Wednesday, September 24, 2014

John Steinbruck and the Challenge of Peace


We are on this planet to exemplify that light, that bread, that living water, those metaphors that Jesus used, to live out the truth in a non-violent way, simply to do justice, live justly, try, in the space over which you’re responsible . . . to create an oasis . . . to which the stranger can come and find refuge. – Rev. John F. Steinbruck
Long before he became an ordained Lutheran minister and a champion of the church as a place of refuge, John Steinbruck was taught a pivotal lesson on the sacredness of life. As a young teen in the early 1940’s, he purchased a Red Ryder spring-action BB gun with money earned from cutting lawns and setting up pins at the local bowling alley in his Northeast Philadelphia neighborhood. Only a few years past the Great Depression, with Americans fighting and dying in far-off lands, young John was proud of his new purchase and impatient to use it. He saw a beautiful red-breasted robin land on a bush behind his house. John aimed and fired, killing it with instant precision. As the bird fell to the ground, its eyes misty and body warm to the touch, John felt the disproportionate power a weapon provides.

But there was another witness. Ann, an elderly Catholic woman, slow moving and handicapped in speech, who lived behind the Steinbruck home, had watched from her back window as young Steinbruck ended the life of one of God’s creations for no apparent reason. Ann told John’s mother what she had seen, expressing her shock and hurt for what the young boy had done to such a vulnerable and innocent living thing. Mrs. Steinbruck, equally upset when she learned of her son’s conduct, immediately shelved John’s BB gun until he learned and understood the cruelty of his act.

America was then in the midst of World War II. Gold Stars of young men killed or missing in action hung in the windows of many of the city’s row homes as a testament that death in war was painfully necessary for the greater good. But it took a simple, elderly Christian woman of weak body and limited speech to teach Steinbruck that life is sacred, a gift from God; it possesses dignity and demands reverence. To take an innocent life for simple pleasure, even a small, ordinary bird in a bush, is morally and ethically wrong, a violation of God's will. It is a lesson he never forgot.

Steinbruck came of age during the Second World War, when suffering and sacrifice for a greater cause were part of the American fabric. He had seen what the devastation of war did to soldiers and their families. He watched his father struggle physically and psychologically from severe wounds inflicted during the First World War. Then, as a teenager during the 1940’s, Steinbruck witnessed the devastating news delivered to many local families as they were told that their sons, husbands, and brothers had paid the ultimate sacrifice. Too young to serve and fight himself during the war, Steinbruck enlisted in the Navy in December 1948 at the age of eighteen. He went off to boot camp a month later and commenced two years of peacetime service. He would eventually attend college and seminary and commit to a life of urban ministry.

Inspired in part by the life and work of Albert Schweitzer, Steinbruck devoted his life to putting his faith in action with a theology modeled on what he called the “sacred obligation” of “welcoming the stranger.” He came to recognize that, in the words of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel, “The task of a human being is to represent the Divine, to be a reminder of the presence of God.” He embraced the Quaker teaching, “There is that of God in everyone.” As described in a previous essay (“A Saint in the City: The Life, Faith, and Theology of John Steinbruck”), and in Eat Bananas and Follow Your Heart (Bookstand Publishing 2011), Steinbruck’s talents and passion for justice eventually led him to Luther Place Memorial Church in Washington, DC, an historic red-stone church centrally located in the city’s red light district, with prostitutes and pimps patrolling the street corners just eight blocks from the White House.

In 1970, when Steinbruck became the Senior Pastor at Luther Place, the area surrounding 14th and N Streets was full of crime, drugs, and racial strife. It was here that Steinbruck developed and put into practice a non-violent theology of welcoming the stranger, of treating life as God intended us to.  But Steinbruck believed in the power of faith grounded in justice to transform the lives of individuals and the nation. “As we are hospitable to each other,” he said to me a few years ago, “we will thrive as a country.” His passion for justice is based in part on Matthew 25:35 (“For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink; I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”). These are not just nice sounding words, according to Steinbruck, but God’s commandment that we treat all of humanity, including the “least of these,” with love and compassion, an imperative reinforced not by Karl Marx, but by Acts 4:32-35 (“…and it was distributed to anyone as he had need”).

I first met Steinbruck in 1986, when I heard him preach and knew immediately that Luther Place was a church to which I could belong. Steinbruck preached with power and charisma and, with the help of a socially conscious and politically active congregation, gave witness to biblical hospitality, opening the church doors each night to hundreds of homeless women. Long before I arrived, Luther Place and an interfaith coalition of supporters in the community had created what came to be known as the N Street Village, an impressive collection of homeless shelters, health clinics and counseling centers that served to re-unite families and transition them from homelessness and drug addiction to recovery, work, and self-sustaining independence.

*     *     *     *

Steinbruck will turn 84 in October. His health in serious decline, he suffers from Parkinson’s and was recently diagnosed with cancer. He has slowed considerably from the days he shook up the halls of power in the nation’s capital. I have been privileged to occasionally speak and correspond with Steinbruck since leaving Washington in the mid-1990s, and after he and wife Erna retired to Lewes, Delaware. During these talks, and through his emails and correspondence, I have sensed Steinbruck’s growing frustration with the Church as an institution and America’s inability to reflect seriously on issues of justice, inequality, and peace. “We live in a bubble in America,” he often reminds me, “oblivious to other people’s suffering. We consume like hell, an insatiable greed. Yet are you aware there is a war on?”

Steinbruck contends that the majority of self-proclaimed Christians in the United States misuse and distort the Gospel and the nature and spirit of their stated religion. “We mix religion and patriotism very shrewdly,” he says. “Our society uses the stamp of Jesus to sanctify a system based on inequalities and military might.” But the purpose of Christianity and religion is not to make us feel good, he insists. It is instead to spur us into action to make the world better, more just; to impose God’s vision of shalom and justice on Earth.

Recently, Steinbruck sent me a draft of his reflections on peace, or more specifically, the challenge of peace in the 21st century. “Read our theology. Read our Gospel. We are a peace church,” he insisted during a phone call last week. “And yet we have never met a war that the church could not embrace. We have never reconciled that the United States is the most militarized society in the world, and then we tell our kids, ‘Thou shall not kill.’ Excuse me? Is God just giving his opinion?”

“But what do we even mean by peace?” he asks. “Do we mean the absence of conflict? Or do we mean something larger, deeper, more profound, all encompassing? Is it even possible? Would we humans ever allow it?” Steinbruck contends that, perhaps it is time for the human race to try something as radical and revolutionary as peace, that “perhaps it is time that followers of the Prince of Peace call for a spiritual, theological, biblical, ethical caucus.”

During the years I attended Luther Place, Steinbruck regularly reminded his Lutheran flock of the Jewish roots of Christianity, and his sermons often contained traces of wisdom from influential Jewish theologians. In his writings on peace, Steinbruck contends, “The Church and its faithful need to recall the original biblical vision of shalom, and never forget that God has sanctified every human life. Every blessed one! So why then do we easily opt for violence, instead of the creative, reconciling, inexhaustible love we know from the biblical witness, and that we experience regularly in Communion with the Prince of Shalom?”

To Steinbruck, shalom means so much more than simply peace. “In my biblical understanding, shalom is the vision toward which we strive.” It is properly paired with another Hebrew term, tikkun olam, which means “to repair the world,” for it is only by “working together to maintain balance among all of the competing needs of the world’s humanity” that we can ever wish to attain shalom, tikkun olam, and this holistic vision of peace and justice.

Steinbruck writes of one quiet Sunday afternoon in 1949, when as a lowly seaman he was restricted to the naval base in Norfolk, Virginia. He took a long walk along the dock and observed the entire fleet of battleships, aircraft carriers, cruisers, destroyers, and a nest of submarines, all resting quietly side-by-side. Although America was officially at peace, the dark clouds of the Cold War hovered ever so near and the tranquility of that Sunday afternoon would be disrupted time and again over the next 65 years. Steinbruck re-enacted that solitary stroll thirty years later, in 1979, when he was a Chaplain in the U.S. Naval Reserves. He was amazed at how little had changed. A near-identical assortment of ships and carriers, submarines and cruisers were all there, except now the entire menu of warships was nuclear – nuclear submarines and nuclear equipped aircraft carriers. “It occurred to me then,” he said, “that over the thirty year stretch we had spent more billions than I can count, and I felt not one degree safer.”

Steinbruck wonders today whether it is time to finally ask, “Is this working? Are the trillions of dollars we spend on so-called ‘Defense’ bringing about a more just world?” One can hear the exasperation in Steinbruck’s voice when he begins to go down this path. “I understand history and the complexity of different situations we find ourselves in, but what I am contending is that the church should be constantly grasping and struggling with these issues.” It is a point of contention that resonates with me, for I have often suggested that if the Church and the institutions of faith are not providing a moral voice and aspirational vision for the rest of society, then who will?

Steinbruck’s theology is defined in very simple terms: “The face of God is in every human being. . . . Every human life possesses dignity and demands reverence.” These concepts, says Steinbruck, are “at base in all of our Christian faiths and in Judaism, which is the base of the Christian faith. But what bothers me is that we don’t even struggle to figure it out – we don’t agonize over it. Maybe it’s about time we sweated this issue out.”

Having lived through a state of permanent war in places like Afghanistan, with repeated drone strikes in Somalia, Pakistan, and Yemen, and with the United States once again becoming embroiled in another war in the Middle East, Steinbruck ponders if “perhaps it is time to be more demanding of ourselves; what is the reality of the church?”

“Know this,” he says, “the peace we seek cannot tolerate the bombs we drop, or the firing of missiles from above upon innocent villages.” It all goes back to the heart of shalom and the church as refuge. “It is all connected,” he says. “I was hungry, thirsty, naked, sick, homeless, and you welcomed me, fed me, clothed me, healed me, [and] embraced me with limitless love.” Instead of spending trillions on the armaments of death and destruction, why have we not seriously contended with “the malnutrition of our children, the homeless families in need of housing . . . a war oriented economy exhausting vital resources for human survival, in this, God’s world.”

What is our mission, or what should it be? Steinbruck has a suggestion. “It is to walk in peace,” he says, and to recognize the virtue of life and the face of God in all of humanity. “It is time for a moral caucus. To talk to one another. To pray together. And to act in loving witness for the saving of this precious, gifted world.” In the time he has remaining on this Earth, we would do well to listen to John Steinbruck.
What does the Lord require of you, but to do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God? – Micah 6:8

 

Thursday, September 11, 2014

Perspective


The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena. Think of the endless cruelties visited by the inhabitants of one corner of this pixel on the scarcely distinguishable inhabitants of some other corner, how frequent their misunderstandings, how eager they are to kill one another, how fervent their hatreds. Think of the rivers of blood spilled by all those generals and emperors so that, in glory and triumph, they could become the momentary masters of a fraction of a dot. – Carl Sagan
There are times in life when we are reminded of how little control we have over the everyday progress of our lives. When we see clearly that the Earth is but a speck in a vast universe, for a moment we better understand the fragile nature of life and our relationships to the natural world and to each other.

I was reminded of this in the Fall of 1991, when I saw Grand Canyon, a film directed by Lawrence Kasdan that revolves around the lives of a small group of people in southern California. From a wealthy Hollywood accountant who finds himself threatened by a group of black youth when his luxury car breaks down late at night, to an African American tow-truck driver who arrives in time to diffuse the situation, their lives are brought together through a series of random life-changing events. The characters, though separated by race and economic status, are each in their own way struggling to find meaning in a world that is often broken and divided. At the end of the story, they journey together to the Grand Canyon, where they encounter monumental wonder and the majestic beauty of the natural world. The experience allows them to step out of time and culture to discover something much larger than their individual and collective selves; to become united in a place that puts into better perspective their personal struggles, exposing the myth of separateness in their lives.

All of us, I suspect, have taken similar journeys when we have encountered the glory and grandeur of the universe. Perhaps, like me, you witnessed a star-filled sky from the top of a mountain on a clear night in New Mexico, the galaxy visible from a small segment of Earth below it. Or you walked along the shores of Lake Michigan on a cool September morning and watched the sun reflecting off the gentle waves of the clear-blue water stretching to the horizon. Or you stood in the well of the Sistine Chapel and admired the wonders of Michelangelo’s artistic and spiritual masterpiece. With each experience, we are challenged to take something more from the encounter than the visual alone; we take some meaning that enhances the remainder of our life’s journey.

“We are placed in a delicate network of vital relationships with the divine, with fellow human beings, and with the rest of creation,” said South African Bishop Desmond Tutu. “We violate nature only at our peril, and are meant to live as members of one family.” It is an important lesson that challenges the cynicism and depression confronting us on a daily basis, for we live in a time of heartbreaking news, endless conflict and despair. If, instead of always magnetizing what is bad and broken we attempt to see what is good in this world, we can step outside of ourselves and appreciate the beauty of life, the diversity of the world’s humanity, and the decency that takes place every day amidst tragedy and defeatism.

*     *     *     *

“The planet does not need more successful people,” said the Dalai Lama. “The planet desperately needs more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of all kinds.” As the world becomes ever more complex and broken, it becomes more difficult to process and to maintain a sense of hope and idealism. Every day we learn of civil wars and foreign conflicts, the terror of ISIS and Islamic extremism, televised beheadings of American journalists, displaced refugees, homeless children at our borders, environmental degradation and melting polar ice caps, all part of a world divided by religion, politics, and cynicism.

So how does one process the tragedy and heartbreak we read about and listen to each day? In a world of unlimited information and mass communication, with negative and hysterical noise bombarding us from all directions, how is it possible not to occasionally shut it down? Courtney Martin, a weekly columnist for NPR’s On Being, suggests that to remain an informed person in today’s world we must immerse ourselves in “the eternal stream of rubble, corruption, and death that is the daily news cycle.” It may explain why only a small percentage of us follow the news of political violence and religious strife in Syria, Iraq, Ukraine, and other of the world’s trouble spots.

It is understandable that people choose to shield themselves from news that has little obvious effect on their daily lives. Frequent consumption of negative news stories serves only to heighten our personal worries and anxieties. And yet, informed citizens are an important check against the abuse of state and corporate power. “If we, the relatively safe and privileged reader, don’t act as witnesses to the world’s violence,” asks Martin, “how can we fight against it? Is our mental comfort more important than the motivation that our discomfort might produce?”

It is a sense of perspective that is missing from most of the news we consume, a context in which the world’s events fit into a larger historical and geopolitical picture. I am troubled that the media fails to report more positive responses, people and organizations working to bridge misunderstanding, organizations such as United Hatzalah in Israel, where Jews and Muslims work together to provide medical assistance to those in need regardless of nationality, religion or ethnicity; The Water Project, Inc., which brings sustainable water projects to sub-Saharan Africa, where access to clean water and proper sanitation radically transforms lives and brings hope to the people who live there; Aware Girls, which trains young activists in Pakistan to challenge violence and extremism; and Yakjah, a project of Peace Direct in India, which brings together young people from across Kashmir’s different religious and ethnic communities to learn about each other’s cultures and promote social harmony. 

There are so many more – Doctors without Borders, Lutheran World Relief, Church World Service, Catholic Relief Services, Oxfam, the list goes on. Peace and harmony is hard work, but those who strive for it every day rarely make the news. It is not the stuff of newspaper sales or television ratings. 

Only with a sense of perspective and context can we truly understand the significance and long-term importance of certain world events, and the relative insignificance of personal obstacles and setbacks. The world may be full of conflict and suffering, but it also is full of  love and wonder. It is at once cruel and kind, tragic and beautiful, corrupt and creative. Amidst all of the desperation that surrounds us, there exists the transformative power of light and hope and decency. “We must shine a light on the darkness,” says Martin, “but we must also cease overshadowing the light.”
Though we travel the world over to find the beautiful, we must carry it with us or we find it not. – Ralph Waldo Emerson

Saturday, August 23, 2014

The Benefits of a Sister


“My sister taught me everything I really need to know, and she was only in sixth grade at the time.” – Linda Sunshine
I had just turned two when the above photograph was taken, obviously excited about the prospect of diving into the birthday cake and proud of myself for having successfully blown out the two candles that stood in the way of yet another sugar buzz. My sister Linda, 7 ½ years old, stands beside me, her bright smile and innocent looking face betraying a slightly devilish spirit. I have no independent recollection of this precise moment in history, but I have only fond childhood memories of my sister.

“A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost,” wrote American author Marion C. Garretty. Though we were always in different schools or stages in life, Linda remains a solid presence in my life and the lives of my children, someone we can turn to for a kind word or listening ear.

My earliest memories of Linda are of her seated to my right in the backseat of our family’s Ford station wagon whenever the three of us kids, with me stuck in the middle, traveled anywhere as a family unit. It was the station wagon in which we took long vacations, pulling a Nimrod camper and driving for hours on end until reaching an inexpensive campsite somewhere between New Jersey and Utah, where the most excitement was finding some rocks to climb, a lake on which to skip stones, and the local canteen from which to buy candy and soda. Each morning, with Mom and dog Peppie aboard, Dad would announce when it was time for the three kids to cram into the backseat, where we stayed for the duration of the eight hours it took to reach our next destination. 

Although my parents would contend that I was placed in the middle because I was then the youngest and smallest of the three siblings, I tend to believe it was more of a strategic decision. Linda was only two years older than brother Steve, and they had a more traditional and competitive sibling relationship. At times, they got along about as well as the Protestants and Catholics in Northern Ireland back in the late sixties. Stuck in the middle seat, I was a bit like Switzerland, acting as the neutral intermediary and physical buffer between Steve and Linda.  

It has been rumored the genesis of their tensions was the time Linda “accidentally” slammed the basement door shut precisely when Steve, then only two years old, stood at the top of the basement stairwell. What Steve was doing there and why he was standing unsupervised at the top of the stairwell has never been adequately examined. Nonetheless, the force of the door at the hands of Linda’s swift gesture abruptly sent Steve tumbling down the stairs to the cement floor eight steps below. None the worse for wear – the Doctor said it was likely because Steve was “relaxed” when he fell – Steve never quite forgave Linda for the mishap. Linda insisted in later years, without benefit of counsel, that she did not know Steve was standing there and that it was a mere accident. Steve is not so sure, but no charges were filed and the statute of limitations has long since expired, so we will never really know.

Linda was always nice to me, her youngest and more angelic brother, and for that I am forever grateful. When I was six years old and our family lived in Moorestown, New Jersey, Linda often walked me up the hill on Parry Drive to the local library or Woolworth’s on Main Street. Five-and-a-half years my senior, she possessed an air of authority that I admired and respected. Unlike siblings closer in age, there was never a sense of competition or rivalry between us. She was my friend and defender, my counselor to the ways of the world. As I grew older, she would teach me how to treat girls, what new foods to try, what classes to take, and how to maneuver college life and newfound independence. She helped me through my divorce many years ago, and she has been a wonderful aunt to my two daughters and a good friend to Andrea.


Born in 1953 when traditional notions of femininity prevailed and girls were expected to be teachers or nurses before succumbing to the life of a suburban housewife, Linda came of age in, but never totally embraced, the revolutionary sixties. In high school, she was the captain of the Cheerleading Squad, which brought many added benefits to me as a younger brother, especially when her cheerleader friends stopped by our house, as they often did. By the early 1970’s, with the mini-skirt in fashion and various social revolutions underway in the United States, I quietly endured these female invasions without complaint.

As someone who emphasized the “mini” in mini-skirts, Linda was a rather popular girl with the guys. Not yet realizing the ways of the world, I had a tendency to “hang out” with Linda and her boyfriends whenever she invited one of them over. The boyfriends were invariably polite at first, tolerating my presence as a means of impressing Linda with how nice and thoughtful they could be with this little brat she called a brother, but after a while I sensed a touch of annoyance. What could they have possibly had against me? But Linda was exceedingly patient with me, not wanting me to feel unwelcome. And besides, if I didn’t like the guy, she would eventually ditch him.

But time passes quickly and memories fade. I was only twelve years old when Linda left home to attend Wittenberg University in Springfield, Ohio. As the daughter of parents who had met at Wittenberg, and impressed by its southern Ohio charm, off to the Midwest she went. Linda was the third member of my immediate family (after my mom and dad) to embrace the bucolic, tree-lined, grass-filled campus of that small but friendly liberal arts college. I looked forward to her brief returns home during winter and spring breaks, and I listened attentively to her tales and stories of college life, of football games and frat parties, the challenges of coursework, what the professors and students were like, when and where she studied, and where the best parties were.

During her sophomore year, Linda took a philosophy class with Professor Bob Long, who had been friends with my dad in college. On the first day of class, Dr. Long looked over the student roster and saw the name Ehlers. He looked up and scanned the room, pausing when his eyes spotted Linda’s familiar looking face. “Are you the daughter of Ed Ehlers?” he asked. Linda nodded. “Well, you’re a lot better looking than your old man!” Political correctness having not yet infiltrated the halls of Wittenberg, his remark was met with hearty laughter – at my dad’s expense, of course. 

Linda graduated college in 1976 in an outdoor ceremony on a beautiful, sunlit Ohio day. I can still remember the sense of pride I felt when she received her degree in full graduation regalia, a milestone that continues to mean something and which set an example for Steve and me. It is Linda I credit for my decision in 1977 to also attend Wittenberg. Linda was my cool, hip sister, and when she told me that Wittenberg would be a good fit for me, with the right mix of academics and social life, I knew instinctively it was where I wanted to go. When I graduated from there in 1981, I was glad I had listened to her advice and counsel.

The memories of childhood soon fade and our lives move ever so swiftly in chaotic directions. Linda married her college sweetheart at the young age of 22, gave birth to two boys, and moved to places far away – Oklahoma, Texas, and Louisiana. Her first marriage ended in divorce and she has had some rocky times, with health issues and disappointments in life and work. But through it all she has raised two admirable young men, adopted four stray cats while caring for a rambunctious dog the size of a horse that she rescued from Hurricane Katrina, frequently buys lunch for homeless people on the streets of New Orleans, and generously offers her kindness and friendship to all smart enough to accept it.

Through life’s many challenges, Linda has retained her sense of humor. When my daughter Jennifer visited Linda in New Orleans during a college spring break, I called to see how they were doing. Linda answered the phone and said that she and Jen were sitting on the deck enjoying the weather and talking things over. Sensing that wine or other spirits may be involved, and concerned that Jen was not yet of legal age, I asked, “You’re not corrupting my daughter, are you?” There was a momentary silence on the other end of the phone, a little shifting around, until finally Linda replied, “What happens in New Orleans, stays in New Orleans.” And that was that. She would repeat this line when daughter Hannah visited New Orleans last spring.


I am always amazed in looking back on my life at how quickly time moves and how different is reality from our imagined dreams. Linda is 60 now, although she doesn’t look it, and life has passed us by with ineffable swiftness. Linda did not become famous, develop a cure for cancer, or win the Pulitzer Prize, but she has succeeded where many others in life have failed. For if everyone possessed the kindness and caring ways that Linda has maintained throughout her life, regardless of what fate and the Gods bequeathed her, the world would be a better, more refined and friendly place.

“There can be no situation in life,” according to the English writer Mary Montagu, “in which the conversation of my dear sister will not administer some comfort to me.” Distance and time have separated us for most of our adult lives, but it is because of Linda I understand still the benefits of a sister.