The Old Hippie Behind the Curtain

Vinick:      “Whatever happened to the separation of church and state?” 


Bartlet:      “It’s hanging in there, but I’m afraid the constitution doesn’t say anything about the separation of church and politics.” 


Vinick:      “You saying that’s a good thing?” 


Bartlet:      “I’m saying that’s the way it is: always has been.”

– President Josiah (“Jed”) Bartlet and Senator Arnold Vinick

TheWest Wing
Season 6, Episode 20, “In God We Trust”

“Every two years, we drive to the fire station and overthrow the government…”

– Will McAvoy
The Newsroom 

Season 1, Episode 3, “The 112^th Congress”

I usually don’t drive our 14-year old minivan to the churches where I’m invited as a guest preacher.

It’s not because the car has seen better days (it has) or because it’s not a fuel efficient-enough vehicle to take on long drives (oddly enough, it is). Rather, it’s because over the past three presidential election cycles, the van has become a political billboard of sorts, boldly proclaiming that we are “Old Hippies Against __________.” And, while this will no doubt come as a surprise to family and friends who have endured my political rants (not to mention the steady stream of debate-inspired memes on Facebook), for the most part, when I don the robe on a Sunday morning, I have tended to keep my decidedly partisan convictions to myself. So instead, it’s our other car that transports me on my itinerant preaching journeys – the one whose sole political statement is a small sticker on the rear windshield that reads: “Jed Bartlet Is My President.”

In a perfect (or at least, more interesting) world, presidential candidates would be more like Jed Bartlet – brilliant, witty, with deep moral convictions, and capable of bridging the great partisan divide. In the interests of full disclosure, let me say that there have been election cycles in which I’ve done my small part to span the partisan chasm. I have voted Socialist and Libertarian (before my frontal lobe was fully formed) and even voted for the other party in a gubernatorial election as a fully-lobed, middle-aged adult for no reason other than the incumbent’s having presented the championship trophy to the Port Chester High School Marching Band the year my son was a senior in the trumpet section.

This year, election day falls on the 29^th anniversary of my ordination. Today as I drive, not to the local fire station but rather to a former Masonic temple-turned-Orthodox church to exercise my right as a citizen to participate in the peaceful and orderly overthrow of the government, I will vote for the candidate whom I believe will accomplish the most for the common good and who most shares the core values that have been shaped by my faith and by half a lifetime of ministry. That said, here, in no particular order, is a very short list of what will be on my mind as I step behind the curtain into the voting booth:

1.    I will cast my vote mindful that I am the daughter, the mother and the spouse of persons counted among the “47%.”

2.    I will cast my vote as an immigrant for whom the phrase “…take back America…” is all too reminiscent of  “…why don’t you go back to…”

3.    I will cast my vote as a mother of a multiethnic, multicultural family that believes that diversity is a gift and not a threat; as the mother of an adult child with a disability who depends on government programs to provide essential services; as the mother of daughters who have a right to unrestricted women’s health care.

4.    I will cast my vote as one who believes in and affirms the sacredness of all life and all love.

5.    I will cast my vote knowing that for all those whose convictions will lead them to vote along these same lines, there will be as many others (or maybe even more), equally led by their deeply-held beliefs to vote for the other guy.

Who knows – perhaps in another four years, you’ll spot me driving to church some Sunday. I’ll be the one in the ancient minivan held together with bumper stickers. And maybe by then, the newest one will read: “Old Hippies For __________.”

Ch-Ch-Changes

It wasn’t all that long ago that she was leaping out of her crib, fearlessly scaling a chest of drawers and turning our lives inside out and upside down. Today, my youngest daughter graduates from college, cum laude, ready to take on the world.

The celebration of a milestone invokes nostalgic memories. And so, to mark this occasion, I’m dusting off a piece that Victoria inspired a long time ago (and in what seems now like a galaxy far, far away), when her mother was a freelance writer and columnist for a widely-respected – at least in our household – and now long-defunct, denominational magazine. 

Change, Frightening Change first appeared as a Christmas meditation in the column, In the Word, in December 1990 issue of The American Baptist:

Victoria Lindsay Cruz-Griffith will soon be a year old. Unlike our first two children – who are much closer in age than we had ever anticipated – there is a three-year difference between Victoria and her older sister, Katherine. Three years is just long enough for parents to selectively forget some of the realities of parenting. With good reason! While you always remember how cuddly newborns are, how nice and fuzzy their heads feel, and how soft their skin, you tend to block out the memories of such things as 2 a.m. feedings, colic, diapers, spit-up, and feeling like a pack mule every time you venture out of the house. Babies have an uncanny way of altering their families’ lifestyles.

No wonder Gabriel scared the living daylights out of Mary with his strange message. Even under normal circumstances, a child would have meant change and upheaval in her life…To say that Mary was perplexed is probably an understatement. From the moment the angel Gabriel arrived at Mary’s doorstep, the predictability of her life was shattered once and for all.

That’s what happens when a baby comes into the world. Everything changes. It is also what happens at that moment when God in Christ enters our lives…

Change disrupts the comfort we find in the routines and patterns in life. It often means dealing with the unexpected and relinquishing some of the control we may have grown accustomed to. Change involves taking things as they come, without always having the ability to arrange them to our convenience or liking. Change often leads us on a course of troubling uncertainty.

But the certainty that God is with us allows us to look past our troubles to see the joyous upheaval that God has in store for us. Witness the certain faith of Mary, the peasant teenager who looked the angel square in the eye when all was said and done and announced, “Let it be.” Witness also the certain faith of her kinswoman, Elizabeth, whose own baby leaped for joy in her womb in the presence of the Messiah; or Joseph, who trusted a message delivered to him in a dream; or the shepherds who dropped everything to rush off to the manger; or the wise men who knew that a King even greater than themselves had come into the world; or all those – then and now – who believe in the outrageous promise that has already come true in Bethlehem’s child.

Victoria is at the age where she is discovering the world around her. That means most of the time she amuses herself by pulling things out of drawers and off shelves and otherwise rearranging what little order there is in our home.

Christ’s presence in us brings some reordering and reshuffling. Some things will be moved around, some tossed out and some turned topsy-turvy. But the you that emerges from his rearranging will be stronger, better, renewed and reborn.

May God always turn your world inside out and upside down.

Sister Act

And as a sister and a friend, 

I’ll be a sister ‘til the end,

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and no one on this earth can

change that fact –

I’m part of one terrific sister act.

–  Deloris Van Cartier/Sister Mary Clarence

Sister Act – the Musical

It was a nun who first suggested that I might have a knack for writing.

Granted, she was not speaking ex cathedra. And while the ability to string words together rhythmically is a handy skill, I need only look across the dinner table at my spouse and children to find far superior wordsmiths.

But even if that particular pronouncement didn’t carry the same weight as, say, Sister’s teachings on important doctrinal matters like the fate of souls consigned to Limbo, her word was not something to be taken lightly.

Sister ruled.

John XXIII had not yet “open[ed] wide the windows of the Church” when I entered parochial school as a first grader in 1960. Saint Michael’s was a typical New York City parish that had been home to successive waves of immigrants – Irish, Italian, Polish, Puerto Rican, Cuban. In a strange new place, they entrusted the education and care of their children to Sister. 

The nuns of my early childhood were a formidable presence, otherworldly creatures whose human forms were hidden under yards of black cloth and starched wimples. They taught me inglés and the now-lost art of diagramming sentences, how to write in elegant longhand and the proper way to curtsy when the principal or one of the parish priests paid a visit to the classroom. From Sister Mary Thomasine, I first learned to pray, while Sister Mary Josephine taught me how to recite multiplication tables to the beat of her wooden pointer striking a desk. With Sister Mary Marguerite and Sister Mary Teresita, I discovered it was possible to be both a nun and a latina.  

They were also capable of instilling fear. More than a few smart-mouthed 10-year olds experienced the sting of Sister Mary Sheila’s slap across their faces. Sister Mary Daniel, built like a defensive lineman, towered over the pre-adolescent sixth grade males in her charge, striking terror with the combination of her size and temper. When it came to discipline, there was also no doubt that Sister ruled.

By the time I started high school in 1968, nuns had traded in their 18^th century garb for more contemporary, albeit modest, attire, and they had names like Sharon, Mary Anne, Rita and Dolores. For the most part, they approached the daunting mission of teaching 500-plus adolescent girls with good humor and remarkable patience, as evidenced when my best friend and I auditioned for chorus by singing a duet of Country Joe and the Fish’s Feel Like I’m Fixin’ to Die. (For the record, we omitted the opening call-and-response, “Give me an F…” Enough said.) But by then their numbers were beginning to dwindle. And by the time I went off to college, they seemed like quaint anachronisms, reminders of an identity I was eager to shed. 

But even now, forty years since I walked away from the Roman Catholic church and sought another spiritual path, I cannot deny the influence of that terrific sister act upon my life. The Sisters of my childhood were my first real models of women in ministry. Women religious were among my seminary classmates and have been my colleagues in ministry. In a time of personal crisis, a pastoral counseling center run by a community of nuns helped bring about emotional and psychological healing. Sisters have been my spiritual companions as I seek to deepen my relationship with the Holy. And the best massage therapist I’ve ever had is an octogenarian Ursuline. The Sisters I am blessed to know bear prophetic witness to extravagant, divine love – they feed the hungry, welcome the stranger, give sanctuary to the marginalized, work for peace, speak truth to power and still teach new generations how to solve multiplication problems and write grammatically correct sentences.

All of which makes the recent “doctrinal assessment” of the Leadership Conference of Women Religious by the Vatican's Congregation for the Defense of the Faith and subsequent disciplinary actions puzzling to me, if not incomprehensible.    

Presumably, Sister has gone rogue and it’s up to the ecclesiastical hierarchy to rein her in.

The topic already has been written about much more eloquently by countless others, among them Sojourners’ Jim Wallis and The New York Times’ Maureen Dowd and Nicholas Kristof, and author-historian-academic Gary Wills and there are no signs of it quieting down anytime soon.

Perhaps the bishops’ reprimand is motivated by the desire to preserve doctrinal orthodoxy; perhaps it’s just sexism and power dynamics at work.

And it may very well be that, having chosen another way, it’s a subject on which I no longer have a right to comment.

But nearly a half century ago, someone far wiser than I will ever be suggested I had a knack for this kind of thing. And with that simple affirmation, she started me on the path toward discovering my creative voice.

This one’s for her.