Father Jack finished saying Friday morning mass at St. Rita’s, one of the two remaining Catholic churches for which he serves as duel pastor in this dying steel mill town in Western Pennsylvania.  The usual four parishioners attend; people he calls his “faithful four” who keep him from talking to an echo chamber of empty pews.   While they are regular morning mass attenders, they never sit near one another.  They spread out on both sides of the main aisle, sometimes ten pews apart.  Jack often wonders if they do this because they want to pretend the church isn’t empty or if they just want to be left alone with their sins and their prayers.

Since priests are required to say mass every day – regardless of attendance - Jack is neither deterred nor inspired by this now mundane ritual, performed in front of his four parishioners whom he sees as partners in denial of the future of this dying community.  

George  - one of the “faithful four” - was an assistant manager at the local hardware store where he worked for 18 years before the store closed.  After Friday mass, he assigns himself the job of making sure everything is prepared for the weekend worship.  Burnt lightbulbs are replaced, kneelers are all turned upright and hymn books are neatly placed in the wooden racks at the back of each pew, ready for the hundreds of parishioners who will never come again.  

The Church was built in the 1930s and by the 1960s three masses were needed on Sunday, and each of them was standing room only.  The last mass was especially packed.  Late comers - mostly men and teenage boys - lined up out the front door that was propped open so the tardy but faithful could strain enough to hear the mass and fulfill their Sunday duty.  

Tommy – as he likes to be called even in his 78 years of age – volunteers to ensure the votives at the side alters have plenty of fresh candles. 
 
Tommy empties out the votive cash box near the right side alter.  His finger joints so swollen and stiff with arthritis he can’t reach in and just pick up the coins.  He has to pull the collection box full out of the votive cash drawer, using only his thumb and index finger like a clamp, and dump the coins in his opposite hand. “ $1.50 in change” he thinks “things are sure going to hell.”  

As Jack walks down the side aisle heading for his tour in the confessional, he stops to talk to Tommy.  He and Tommy used to be fishing pals, but Tommy had to stop when the arthritis in his hands got so bad he couldn’t thread a fly on the end of the line.   “Wish you could come fishing with me today, Tommy.”   Jack said.  This was the honest truth.  Jack could be fishing for an hour with not even a nibble, and Tommy would wade over and recommend a different fly at a new spot, and by magic Jack would hook a brown trout.  “I’m going to canoe out on Eagle Creek.  What do you recommend?” Jack asked.   

“Hmmm…” Tommy paused, running his crooked fingers through his neatly trimmed gray hair “Late May… maybe try a Parachute Adams or a Quill Gordon fly.”  

“Thanks Tommy,  I’ll give em a try” Jack answered as he walked to the confessional; dreading this part of his job.

Jack settles into the middle seat of the confessional, puts on his purple stole, and flips on the discrete red light signaling that he is ready to hear the sins of his parishioners.  On most Friday’s, the two widows of the “faithful four” confess their human frailties to Jack, who couldn’t care less.  “What a waste of everyone’s time”  Jack thinks.  “I don’t need to hear how Doris gossiped about her sister-in-law or how Angela had mean thoughts about her neighbor.” 

To the outside world, Jack is a dutiful priest who says mass every day, who always has a smile or a kind word for his congregants, and who knows what to say to comfort grieving relatives.   But Jack knows he is coasting.
​
Jack regularly considers leaving the church, but at 60 years old, the former pastor of a dying church wouldn’t have many prospects in this fading community, he assumes.  

Jack spends most nights sitting in a high back chair in the parish house study, puffing on a Dutch Master cigar and drinking McCallan Scotch Whisky.  Some nights he reads, mostly mystery novels or historical fiction books that make it on the New York Times reading list.  Occasionally, he reads the bible – but he finds that increasingly less helpful.  On Thursday night - after a bit too much Scotch – Jack’s thoughts turn to his future and down the rabbit hole of what he calls his faltering faith list.
 
“How can I remain a priest when there’s so much Catholic shit I can’t swallow.”

“I don’t accept the Church position on abortion.  

I’ve seen too many pedophile priests bounce from parish to parish with little concern for the families.  

The church espouses a preferential option for the poor but when push comes to shove, the bishop always comes down to a preferential option for church coffers.  

I don’t believe in hell, I’m not sure about an afterlife, and it’s been a very long time since I felt any real presence of God in my life.”  

At the end of the litany Jack hears himself say out loud, “Jesus God, what am I doing here?”  

Maybe this is a prayer for help, or maybe just a manifestation of exasperation.  Jack isn’t sure, but it somehow makes him feel better to speak the hidden feelings of his wavering soul out into the universe.

On Friday after mass and confessions are done, Jack heads to the mountains.  He sits in the anchored canoe and lets the gentle current of the river sway him into a meditative state.  “Things don’t get much better than this”  he thinks. “fishing on the river.  The smell of the Mountain Laurel.  The crisp cool mountain air.  It gives a man perspective.”

Jack reels in his lure – a Quill Gordon that Tommy suggested - and casts it out again, trying to land it quietly upstream of a pool where he suspects a brown trout might be waiting for a fly to float by as a tempting snack; a trick he learned from Tommy.

As Jack watches the lure meander its way downstream, his thoughts return to his ongoing internal debate.

“The church won’t let me retire until I’m 75.  I can’t do this for another 15 years.”

“I love working with people, but I can’t keep faking that I believe in what the church is teaching any more. “

“I’m done.  I’m a good administrator and I’m good with people.  I’ll find a job, even if I have to become a salesman, or move out of town.”

Jack was so deep into his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the wind pick up or the anvil cloud forming high in the sky and off to the north above the mountain behind him.  He never heard the lightning that hit his canoe as the actual bolt arrived before the thunderous sound of it.  He didn’t smell the ozone in the air and he likely didn’t initially feel the sterling silver cross and chain that he wears around his neck sear its shadow forever into his skin.

Jack woke up in a flight for life helicopter as he was being whisked away to Allegheny General Hospital Trauma Center.  He survived because people on shore saw what happened and acted.  Two men called 911, and then used a powerboat to quickly get to Jack who was only 20 yards off shore.  A retired nurse performed CPR on him, and it only took 20 minutes for the flight for life helicopter to arrive on scene. 
 
The fact that Jack survived the lightning strike isn’t surprising, as the vast majority of people struck by lightning do live, but their lives are profoundly changed.  Many have mental and physical complications that they endure for the rest of their life.  But a fortunate few exhibit heightened sensitivities or new and unusual abilities.  It appears that Jack was one of those lucky ones.

Doris was the first to have Father Jack hear her confession upon his return from rehab after the accident.  

After the perfunctory “bless me father for I have sinned” Doris launches into a screed about her sister-in-law, Gina.  “ I know I’m supposed to love her and forgive her, but she’s tarnishing my husband’s name.  And my name.   She’s a widow just like me but she goes out to dances and bars and has men friends over.”

“Doris” Father Jack said softly but firmly, as he interrupts her.  “Are you angry at Gina or are you angry that your husband died too soon?”  Jack asked.  There is a long pause.

“You never asked me that before”  Doris exclaimed.  

“Well, I am asking it now, Doris.”  Jack responds as kindly as he can through the opaque confessional barrier.  “ Are you angry that your husband died too soon?”

Doris began to cry as she told Father Jack about the vacations that were never taken, and quiet conversations over coffee that are long gone, and the tender moments they spent dancing.  

“Can you forgive your husband, Doris?”  Father Jack asked.

Doris’s tears are steadily falling now, dampening her folded hands as she kneels in the confessional facing Father Jack behind the screen separating sinner from confessor.  “Yes.  Yes, I think I can.”  Doris professes. “I just miss him so much.”

“You still love him, Doris.  Embrace that”  Father Jack implores.

Doris never cried in the confessional before.  But she also never felt so light and free afterward, as she did today.   Before today, confession for Doris was just one of those things she did on Friday mornings after mass; the same as she has since Catholic grade school.  She would recount her sins, Father Jack would give her a token penance of prayers to recite and she would be done and on with her day without giving it another thought.  Today was different.  Father Jack was different.  It was like he could explain her pain and heartache in a deeper way than she ever imagined she could do on her own.

By the time Father Jack retired, St. Rita’s was the only Catholic church remaining in town.  Ironically it was Jack’s bout with lightening that helped the parish to survive.  At first, people trickled in to Sunday mass to see firsthand the priest who was touched by God with a cross permanently scorched into his flesh. He could tell the ones who came to gawk.  They would shake his hand after mass and stare at the space below his Roman collar instead of into his eyes, as if they were trying to imagine the burnt cross on his chest.

But then, several began coming back.  They found Father Jack to be humble and kind.  He didn’t lecture about hell and damnation.  He preached about tolerance and forgiveness, and about how God loves us even if we feel we don’t deserve to be loved.  If someone  wanted to talk, Father Jack always found the time.  And he listened.  He deeply listened not only  to the words people spoke, but especially to the words, and fears, and desires left unspoken.  It was as if he could somehow see in them.  See through them.

Jack took up fishing again after retirement, but only in streams where he can wade in and cast his line.  No more aluminum canoes for him.  

Today, Jack is fishing one of his favorite sections of the Youghiogheny river that winds its way north through the Allegheny mountains.  He has his bib high waders on as he stands in the cold and swift flowing river.  With the shoreline behind him blanketed by overhanging trees, Jack fishes in the shade.  The water is so clear that he stands patiently, knees bent bracing against the current, watching for a trout that he can entice with a fly and a well-placed cast.  “This is more sporting.” Jack muses “I like stalking a particular fish, not just aimlessly casting about.”

Jack touches the place on his chest where the burnt cross is still visible, knowing that he was swimming in a stream of doubt until he was stalked by God.


Author’s Note:  This is based on a true story of a priest in Wisconsin in the mid-1980s who was sitting in an aluminum canoe fishing and was struck by lightning.  He was rescued by a Flight for Life program.  He had a cross and chain scorched into his skin from the lightning strike.  He survived.

I attended a demonstration in front of a Tesla dealership in Milwaukee recently.  This particular demonstration is scheduled for every Saturday from noon to 12:45. There were 30 of us, standing on the median strip of a busy street with three lanes of traffic going each way.  We all held up signs.  One of my favorite said “My grandpa fought the Nazis and I will too.” 

We would cheer when cars honked to show support and pretty much just ignore those who raised a middle finger or pretended to video us with their phones.  We counted 80 honked horns during the 45 minute adventure and far less fingers raised; although no one was keeping track of the obscene gestures.  I was told by one seasoned participant that “only 35 cars honked at us last week.”

I used to discount these types of efforts; thinking that organizing people to confront a specific person who can make the change needed to bring justice was a far better use of time then standing on the street just waving signs at passing cars.

I don’t believe that anymore.  This particular weekly demonstration began three weeks ago when two nurses and one attorney stood on the median strip with signs.  The next week there were six people and today, there were 30.   I asked the fellow standing next to me with his sign what brought him out.  He said he was just looking for a way he could contribute and found about this demonstration online.

In my imagination my new friend was someone who just drove by three weeks ago when three women were out there waving signs.  And last week – maybe he honked his horn at the six sign wavers to lend his support.  And now this week - like me - he just showed up.

People are beginning to wake up and to fight back against the obscene power grab to destroy our democracy.  If you feel like many of us do; that we are in a speeding car heading towards a cement wall called autocracy – then it is the time to act.  Call your elected official, write a letter, or attend a community meeting.  Now is the time.

Just show up.

State officials in Missouri and Mississippi recently introduced legislation to provide $1,000 to state bounty hunters who assist in the detainment of an undocumented immigrant.  That’s $1,000 per person detained.  Thankfully, the Mississippi legislation has been axed and the Missouri one seems to be on life support.  But just the fact that they were introduced should be concerning enough.

In 2021 the state of Texas passed legislation – which has been upheld by the courts – allowing private citizens to sue anyone who "aids or abets" an abortion  for at least $10,000 in damages.

I find the idea of enticing citizens to turn in their neighbors for a bounty to be morally abhorrent.  I guess that in the minds of these folks, not everyone is equal or equally loved.

When did we become so cruel?  When did we become so frightened by those who don’t look like us that we are willing to hunt them down and kick them out of our community?

But even as I write this, I am reminded that violence and hatred of “others” is part of our country’s history.
We committed genocide against the indigenous people so we could steal the land from them. 

We supported the institution of slavery for hundreds of years.

We supported “Jim Crow” laws to thwart bringing people of color into the mainstream of society after slavery ended.
 
We lynched nearly 4,000 black men and women for a variety of – often – made up violations and we made those lynchings a public spectacle where families brought their children and picnic baskets to watch.

We treated women as property and didn’t allow them to vote, to own property, or to have their own bank account or credit card. 

We interned 120,000 American citizens in camps during WW II because they “looked” like our enemy, the Japanese. 
​
Let’s not forget the “Red Scare” of the 1950s when fear and paranoia were widespread and anyone suspected of being a Communist sympathizer was ostracized; where hundreds of Hollywood figures were black listed and nearly 1,500 federal employees (many from the LGBTQ community) were forced out after being accused of being a Communist.

During the Civil Rights era, we tried to put down the march towards freedom and integration using dogs, fire hoses, violence, and murder.

It was Ann Frank who wrote in her diary

“I see the world gradually being turned into a wilderness, I hear the ever approaching thunder, which will destroy us too, I can feel the sufferings of millions and yet, if I look up into the heavens, I think that it will all come right, that this cruelty too will end, and that peace and tranquility will return again.”

Ann was right you know, peace and tranquility did briefly return for many.  But it did not return until after Frank and six millions Jews were murdered and up to 85 million people were killed in WW II of which more than half were civilians. 
The evidence may be damning but it is clear.  As a people, we have a propensity for violence, especially towards those whom we see as “other.”  Given that, we should not be surprised over the current efforts to round up and deport millions of immigrant families.

That doesn’t mean we should stop our resistance to these efforts.  It also doesn’t mean that there aren’t plenty of people of good will and strong values who honor the dignity and worth of others.  It just means we must recognize that we have been at war with each other since the beginning of the American experiment. Sometimes peace and good will reigns but other times violence and animosity win out.

Today, with violence and animosity on the upswing I find myself wishing that the arc of the moral universe was a bit shorter, so that the mayhem being wrought upon us might soon end. Until that long prayed for moment arrives, I believe we are called to offer our hand to help those who are sinking under the waves of these distressing times.

This 1868 painting by Martin Heade reminds me of our current political climate:  People are going about their daily tasks, seemingly oblivious to the impending storm the new administration will bring.

For weeks after the election, I was like the people in the painting, trying to keep my head down (or in the sand) and doing my best to ignore news stories of what is about to happen.

But - I am a sailor, and fully understand what will happen to my crew and my boat if I ignore the signs of a storm on the horizon.  We will be battered about, our sails may tear, our rigging may break and lives may be lost.  And so, a good sailor will see the storm on the horizon and prepare.

Ignoring the storm - or - just hoping it will go away or that it won't be as bad as people say - is the very worst thing we can do.  By not engaging we may ensure that our good ship of state will be lost and millions of people will see their lives destroyed.

Any seasoned sailor will tell you that with an approaching storm, the first defense may be to seek safe harbor.  If that isn't possible, then the next best thing is to bring all hands on deck, prepare the boat and the crew for the worst, and then ride out the storm with a clear eye and steady hand and pray to God that that is enough.

The storm is certainly coming.  There is no safe harbor.  It's time now for all hands on deck.

​

Our middle granddaughter was born four years ago on the Winter Solstice.  One of our closest friends remarked, “she brings forth the light,”  and that she does, at least according to her grandparents, as do all three of our granddaughters.  

We provide childcare for our Solstice youngster and her baby sister every Thursday.  And – other than needing to get up at 5:30 am - our day is full of laughter and light. Here’s an example.   My wife, Jennie just fed our infant granddaughter and said that “we need to keep her awake for another hour.  How are we going to do that?”  To tease our four year old granddaughter I remarked to her “what do you think sweetie, I can toss your sister to you and you can catch her and toss her back to me and we can keep her awake by flying her through the air.”  Our four year old was incensed at the idea and stomped over to stand right in front of me – and with her right hand on her hip (as I’m sure she sees her mother do) she exclaimed in a stern four year old voice, “We don’t throw babies, Pop Pop!”  With that, it seemed to me the world was set in place.  The younger will always have her older sister to protect her.  No doubt.

But the world is not so simple these days.  We just witnessed yet another school shooting – this time at a Madison, WI Christian school.  A troubled teen killed another teen and a teacher and wounded several others before taking her own life.  While this is terrible enough on its own – what is equally troubling is that a second grade child from the school was the first to call 911 about the shooting.  Stop and reflect on that for a minute.  A seven year old child was taught to call the police if there is a shooter in the school.  A seven year old should be thinking of Christmas, and presents, and snow in December in Wisconsin and not whether there will be a shooter at school.

Our Wisconsin children have been traumatized with 26 school shootings over the past three years, more than the combined number of school shootings since 1970.  This year – sadly – was the deadliest year on record for our state and for our kids when it comes to school shootings.

Our oldest granddaughter is in third grade and has already received “active shooter training” as part of her education.  I am heart sick to think that our younger granddaughters will go through shooter drills when they begin school, as well.  As it is, our own daughter is a middle school teacher in a public school and we give thanks every day to hear her voice as she calls us on her way home from work.

We must acknowledge that gun violence is in the very DNA of our country.  Here is another take on our propensity for violence.  White Supremacists have been a part of our political culture for a very long time.  In her article providing historical background on the assassination of President John F. Kennedy, Heather Cox-Richardson reports that in the fall of 1962, white supremacists, “…under cover of darkness fired on reporters and federal marshals…(killing) two men and wounded many others” on the campus of Mississippi University.  The federal marshals were there to ensure that a one Black American veteran could register at “Ole Miss” for classes.

I am so tired of writing about mass shootings.  I’m fatigued over the idea that Christian Nationalists and White Supremacists have become so visible and so powerful.  I am frightened over the idea that our country elected as president a man who is a known felon, who is a proven liar, who was convicted of sexual assault, who was convicted of fraud, who espoused how he would use the levers of government to punish his enemies.  This is a man who wants to use the military to round up 11 million immigrants in our country to put them in camps and eventually deport them.

After the November election, I stopped reading or watching the news.  I was in shock.  I was grieving.  I was in disbelief that the tens of millions of people could elect Donald Trump – knowing full well who he is and what he proposes to do.
I had a difficult time finding the light in these situations.  I am a trained community organizer and as such know that there is always a way to organize against injustice.  But the light in me wasn’t there for a bit.

Stopping gun violence requires national legislation.  Halting the sweep of Christian Nationalists & White Supremacists needs a nation-wide movement.  Beating back the worst tendencies of the incoming Trump administration requires Washington officials to mount a new coalition against multi-pronged attacks on democracy. 

But quite frankly – I don’t have the energy for such efforts.  I prayed – often – about this and my leading is based on the old saying that “all politics are local.”  Here is what I’m going to do.

First, I’m going to honor my grieving process.  I’m going to let it run its course, knowing that I will be stronger in the end.

Next, I’m going to use whatever light and energy I have to engage in one or a few LOCAL issues where I think my action and my dollars will make a difference.  There are three issues that keep coming back to me and they are:  1) Reducing gun violence; 2) Opposing immigration detention camps and mass deportation, and 3) Maintaining a liberal block on the Wisconsin Supreme Court.

It seems that the Supreme Court issue is the most critical, as the election for a new judge occurs this spring, on April 1st. and a liberal court can stem the damage on a broad number of issues – like gun violence.  At the same time, no one is sure when and how extensive will be the immigrant round up Trump threatens.  I reached out to an immigration attorney friend of mine who counseled me to connect with Voces de La Frontera, as she suspects them to be at the forefront of any anti-immigrant round up actions.
​
So now I have a game plan, which is helping me to heal through my grieving process.  I no longer feel powerless in the face of such a seismic shift in national politics, as I know there are ways I can be involved locally.   And most importantly – I can look my darling granddaughters in the eyes and say to them that I am doing all I can to ensure that their precious lights will continue to shine brightly in this sometimes dark and cold world.

I thought I could dance with the devil and just walk away; maybe with a little singe, but never did I imagine things would end up like this.

Like most things, this started out with a phone call from my friend, Jon.  Jon is an ex-Catholic priest who married a Quaker girl, had two kids, and moved to Philadelphia.  After exchanging pleasantries and stories of how our families are faring, Jon got to the point of his call.  “Mike, can you look in on my nephew, Raphael?  He called and pleaded for me to come get him.”

I knew about Raphael from the stories Jon shared about him.  He’s a 28 year old “kid” who – like many of his millennial peers - is cobbling together a life of side jobs just to get by.  He is a local DJ and he drives for Uber. Being a DJ and an Uber driver, Raphael gets to see a part of life that most of us choose to ignore.  According to Jon, Raphael skirted in and out of the drug scene, got mixed up with guys who rob mail carriers to steal government checks, and who can be relied upon to find a “party” for those who come looking for one.
 
“Sure.”  I told Jon, “text me his phone number and I’ll give him a call.”   Knowing about Raphael, I thought this was a big ask.  But Jon is my best friend.  As a priest he married us and baptized our children.  He was there for me when I went through a nasty divorce from my first wife and I want to be there for him now.

Jon texted me Raphael’s number as soon as we hung up.  I decided I’d wait a day before I called.  While I want to help Jon, I’m not in any hurry to get mixed up in whatever Raphael has going on.  I was hoping things would settle themselves out.

As it turns out, Raphael called me that same afternoon.  I recognized his number when the call came in and answered the phone thinking, “This can’t be good.”

There were no introductions or pleasantries from Raphael, he jumped right in.  “Is this Mike?  This is Raphael.  My uncle Jon gave me your number and said you can help me.  Where do you live, I can be at your house within an hour.”
This sounded worse than I feared.  There was no way I was going to let this guy anywhere near my home and my family.  We agreed to meet at a bar near downtown.  I told him I could be there by 7 pm.  He texted me his picture so I could recognize him.

I arrived 15 minutes early, wanting to scope out the street and the bar.  I’m a Quaker and I think of myself as a nice guy, but I grew up believing that people and places aren’t always what they seem. 

I got this from my dad, who was a twice wounded Marine Corps Master Sargent in WWII.  Once, when I was about 14, I was with my dad in the alley behind our house.  We were going to change the oil in our faded red Ford station wagon.  I noticed there was a bulging, brown paper grocery bag near the alley and I started to walk over to it.  My dad yelled “Stop.  Leave the bag alone.  You don’t know what’s in there.  There could be a dead baby in the bag.”  “A dead baby?”  I thought.  “Who would say that?  What kind of evil has he seen that would make him imagine such a thing?” So, at an impressionable age, I learned to be cautious.  But, not cautious enough.

When Raphael suggested we meet at a bar, I was expecting something seedy in a risky part of town.  But that wasn’t what I found.  McBob’s is a neighborhood bar where folks go to drink, to mingle, to play trivia, or to watch sports.  I walked past two couples drinking beer and sharing a plate of onion rings at a sidewalk table.  When I got inside, It was bright with the sun shining in from the large storefront windows, one on each side of the door.  Maybe there were another 8 people in the bar on a Tuesday evening in June, all who looked like they could have walked here from the blue-collar neighborhood where the joint is located.

I found an empty table where I could sit and watch the front door, with a bonus that it was close to a rear exit – just in case I needed to leave quickly.  Raphael was prompt.  He walked about four feet into the bar and stopped to scan the room.  I raised my hand to get his attention.  When he arrived at the table, I stood up and offered my hand in greeting.  He seemed surprised at that, gave me a wimpy handshake that felt like I was grabbing a dead fish, and sat down.
“What’ll you have.  I’m buying.” He said to my surprise.  I thought maybe I should pay, but didn’t want to insult him.  “I’ll have a bourbon, neat – two ice cubes”  I said.  He chose a local Hazy IPA brew.

He went to the bar to get the drinks, which gave me an opportunity to check him out.  He wasn’t furtive and looking around.  He was dressed in jeans and wearing a clean T Shirt touting a local band.  He wore black high-top tennis shoes, but nothing flashy or trendy.  There was nothing about his cloths or outward demeanor that gave a hint that he was in enough trouble to plead with his uncle to come and get him.  I was starting to feel a little more at ease with the situation.  “Maybe things just got blown out of proportion” I thought to myself.  But I would quickly find that not to be the case.

When Raphael came back with the drinks and settled into his seat, I asked him to explain his problem to me; that his uncle got the impression he was facing a situation with dire consequences; enough to want to be spirited out of town immediately. “You don’t look so desperate to me right now, so I’m curious what’s going on” I told him.

He took a drink from his beer, looked me steady in the eyes and said “If I don’t fix this, I will be dead and banished to hell by this time tomorrow.”  It was the “banished to hell” part that made me lean across the table and ask for details.

And with that, Raphael unwound a story about picking up a couple from his Uber gig at local club at closing time, how the woman seemed to be in charge and flirted with him, asking if he wanted to come to a “party” at her lakeview apartment.  “There wasn’t anything suspicious about her” Raphael said, “I just thought she was some rich lady looking for a good time, so I said yes, let’s do it and drove to her building.   You’d be surprised how often something like this comes up.”

The details about the debauchery of the evening that Raphael relayed aren’t important.  What is important is how Raphael said the woman rose naked from the bed and sauntered to a nearby desk where she opened a drawer and pulled out a gun.  She walked back to the bed “with her eyes dark and wide” and said to Raphael, “watch this, sweetie.”  She quickly put the gun to the middle of the other guy’s forehead and pulled the trigger.  Blood and brains splattered all over the bed and over Raphael.  The lady just laughed.  Raphael jumped out of bed screaming, “What did you do?  What did you do?”

“Nothing.  I did nothing.” She said as she hovered over the body that was splayed out, limp and naked with the top of the head oozing blood and mush, surveying her work.  She laid face down on the body, rubbing her face into the mess of flesh and brains, growling  like a bear in heat. And then suddenly the body began to steam or smoke and it just disappeared, as if it was absorbed into the woman. “She looked at me with those dead animal eyes,” said Raphael “her face was covered in brains and blood, her chest was heaving. As she reached out and touched my cheek, her hand was so cold it felt as if my face was being burnt.”  She said “I have a job for you sweetie” In a voice that was no longer soft and feminine, but was heated and guttural.”

“You’ve seen what I can do” she boasted.  “You can figure out what I am, and now I have a task for you. I want you to find the nicest and kindest person you can and bring them to me.  I will take care of the rest.  And if you don’t…..well…..you will do nicely.”

My Quaker sensibilities made me skeptical.  I don’t believe in an evil presence roaming the world.  What I do believe is that humans either ignore or can’t hear the voice of God calling them to the light and instead, they allow their ego to dominate.  And their actions often look like evil.

My instinct was that Raphaël was telling me an outlandish tale as a set up to ask me to fund his “getaway” from the evil presence.  I wasn’t buying it, but I didn’t say anything, waiting for the pitch I was sure would come.

At that point Raphael looked at me and looked down into his now empty beer glass.  “I’m sorry” he muttered. 
​
 I looked up just as this beautiful raven haired lady with coal black eyes and a hungry smile was walking to our table.

A recent article in the Quaker magazine, Friends Journal asked an intriguing question:  What is the essence of prayer?

I know what prayer is not.  I am long past the time when I would pray as if I was bartering and asking favors of the Divine.  I might have once prayed “if I get this job that I really want, I’ll do more for the church,” thinking that prayer was both contractual and conditional.  There is ample evidence of Jesus exhorting his follower to ask God for what they want.  For example, in the new testament, (Matthew 7:7) we are told  “Ask and you will receive.  Seek and you will find.  Knock and the door will be opened to you.”  And additionally (in Matthew 7: 9-12) Jesus goes even further asking, “Which of you, when your child asks for bread will give them a stone, or if they ask for a fish will give them a serpent…”

This kind of prayer no longer makes sense to me. We Quakers believe there is “that of God” in every person.  My way of thinking is this:  if the spirit of the Divine is carved into our individual soul, does not the Spirit already know what is our heart’s desire?  Is divine love so conditional that what we seek will be withheld until we bow our heads and pray for it?  I don’t think so.

I believe that I am God’s beloved; that each of us is God’s beloved and as such Divine love is poured out in such abundance that we are engulfed by the Spirit with love.  This love is never withheld, but is given freely.  Continuously.  Perhaps, in the passages above, Jesus is trying to teach us that Divine love and blessings are readily available and we just have to open ourselves up to the possibility.  We need only quiet our minds and listen in prayerful anticipation for the blessings of the Spirit, which abound.

With prayers of intersession, things get a bit more paradoxical for me.  When I am asked to pray for someone - or as we Quakers say to hold someone “in the light” - I do so as earnestly as I can knowing full well that it goes against my basic understanding of prayer.  Why do I need to ask God to help someone, when I fully believe that love and blessings are already being showered upon them?  But pray I will, in part because there are gold standard studies showing that intercessory prayers actually – verifiably help with healing.
 
When I am asked to hold someone “in the Light,” that is precisely what I do. I form an image of that person being enveloped with divine Light and Love.  There are no words to my prayer, just a deep belief that the love of God is showering down on the person in need.

Perhaps an easier way to think about this is to ponder a quote from the Indian Hindu Mystic, Ramakrishna who said, “The winds of grace are always blowing.  All we need do is raise our sails.” When we hold someone in the Light, what we are really doing is assisting them to raise their sails.
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In answer to the Friends Journal question, I offer this.  Prayer is the faith filled act of sitting confidently in Divine Light, knowing that love always abounds.

The Mary Oliver poem - What is There Beyond Knowing - has had a powerful impact on me, and especially from the recitation in the video below by Brooking Caldwell.  The poem begins at 1:38.  The text of the poem is also below.

What Is There Beyond Knowing
By Mary Oliver

What is there beyond knowing that keeps
calling to me? I can't

turn in any direction
but it's there. I don't mean

the leaves' grip and shine or even the thrush's
silk song, but the far-off

fires, for example,
of the stars, heaven's slowly turning

theater of light, or the wind
playful with its breath;

or time that's always rushing forward,
or standing still

in the same -- what shall I say --
moment.

What I know
I could put into a pack

as if it were bread and cheese, and carry it
on one shoulder,

important and honorable, but so small!
While everything else continues, unexplained

and unexplainable. How wonderful it is
to follow a thought quietly

to its logical end.
I have done this a few times.

But mostly I just stand in the dark field,
in the middle of the world, breathing

in and out. Life so far doesn't have any other name
but breath and light, wind and rain.

If there's a temple, I haven't found it yet.
I simply go on drifting, in the heaven of the grass
and the weeds.

​God is a dyer, dipping every
Essence of the cosmos into
Vats of luminous colors.
A work so delicate, as to be forgotten.
 
Am I a woven white cloth turned purple,
Or am I a purple cloth, now
so purely absorbed
That the color and the cloth are one?
 
Once, before time, there was
No cloth, but only an enduring color,
Lovingly waiting
To shine forth its hue.

There are times when I yearn for the God of the Bible’s Old Testament; the one who transformed a grandmother into a pillar of salt just because she was defiant and turned to look at the destruction of her home – the place where she grew up and raised a family.  It’s not so much that I want vengeance, but rather, it is cosmic accountability that I seek.

I live with this uncomfortable paradox that is difficult for me to reconcile.  I feel that we are all touched by the Divine.  The bedrock of Quaker faith and practice is the belief that there is “that of God” in everyone, which I believe is true.  When I find myself at an impasse in life I know (now) that I need only wait in expectant prayer and the answer will come.  Here’s an example.

I have always loved music.  I play – not particularly well - the guitar and piano.  And as a result, I often hear the voice of the Divine in the music wafting through my head.  My wife is more than five years cancer free now, but the time when we were in the thick of her diagnosis and she was facing a major operation, was a difficult one for our family.  One day during this fearful period, the Sam Cooke song, Stand by Me became an ear-worm, sounding over and over again in my mind, all morning long.

When the night has come
And the land is dark
And the moon is the only light we'll see
No, I won't be afraid
Oh, I won't be afraid
Just as long as you stand, stand by me

As I was standing at my kitchen counter, looking out onto our back yard while waiting for my coffee to finish brewing the song popped up again and I found myself asking, “what is this about?” And as soon as I asked that question, the answer appeared.  It was the Divine speaking to me in a way that would seep into my soul.  Don’t be afraid.  Stand by me.  I broke down and wept.  Not a tear or two kind of cry but a sobbing, weeping, tears pooling on the kitchen counter cry of thanks and relief for the whisper of grace I was given.

So this is the paradox.  I know in my soul that the Spirit of God speaks to everyone just as clearly as I know the Divine speaks to me.  I know that God is whispering to our leaders to control guns, to honor equity, to stop hatred, greed and wars.  God is calling on Donald Trump to stop dividing our country for his personal gain.  The Divine is pleading with Benjamin Netanyahu to stop the carnage in Gaza and urging Putin to halt the war in Ukraine, and exhorting the Rapid Support Forces in Darfur to stop the genocide.  The problem is, they aren’t listening or if they are, they don’t care.  And that’s why sometimes I wish for the Old Testament God to pour down fire and brimstone upon those who commit atrocities for the sake of their own power and greed.  I want the Divine to smack someone upside their head, to cover their body in boils, to turn them into a pillar of salt – just to make an example so the world will understand: God is calling.  Listen up!

I’m not proud of these feelings of cosmic wrath and understand that they aren’t very Quakerly. So I prayed for guidance, and the answer I received was this: “Listen.  Have faith.  Shine your own light onto the world.”  I suspect this doesn’t just apply to me.  I doubt I’m the only one with dreams of vengeance and wrath. 
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The Bible says that Lot’s wife was turned into a pillar of salt because she was disobedient and looked back.  Maybe we are all called to look forward and not to look back, to become vessels of the Divine, to be the light of peace to those around us.  And just maybe, that will be enough.