To the one insisting “All Lives Matter”

You have made
a protest,
albeit a small one.

I am listening.

I am listening.
I am waiting to hear
what is required of us.
If all lives matter,
then surely we need to be
outside the immigrant detention center,
looking to get inside,
to be with those who are told
with iron bars and silence
that they are nothing.

If all lives matter,
then surely we need to feed and clothe
and house with us and sing to and listen to
the refugees from the world’s wars.
If all lives matter,
then surely every classroom
in every neighborhood
needs our attention, now,
to be funded well enough
and staffed with the best-trained,
most supported, most lionized,
most highly paid teachers
so that children are proud and excited to be a part of it.

If all lives matter,
surely an adult who wants for a job
will be a collective failing
and only a collective failing
and you and I will start looking
for jobs for everyone who needs one.

If all lives matter,
surely when a man objectifies a woman,
in any way, anywhere,
it is an outrage upon our selfhood,
and in determination we will go back
to teaching young children
and corporations.

If all lives matter,
surely we will not rest
until women are paid right
and until the struggles of mothers and fathers
are regarded above the Dow Jones
as the main indicator
of how we are doing.

If all lives matter
then a young woman being followed
around a mall by a man with a gun,
or an old man being approached on the street
by two men with guns,
or a young man being pulled over for,
say, a broken taillight
by a man with a gun
will surely be a matter of the utmost concern for us.
And if there is a pattern of this happening,
over and over again,
throughout lifetimes,
surely we would be utterly provoked
to overturn heaven and earth
until our children are safe.

And if all lives matter,
surely the men and women who carry guns
and wear blue
and try to keep us safe
would be worthy of a better world than this.

If all lives matter,
surely the ghetto
would be a place
we actually want
to know more about.
Not as an investment opportunity,
but as proof of history,
and our spiritual home.

If all lives matter,
then our trade policy
and our defense policy
and our immigration policy
and our education policy
should be based on that premise
before anything else.
And we will never speak again
of getting the best deal for our country,
for we have determined together
that all lives matter.

Right?

When you say “all lives matter”,
is that what you mean, and if not,
what on earth
do you mean?

How can we possibly say
a life matters
if we’re not willing
to do anything about it?

I am listening.
Tell me what you mean
by all lives matter.

I want to live a life that matters,
and be a person that lives with the recognition
that all lives really do matter,
and I am willing to believe
that you want that too.

It will not be easy or comfortable
for either of us,
if you are telling the truth.
Yet I am listening.
And I am ready
for you to help me
grow into your vision.
Now let me know what it is.

I am listening.
Speak the words on your heart
that are worthy of the saying.

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Monday Blessing from Elie Wiesel

Your Monday Blessing, from Elie Wiesel’s 1986 Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech:

“I swore never to be silent whenever and wherever human beings endure suffering and humiliation. We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented. Sometimes we must interfere. When human lives are endangered, when human dignity is in jeopardy, national borders and sensitivities become irrelevant. Wherever men or women are persecuted because of their race, religion, or political views, that place must – at that moment – become the center of the universe.”

Read the whole speech – not long, and deeply compelling, here:

https://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/peace/laureates/1986/wiesel-acceptance_en.html

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Your Monday Blessing: Once Again I Recommit to my Surrender

Your Monday Blessing: Once Again I Recommit to my Surrender

Once again I recommit to my surrender
to love. They point their little guns at us,
there isn’t much time. Raise the mast heavenward,
unfurl the rainbow flag. I stand beneath it,
the living covenant. The flesh that defies
the letter. I claim myself as one of the fragile things,
on which eternity is born. They would dictate the terms
of our whisperings, but I answer you, my love,
that our surrender is final, is total, it begins and ends
at the river of our longings. Tell them our surrender is complete.

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Your Monday Blessing: from “The Epic of Muhammad Ali”, introduction

Speak, Muse, of the one who was the Greatest,
tell of how he stole glory from the gods,
punched the lights out of heaven and made us
all see stars. In this corner, show the odds
against the black man in America,
the beat-down, the score. Then give us Ali,
the boldest, the prettiest, the fighter
who slayed with Parkinson’s, the wild folly
who was the wisest soul of all. The world
stole a child’s bicycle; the champ, Alham-
dulillah, won the world in twenty years,
won through total surrender, through Islam.

“I done wrestled with an alligator,
I done tussled with a whale;
handcuffed lightning,
thrown thunder in jail;
only last week, I murdered a rock,
injured a stone, hospitalized a brick;
I’m so mean I make medicine sick.”

Sing, Muse, of this bout of pure poetry,
a book that broke the continental shelf,
the most scientific, the skillfullest,
the prettiest Clay that e’er made himself.

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The People Who Have Been Good to Me

I would be more cynical, I suppose, except it feels unfair
to the people who have been good to me.

My life, as I look back, has been littered with kindnesses.
Once, a woman made me tea. Asked me if I might sit in the garden,
as it was such a lovely day.

I was at the end of some particular rope of worries, as usual,
and in the sun they scattered away.

The story of my life
has been the story of other people
who have been in love
with basic decency and ordinary mercy.

I was caught up in their affairs,
and so made whole.

Imagine holding a beggar’s bowl
and being given the means
with which to be generous.

My judgment is clouded, for
I have been obliged towards beauty.

Some will say I leave too much out
of the moral equation.
“There are some people…”

Well, yes, and
that’s the thing.

There are some people.

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Plain Speech

God loves especially the poor,
for he is eager to give them everything.
God loves especially the hungry,
for she is eager to feed them.
God loves especially those who cry,
for ze is eager to wipe away their tears.
God loves especially those who people call evil,
those who are hated and cast out from company,
those who are reviled,
for ___ is eager to bring everyone home.

If God is God, then God is a trying
to put everything right,
an eternal passion towards righteousness.

So it is with G-d – and what about you?
The world asks what you deserve – and you always come up short.
But I ask: which way are you headed?

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Precious Moments

Precious Moments

Time is a sledgehammer to porcelain,
Memory, the hue of bathwater once
The kids have gone to bed. The word is said,
The allowance spent, quicker than the growth
Of an atom outside the lab. Give, then,
Each moment as a prize, hard-won from death.
Flaunt your breath, stolen from the gods before
The lights came on. The games are accomplished,
Now share the cup with the players common
To this old dressing room beneath the stars.
Before the final bars close out the page,
Cry out a heaven, true or make-believe,
And seduce the hands that hold the mild hours
To prayer, before the hammer swings again.

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Prayer for Humility

God, I pray you might humble
the grand, beautifully ornate and rather useless temple
of my self-importance,
and grind it into the common dust,
from which the actions, and best grace,
of this world are composed.

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Your Monday Blessing: Internet Advice

In the morning, instead of clicking on CNN to prove your theory
that the world is broken, you might try
taking a stroll through the mansion of your past.
It’s ready for you, more or less.
You’ve built it, and it would be a shame
to abandon it entirely. This is no show house: once,
you lived here for real. You will find the doors still work.
Some of them, at least, and what sticks
can wait, or rot. Gentle your stride
until all motive dissolves into wandering.
Linger in the light of old friends.
Find love you never struggled to make – a gift
you forgot about, tucked away in a drawer somewhere.
Then, having fed the homeless, go about your day.

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The Castle Ruins

The crabgrass towers over the dirt
at the castle ruins. The children
trample it down, in freewheeling
approximations of massacres past.
Only the echoes, only the hints of the shadows
of the echoes, are made to last.
The hostages run from the cannon,
the book losing a few pages in the telling.
Just think, this very rampart,
conceived to guard against terror,
and terrify in kind:
now, in pieces, greeting full wonder
from regenerated minds.

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