. The same words spoken by the same officer kneeling before me on the same knee. As we gathered to mourn Walter’s life, the military ceremony only reinforced the anonymity of all the lives so needlessly lost in this conflict. So many taken from us that we don’t even hear their names on the television anymore, the way we did at the start of the war when each combat death was treated as an unexpected shock by the national news.
My husband has often accused me of not supporting his career since Walt’s death. He says that I hate his job and that he thinks I’d be happier if he’d never enlisted. I tell him that he’s right. Any loving wife is going to have serious issues with a career field that puts her husband in immediate danger. Any supportive partner is going to worry and pray and yes, at times of weakness even beg them not to go. The ceaseless fear and the strain of constant worry that the military wife endures is its own form of combat. But I am proud of what he does. The military and those who choose to live within its world have made unimaginable sacrifices to protect and defend our nation. And our nation is worth defending. I question the leadership often and the purposes for which they choose to exploit the military and I’ve even questioned the motivation for Rob’s enlistment at seventeen and that very crucial “half”. But I don’t question why he serves. I am proud of the uniform he wears, even as it terrifies me with its symbolism. I am proud of his service overseas and hate it when he leaves; yet I am never prouder than when he returns from a vital mission accomplished.
There was a moment at Walt’s funeral when the flag that had draped the casket was being folded by the honor guard and all those in military service stood at attention and saluted. Rob was so stricken with grief that his whole body shook with sobs. My father in law, himself a veteran, stepped up behind him and gently placed his hand beneath Rob’s elbow to support him in maintaining his salute of Walter, his fallen brother in so many senses of the word. It was a moment breathtaking in its agony. In that moment, my eyes met Jamie’s across the coffin that cradled the father of her fifteen-month-old daughter and I recognized that the sacrifices we as military wives are asked to make are never fair and are nearly unbearable. But only those who are capable of leading the life of a military spouse are strong enough to see that life end. I am not a good military wife: I am worried and selfish and too often come across as anti-military because of my personal views on the war. But many others in this unusual sorority would admit the same if asked. We are all flawed, we are often angry and we are always fearful- but if we are anything, we are strong.

Religion in the Military

This is something I wrote several months ago that was published in Air Force Times: “If I had my way, you people wouldn’t even exist here.” Those were the words that an Army wife and I heard when we introduced ourselves to our base Chaplain and offered to serve as points of contact for other minority-faith believers. Both of our families are Pagan (or as it is misspelled on my husbands dog-tags “Pagen”), an umbrella term for several religious traditions that revere nature as a Divine Revelation and view Deity/God as both Father and Mother. We’re used to being misunderstood- my own mother feels squeamish about the word “Pagan”, which actually comes from the Latin root “paganus” meaning country-dweller. But much like Buddhists, Muslims, Sikhs and Hindus, we are present in the military today and our numbers are increasing.
Unfortunately, this response was neither unusual nor completely unexpected. The military is traditionally a very conservative environment and the idea of being dramatically different often does not set well with the rank and file. In Iraq, my husband was bombarded with bootlegged copies of “The Passion of the Christ” by well-meaning Christians who saw no irony whatsoever in using stolen copies of the Easter story as an evangelistic tool. While it’s true that there are no atheists in foxholes, there are very often Hermetics, Agnostics and Unitarians. Everyone is entitled to honor and serve God/dess in whatever way they are called to do so; but it does take a toll on individual morale when it seems as if everyone around you feels compelled to serve their god by “saving” you.
Admittedly, many Chaplains today are becoming more aware of the diverse nature of the personnel they are charged to serve. In some ways this is a great change, since it encourages them to broaden their depth of understanding when it comes to smaller, perhaps less-traditional faiths. There has also been a backlash amongst chaplains and fundamentalist politicians who advocate a policy of what I see as religious intolerance through First Amendment protection. Their approach is to claim that requiring military personnel to curb evangelistic activities or to refrain from voicing their disbelief in (or in some cases disrespect for) other faiths constitutes an unfair restriction on freedom of religion. It is my belief that when a minister makes the decision to accept a call to serve such a diverse flock as that of any military unit, they must be comfortable with the idea that not everyone there will practice their brand of religion and be willing to minister to the needs of the troops, regardless of their private practices. If this is contradictory to their faith and they want a community that is entirely consistent with their own doctrine, then perhaps they would be better off serving a church of their denomination rather than a combat unit.
It is difficult to serve in the military today, heartbreaking to be a military spouse and traumatic to be a military child, especially in a time of war. Every soldier hopes that they will never have to leave their families behind to worry and wait while they once again don Kevlar and take up arms. Whether they are Baptist or Wiccan, a practicing Santero or a devout Jew, they each pray for a lasting peace. It should not matter what we envision in our minds when we pray and the last concern on the battlefield should be trying to convince each other that ones spirituality is flawed or evil. Faith is what transforms a soldier into a Warrior. Spirituality gives a higher purpose and a comfort to the family members left behind. It is time that we stop debating whose religion is scripturally true or politically valid and simply recognize one another as honorable people of faith. For Pagans, the idea of trying to “convert” or “witness” is doctrinally prohibited and is usually seen as offensive and rude. For others, evangelism is a vital part of their religious practice. These differences should not take precedence over the mutual support of brothers and sisters in arms working together to complete their mission. Battlefield evangelism and spiritual isolation at home hurts morale and diminishes retention. To this end, it is my hope that we can each act according to the wise suggestion of Keteri Mitchell who wrote “Our first task when approaching another religion is to take off our shoes. Otherwise, we may step on something holy and forget that God has been there long before our arrival.”

Welcome to my Nightmare

So, the subject line here isn't very creative, but it's the most accurate and realistic one I could think of at the moment. This is a journal of my life an ardent pacifist military wife. A life of worry, conflict and contradiction. "Pacifism is being willing to acknowledge our own capacity for violence and to struggle against it every single day; in much the same way that an alcoholic fights every day not to take that drink. Pacifism is nothing less than a series of choices make every day, every hour, every minute to resist our violences and reject our privledges." This is my piss-poor paraphrasing of a Utah Phillips-quoting-Amon Hennessy quote. But it explains my mindset and my choices and my name for this blog. I hope you come along with me...