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by Patrick David Heery
For nearly five years, once every month on a Saturday morning in Louisville (where I used to live), I wiped the sleep from my eyes, grabbed my hiking gear, and met up with a small group of people hungry for God’s voice. Crushed by the noise of work and life and by the chatter of our minds, we went to the woods to see if we could find there some sanctuary, built of oak and pond and bird song. Beginning with a devotional—perhaps a Mary Oliver poem or a Psalm—we walked in silence, doing our best to listen. To listen not only to the crunch of leaves beneath our boots or to the low hum of the frogs, but also to some word we required that day, a buried word that might heal or unsettle or even, perhaps, commission.

Every time, I felt a rare buoyancy come over me, like a door being opened and a burden lifted.

Ann Deibert, co-pastor of Central Presbyterian Church in Louisville, began these contemplative group hikes as a spiritual discipline, while she was studying for her doctorate in spiritual care. I was hooked the moment my foot hit the path. It was everything I wanted: God, nature, physical exercise, quiet, and friendship. My wife and I can track our relationship by those hikes—the very first hike was one of our earliest dates. Soon I became a co-leader of the hikes, partnering with the Sierra Club, a grassroots environmental and hiking organization.

That partnership created a truly ecumenical, and even interfaith, experience, bringing together Catholics, Jews, Buddhists, and Protestants of all stripes—as well as those who identify as spiritual but not religious (people who crave a deeper connection but may be skeptical of the institutions built around that connection).

The result admittedly wasn’t always profound. Sometimes it was just really cold or rainy. Often I’d end up thinking about the day’s agenda or how best to avoid the protruding roots on the path. And yet, through it all, friendships were formed, vulnerabilities were shared, and people generally left with a bigger smile than they had arrived with. One woman walked in prayer for her son and his struggle with addiction. Another was grieving the death of his brother. Most of us were just glad for the fresh air and good earth.

I’ll be honest, though: when that alarm first went off in the morning, I’d usually grumble, “I don’t want to go.” I would feel tired from the week, and doing something as radically different and intentional as hiking with others in meditative silence sounded exhausting. Combating the clutter with the noise of Netflix or Facebook always seemed so much easier.

Inevitably, I forced myself to go (just as many force themselves to go to worship on Sunday morning). And each time—as a testament to my inability to learn—I was surprised by just how free, rested, and energized I felt. God’s grace always found me there in the woods, sliding the burdens from my shoulders.

All that I ever needed to do, it turns out, was just go. God took care of the rest. It’s true Sunday morning. And it’s true for these hikes.

This month, you’ll have a chance to go too. Westminster Presbyterian Church will now be offering monthly contemplative hikes for anyone who wants to get outdoors, find a break from the commotion of life, and reconnect with their body and soul. It’s perfect for the churchgoer longing for a deeper spiritual life—and for the person who is wary of church and formal worship but is looking for something more in their lives.

Our first hike will be Saturday, August 19, from 10 am to 12 pm, at Fillmore Glen State Park in Moravia. Anyone is welcome to join us. Spending part of the hike in silence and part in conversation, we’ll find renewal as we become more mindful of our bodies, our thoughts, and the soil beneath our feet. There is no cost (besides the park entrance fee). RSVP is required, and you can reach out to me at 315-253-3331 or pastor@westminsterauburn.org.
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Trust me. We do not pull ourselves out of bed and sacrifice the noise in order to live reduced lives. We choose the silence so that we can live fuller lives. To quote poet Wendell Berry, “Best of any song is bird song in the quiet, but first you must have the quiet.” The same is true for God’s song.

by Jill Fandrich
What does the word “missionary” bring to mind? Perhaps the naïve, culturally insensitive young evangelists fromBook of Mormon? Or the severe, paternalistic ministers with tales of converting heathens in Java? Well, modern missionaries are nothing like that. In fact, in many Christian traditions, they’re not even called missionaries anymore.

The denomination to which I belong, the Presbyterian Church (USA), has “mission co-workers” who carry out God’s call for faithful and effective mission. The title reflects a significant difference in how we perceive world mission.  Presbyterians believe we are called to mission through the discipline of partnership. World mission addresses the root causes of some of the most pervasive problems in the world- poverty alleviation and reconciliation in cultures of violence- by working alongside people in their own communities. It also feeds spiritual as well as physical hunger in the sharing of God’s love.

This month, we have a unique opportunity to meet two mission co-workers who are visiting CNY to give a first-hand account of their work in Zambia. Charles and Melissa Johnson are Presbyterian elders from San Antonio, TX. They are serving in Zambia at the invitation of the Church of Central Africa Presbyterian (CCAP), Zambia Synod.

Charles and Melissa’s devotion to world mission was shaped from their personal experiences, struggles, and joys. Most significant was the life and death of their severely disabled son Holden. Following Holden’s death, they were compelled to answer a call to serve God by helping others, having themselves felt God’s presence through the most difficult of times, largely through the hearts and hands of others. They began their mission work with several short-term trips to Vietnam, Peru, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo, after which they felt drawn to full-time mission service in Africa.

Their professional background includes Charles’ work for 21 years as the president of an agribusiness in Texas and Melissa’s work as an advocate for children with special needs in the health care and educational arenas. They bring this experience to their work in Zambia, where Charles is focused on two agricultural-related activities. The first consists of efforts to develop an agricultural income-generating activity (farming for profit). Funds generated are used to reinvest in the AIGA, and also to help sustain Chasefu Theological College and to support the work of Chasefu Model Farm. Charles’s other focus is teaching courses in sustainable agriculture at Chasefu Theological College, providing education to help the students feed their own families and training the future pastors to teach others new agricultural techniques. In addition, Charles is working to develop Chasefu Model Farm, a training center for smallholder farmers, using appropriate technology in a Zambian context.

Melissa is working with the CCAP Zambia Health Department Coordinator and other church leaders, local stakeholders, the Ministry of Health, and the community, to identify important needs and gaps in general health education. Along with the health department coordinator, Melissa works to develop and implement health education programs to improve maternal and child health, to address hygiene issues of girls and women, and to raise awareness about nutritional needs of children and adults.

Zambia has a population of 15 million people, which includes some 70 ethnic groups. An estimated 50 to 75 percent of the population identify themselves as Christian. Most other Zambians are either Muslim or Hindu. Presbyterianism was introduced into Zambia by Scottish missionaries in the 1860s. The Church of Central Africa Presbyterian’s Zambia Synod is growing rapidly and is committed to a holistic approach to outreach. The Synod serves a population struggling with massive poverty and the rapid spread of infectious diseases, including HIV/AIDs.

Charles and Melissa are back in the United States for a few months, travelling throughout the country and visiting churches. They are in CNY in July, and have been invited to share their stories in Auburn next Saturday, July 22, beginning with a potluck picnic at 5:00 pm at First Presbyterian Church, 112 South St, in Auburn. A talk and presentation, beginning at 6:30 pm, will follow the picnic.

​Westminster and First Presbyterian Churches are co-sponsoring the event, and welcome everyone who would like to meet Charles and Melissa and hear about their work.

by Patrick D. Heery
​It was the Sunday before Easter. Palm Sunday. A warm April day. My sermon was ready. In it, I wrote that Holy Week is about sitting beside hospital beds and all crosses of human suffering. It is stubbornly insisting that there is a sacredness that neither death nor grief can take from us.

Little did I know how prescient those words were. Words I’d never get to preach. 

Instead of climbing into a pulpit that morning, I sat in a hospital beside my wife, Jenna, as she went into early labor and began hemorrhaging. Six units of blood later, Jenna’s life was saved, but there was nothing the doctors could do to save our babies. Our two sons—Ezra and Leo—died, as stillbirths.   

They join the four other children Jenna and I have lost through miscarriages over two years.

On the face of it, I should be good at grief. I know all the Bible verses, all the prayers, rituals, and confessions. I’ve been trained for this. I’ve ministered in hospitals, nursing homes, and prisons. I have counseled scores of other people in similarly tragic situations; my first baptism was of a premature baby in a NICU. I have a church and a wide support system, including hundreds of other clergy. 

Most of all, I am a pastor, expected to be a model of faithfulness. And as such, I should grieve well. 

But I have not grieved well—whatever that may mean. My grief has been made of spit and mud, staring up at the heavens from a pit where light does not reach. 

No one tells you how heavy the emptiness of grief can be. How it coils around every organ, every muscle, and squeezes. How it paralyzes you till even getting out of bed in the morning is a great and strenuous task. 
All I want to do is hold my boys again. To feel the touch of their skin on mine. But I look down, and my arms are empty. I look at their clothes hanging in the closet; their toys lying in a corner, unplayed with; their nursery, empty and forbidden. 

In Ezra and Leo’s absence, I have felt God’s absence.

It has occurred to me, however, that such absence may in fact be a gift. In his book The Living Reminder, Henri Nouwen reflects on Jesus’ statement to his disciples, “It is for your own good that I am going away” (John 16:7). Nouwen writes, “The great mystery of the divine revelation is that God entered into intimacy with us not only by Christ’s coming, but also by his leaving.” 

Emptiness creates space. Room to question and wrestle God, to sob and rage, to hear wisdom, to love and grow closer to my wife, to imagine and speak with my sons. Space to listen to the birds and watch the warm sun rise on the earth. Space to slip in the mud and shout profanities in the lonely woods. Space to ask for help and receive it. Space for home-cooked meals and tokens of love from dear church members, family, and friends. Space for life to slip back in, with laughter, even joy. Space to step away from work and ministry. Space to relinquish all pretense at understanding and to stand silently, without explanation, before suffering. Space to open my eyes, as if for the first time, to the searing pain of others—and to see something miraculous take place: the rise of a community. 

With so many hands holding each other up, with so much space to see and touch one another, with room even to glide our hands over the Lord’s scars as Thomas once did, we are pushed up and up, closer to the light. 

We are accustomed to thinking of God as “presence”—and indeed that is true. But perhaps God is also absence. 

It must hurt God something awful. Must hurt so bad not to hold God’s children and make everything better, to close the gap. But the truth is—and God knows this truth—you can’t write on a filled page, and you can’t think in a noisy room, and you can’t grow without space to stretch. 

God enters, departs, and returns. That is how God grieves. And at our best, it’s how a pastor grieves too. By creating space enough for something new to emerge. And in that space, in that silence, I listen for my boys. I wait. 
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And I count that a gift.

​by Jill Fandrich
Many years ago, I read a book called Flatland. It was a strange little novella, written in 1884 as a satire on Victorian social classes. I read it to help me understand geometry, math-challenged as I was. Little did I know that this book would have a theological impact on me as well, and become an analogy for my understanding of faith.

Flatland, narrated by "A. Square," takes place in an imaginary two-dimensional world. Its inhabitants are flat shapes-- lines, squares, and polygons. All they know is a two-dimensional environment and they are unable to conceive of anything else. When visited, however, by a sphere from Spaceland, a three-dimensional world, A. Square becomes aware of a reality beyond his own. The sphere appears first as a dot, then as a widening circle, then as a circle which becomes smaller and disappears again as a dot. In his two-dimensional world, he can perceive of a three-dimensional world only in a limited way, constrained by his perspectives and experiences; he knows that it exists even though he cannot fully comprehend it.

I've been a church goer my whole life, a "cradle Christian" as we used to say. I attended Sunday School and worship as a child. I worshiped sporadically during those questioning high school and college years. As a young adult, I joined the church I still attend here in Auburn, and over the years, I've taught Sunday School to children of all ages and led Christian Education for adults. I’ve tried to articulate my faith and share it with others. I've read many books and listened to many sermons, and even preached a few myself. And yet, I'm still like a resident of Flatland when I try to explain who God is.

My understanding of God has changed over the years. Like most children, I first thought of God as a bearded old man in the sky. As a teen, I adopted the "God is Love" understanding that was popular in the 60s and 70s. (Yes, I'm that old.) I've questioned whether God exists, and tried to shape an understanding of who God is. I've always come back to a belief that there is a power that is greater than anything I can understand, and that my ability to understand it is limited by my humanness. Just like the Flatlanders.

At this point in my life, I've come to accept that all the ways we describe God are just feeble attempts to describe what can't be described. The fact that I can’t articulate who God is does not mean that God does not exist. It just means that I am limited in my ability to understand. The Bible acknowledges this eloquently, "For now we see through a glass darkly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then shall I know even as I am known." (1 Corinthians 13:12).

Rather than reject the Bible for its inconsistencies and its peculiarities, I find it comforting to see it as a peoples' account of encountering God and trying to explain his (her?) presence and power. In the Old Testament, God was described as appearing in wind, in earthquakes, and in fire. Man spoke to God and heard his voice, but could not say his name because naming God would have limited him. In the New Testament, God is named in many ways in attempts to describe God's nature-- the light of the world, the salt of the earth, the water of life, the Alpha and Omega, the cornerstone, the good shepherd, the living stone, the bread of life, the vine and branches, King of Kings.

The central story of Christianity is that God came to earth as a human, born as a child in Bethlehem, who walked among people, and died a physical death, who was raised to eternal life beyond this one. Jesus was called Emmanuel, which means "God with us." Is Jesus how we Flatlanders understand God? Did God have to come to earth to live among us so that we could recognize him? Is he like the sphere entering the two-dimensional world in order for people to perceive and know God, even in a limited way?
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I wish I had the answers, just as people of all times have sought to find answers too. I am a Flatlander and I hope to one day know fully what I now know only in part.

“The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want…”
“Make a joyful noise to the Lord, all the earth.”
 “Lift up your heads, O ye gates”.

Do any of these scriptural quotes seem familiar, or have they possibly been imprinted in your memory? They are all excerpts from well-known psalms, the subject of the Lenten “Soup & Study” program at Westminster Presbyterian Church. This year’s series is “Discovering the Psalms: Passion, Promise, and Praise”, a Kerygma publication authored by renowned theologian and Christian educator Dr. Donald Griggs, who summarizes his subject in this manner: “Psalms is a collection of prayers, poems, and songs that express to God and to God’s people the widest spectrum of human experience and emotion”.

The Psalms are located in the Old Testament between the Books of Job and Proverbs. There are 150 psalms, about half of which are believed to have been authored by King David. Of those, there are thirteen referring to certain historical events in David’s life. The Psalms are also included in the collection of Writings in the Hebrew Scriptures, where their title is Tehillum, meaning “songs of praise”. Biblical scholars have named as many as seventeen different types of psalms. Hermann Gunkel (1862-1932), a pioneer in recognizing that Psalms represent a variety of literary forms, identified these four general types: hymns, laments, thanksgivings, and royal psalms. Both three-year cycle and daily lectionaries contain at least one psalm reading for each day or week in the scriptural rotation schedule.

Churchgoers of all denominations can recall being exposed to psalms from an early age and in many different ways. Psalms may be: read by clergy in worship or at funerals, sung antiphonally or as an anthem by a cantor or choir, reproduced and illustrated in a special book called a psalter, printed in hymnals with both regular and bold-face type as responsive readings, memorized for a church school or confirmation class, or just turned to for comfort and reassurance. Because of a life-long familiarity with the Book of Psalms, many worshippers will be quick to identify a favorite one or two. I especially love Psalm 121, both as a source of solace and an assurance of God’s protection. It begins with the following:
“I lift up my eyes to the hills –
from where will my help come?
My help comes from the Lord,
who made heaven and earth.”

 As a choral singer, I can name no more beautiful an anthem than “How Lovely is Thy Dwelling Place”, the 4th movement of the Brahms Requiem, whose lyrics are based upon Psalm 84. An examination of my church’s hymnal reveals dozens of hymns based upon the lyrical poetry of the Psalms.   

One may ask, “With such lifelong exposure to and seeming familiarity with the Book of Psalms, why spend seven evenings studying them in detail?’ The answer to this question, for me, is that a greater understanding and appreciation of this Bible book, in particular, offers me the opportunity for personal spiritual growth and inquiry. Although I have heard, read, or sung many of the psalms, there are many more that I have not encountered in my church or devotional life.

The objectives of our study include exploring the Psalms as a unique collection of songs and prayers and regarding it as “A Prayer Book for God’s People”. Indeed, our Presbyterian Mission Agency refers to the Psalms as “a school of prayer”. What better source than the Psalms for praying and for learning to pray, whether one reads or chants a psalm aloud or meditates in silence? Eugene Peterson, author of “Answering God: The Psalms as Tools for Prayer” explains it this way: “When we pray the Psalms, and are trained in prayer by them, we enter into this centuries-long experience of being a people of God.”

If you are interested in attending the remaining sessions of Discovering the Psalms, held each Wednesday evening (except for Holy Week) through May 3, we gather in the Social Room of Westminster Presbyterian Church, 17 William Street, from 6:00-7:30 PM. All are welcome to join us for a light soup supper and study time.​

Audrey McNally is a life-long member and current ruling elder of Westminster Presbyterian Church. She sings in the Westminster Choir, moderates the Worship Committee, and serves on the Christian Education Committee. 

by Jill Fandrich
​This year marks the 500th anniversary of the Reformation. In 1517, a Catholic priest named Martin Luther was concerned about problems within the church, so he nailed 95 ideas for discussion on the door of a church in Wittenberg, Germany to foster conversation about ways to improve the church he loved. It didn’t go so well. Instead of bringing about internal change, Luther was excommunicated; his actions and ideas, and those of other reformers, resulted in new branches of Christianity, now known as Protestants.  The Protestant denomination to which my church belongs (Presbyterian) is part of the Reformed tradition.
The Reformation didn’t happen in a day. Although we remember Luther’s posting the 95 Theses as a focal point, it was in fact part of a far larger movement of change, not only in the church but also politically, societally, and intellectually. It was a time much like today. Are we due for another Reformation?  
In her book The Great Emergence, author and religion professor Phyllis Tickle used the analogy of “The 500-Year Rummage Sale” to describe religious change over the years. Tickle said that historically, the church “cleans house” roughly every 500 years, holding what she calls a “giant rummage sale,” deciding what to dispose  and what to keep, making room for new things.
Looking back over 2000 years, the time of Christ was the first rummage sale, an era Tickle calls “The Great Transformation,” when a man who was “Emmanuel, God With Us” created a new understanding of our relationship with God. Five hundred years later saw the collapse of the Roman Empire and the beginning of the Dark Ages. In this period, the church entered an era of preservation as the church went underground with monks and nuns practicing the monastic tradition in abbeys, convents, and priories. Next, at the beginning of the new millennium in 1054, came “The Great Schism,” when the Christian Church split into the Eastern and Western branches that we still see today in the Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic Churches.  Then in the 1500s, “The Reformation” resulted in new branches of Christian tradition, with different understandings of how people relate to God personally through direct prayer and individual interpretation of the bible.  Every 500 years or so, Tickle says, there were tectonic shifts in the Christian tradition, resulting in huge changes of both understanding and of practice.
So, it’s been 500 years since the Reformation. Is the church ready for its next giant rummage sale? Are we already holding it?
I think we are. It’s easy to identify the changes of the last century. Our understanding of science has progressed exponentially, forcing us to reconcile scientific and religious thought. We are culturally more diverse. We are living longer. Family units take a variety of forms. We are a global community, no longer confined to the boundaries of our physical neighborhoods. We have access to facts, data, opinions, and information instantly through computers we keep in our pockets. Communication and access to news is immediate and unfiltered. Our minds are changing (for better or worse) with the way we process information. How could these things not alter how we understand who we are, why we exist, and where God is in our lives?
I see how the church has changed even in my lifetime. As a child, the church was the center of most families’ lives-- religious and social. Everyone went to church on Sunday mornings (and often evenings too). Compare with today when church attendance, or even affiliation, is not the norm. And yet, people who identify as “spiritual but not religious” are on the rise. God is still important, but identifying with a particular religion is not.
Tickle says we are entering a new era of “The Emergent Church,” a religious movement that crosses denominational boundaries, seeks common ground, engages diverse cultures, embraces social causes as ways to live out Christ’s call to serve others, and takes place largely outside of church buildings. Is this the church of the future?
As someone who loves my church—its people, its traditions, its liturgy, and yes, its building—I admit that change is hard. And yet I know that God’s call to us is bigger than Westminster, bigger than the Presbyterian denomination, bigger even than the church universal. The most basic message of Christianity is one of resurrection and renewal. Paul wrote, “The old life is gone; a new life has begun.” Let’s go, boldly and faithfully, where God leads us.
 

​by Patrick D. Heery
 I wasn’t there when my grandfather died. But I can picture the moment as if I had been.
I see snow falling in large, wet clumps. It’s dark but for the flickering, harsh light of a single parking lot lamp. Within its rays I catch a glimpse of my uncle, kneeling over my grandfather, desperately trying to pump life back into his father’s heart, breath back into his namesake’s lungs. The CPR isn’t working, however.
It’s cold, so the tears are freezing to my uncle’s face. He had only been away for a few minutes. The two of them had driven to the local hardware store for a last minute need. But when they had arrived, my grandfather said he wasn’t feeling well, and so he stayed in the car while my uncle ran inside. By the time my uncle returned, my grandfather—just a couple months into retirement—had suffered a major heart attack and died.
It was Christmas Eve. Thirty-three years ago.
I know that it was 33 years ago because I was born a year later, also in December. 
My family said I was an answered prayer—the only thing that made Christmas bearable, a season now marred by the anniversary of my grandfather’s death.
Truth is the holidays can be difficult for many people. Amid bright lights and festive parties, some of us feel very alone. We may be grieving the death of a loved one or the dream of a loved one never to be. We may be parted from family or friends—or from children by divorce or the estrangement of time. We may be struggling with addiction, or wondering how we’re going to come up with the money to buy gifts for our family this year (or even how we’re going to keep the lights on). We may be facing the new year from a hospital bed, or a nursing home, or a rehab center, or a prison.
Or perhaps we just didn’t feel the Christmas spirit this year—we were too busy or too stressed, while God was too silent.
On December 21, Westminster Presbyterian Church gathered with members of the Auburn community on the longest night of the year to light candles in the dark—one for our grief, one for our courage, one for our memories, one for our love, and one, in the center, for Christ. The community of the faithful gathered as it has every year for the last 12 years to call on Christ to come once again and fill our broken hearts.
This was my first experience of Westminster’s Service of the Longest Night, but I have participated in similar (also known as Blue Christmas) services at other churches. Last year, the church my wife and I visited in Kentucky gave away hand-knit prayer shawls. This year, Westminster gave each person a wooden candleholder, hand carved by elder Robyn Warn and containing a candle lit that evening in memory of a loved one or a prayer yet unanswered.
That night we listened for the good news and sang of the hope that would soon be found again in a manger. We turned our eyes toward the light and found comfort there. And yet, we did not hurry through the pain; we did not rush toward Christmas. Sometimes, when you’re hurting, you just need folks to stop trying to fix everything and instead be in solidarity with your grief. You don’t want to hear that “God has a plan,” or that “God just wanted another angel,” or that “God never gives us more than we can handle.” You don’t want advice. You just want exactly what Christ offered—Emmanuel, “God with us.” You want a companion for the darkness, someone to hold you tight and let you cry.
Rachel Whaley Doll, a friend who struggled with infertility, says, “The most beautiful thing a church member said to me during our struggle was ‘This just sucks, and I had words with God today about you.’ ”
So, I guess you could say, we too had words with God that evening. We brought it all—the pain, the anger, the fear, the hope, the joyful memories and longings, even the doubts. God accepted every bit, and answered, as God always has, not with cheap fixes or platitudes, but with the love of a child who suffers with us and, with a gentle kiss, heals our wounds.
We called this child, Jesus, the Messiah.

by Jill Fandrich
​I’m a sucker for those videos of “flash mobs” that pop up on YouTube or Facebook. A flash mob takes place in some kind of public space—a city square, a shopping mall, a train station. Suddenly, someone starts to sing, or dance, or play an instrument, and then others join them and within minutes the area is transformed into a sea of smiling faces and clapping hands. Suddenly, there is community! When it’s over, everyone goes back to whatever they were doing, but with a smile on their face, a song in their heart, and a lighter step. I get a lump in my throat every time I watch one of these videos.
There was even a sort of flash mob in Auburn on Thanksgiving weekend. On Saturday night, after the parade, people gathered in the city parking lot to sing Leonard Cohen’s beautiful “Hallelujah.” 
I think there’s something important going on here. These events happen because of a real need to be together. People crave community in a world that is increasingly private. We watch movies from home rather than go to theaters, we download books rather than go to the library, and we exercise on home treadmills rather than go to the gym. We order things from Amazon, get money from machines, and pump our own gas. We can easily go through our days without talking to other people.
While we can’t deny the convenience of modern technology, we are missing something important too. We are losing the ability to engage with people on a personal level. We have fewer opportunities to talk and listen to people face to face. Even though social media connects us to others, it also lets us choose whom we listen to, and it is far too easy to surround ourselves with voices like our own.  
And with this silo effect comes a loss of civil discourse.  The recent election shows how far we’ve fallen in our ability to talk respectfully with each other. It is too easy, with the anonymity of screen names, to talk in ways we wouldn’t face to face.
This fall, the Wednesday Noon Discussion Group at my church read Parker Palmer’s Healing the Heart of Democracy and discussed how Americans can reclaim the political process to improve our ability to live and work together. Palmer says, “Democracy demands that we become engaged with ‘the other’ as well as with ‘our own kind,’ with the stranger whose viewpoint, needs, and interests are likely to be different from our own.”  He acknowledges, however, that engaging with people who are different creates tension because it forces us to live with the contradictions that run counter to our own convictions.  But it is living in that tension that “opens us up to new understandings of ourselves and the world, enhancing our lives and allowing us to enhance the lives of others.”
Palmer is a believer in “the power of the potluck,” as well as in many other ways we can bring people together to listen, to talk, and to get to know each other. The more we do to break down the silos we have created, the more we will grow in our ability to live and work with people who are different than ourselves.
We are fortunate in Auburn to have places where we do gather. We have Auburn Public Theater, the YMCA, First Fridays, the permaculture park, festivals, and Wegmans. We will soon have a new play-space downtown. And we have churches.