Hamilton, again. Except Burr.

You may think I am cheating because I've already blogged about Hamilton kind of but it's not cheating because I have been listening to the musical non-stop since then and so it's basically the only thing I have engaged--theologically or otherwise--in a week. It's playing in the background right now as I'm writing. And probably will be playing in the background (of my life) whenever you're reading this. Okay maybe not forever but at least the first time.

There's so much to be said about how much Hamilton has made me feel. (Like that time when there was a lyrical reference to The Last Five Years and you BETCHA I gasped and then cried.)

But! What I want to grab at this week is the profound sense of loss expressed by Aaron Burr. I know, I know, he's like the bad guy or whatever. But! In the first act, Burr (played beautifully by Leslie Odom, Jr.) sings "Wait For It." The first verse is about the married woman he has a relationship with. He can't really have her, because her husband is a British soldier. Whoops.

[Pro tip: go on Spotify and play this song. It'll help you to get where I'm coming from if you can hear the resignation in his voice, and then the rising to meet the anguish of the ensemble.]

He sings:

"Love doesn't discriminate
between the sinners and the saints
it takes and it takes and it takes
and we keep loving anyway.
We laugh and we cry
and we break
and we make our mistakes.
And if there's a reason I'm by her side
when so many have tried
then I'm willing to wait for it
wait for it wait for it."

The next verse is about the deaths of his parents, and so the chorus is altered slightly--and this is where the theologizing of his experience just leaps out of my speakers:

"Death doesn't discriminate
between the sinners and the saints
it takes and it takes and it takes
and we keep living anyway.
We rise and we fall
and we break
and we make our mistakes.
And if there's a reason I'm still alive
when everyone who loves me has died
then I'm willing to wait for it,
wait for it, wait for it."

This is what's hard about not ascribing to an "everything happens for a reason" kind of understanding of God, because we can't say "this death all around you is the direct work of God" and be satisfied with that explanation. Lutherans like myself are so easily able to say that God doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints because we know ourselves to be simultaneously sinner and saint! That's the mess of it. "We keep living, anyway. We rise, and we fall, and we break, and we make our mistakes." And God rises and falls with us.

And I cannot ignore the pronouns. We keep living anyway. We rise and we fall and we break and we make our mistakes. There's a recognition of the communal nature of this type of suffering, but then there's a deep loneliness in the return to the singular pronouns of "I'm still alive when everyone who loves me has died."

And I don't know how long he waits. Is that one of those "all questions answered at the pearly gates" kind of things? Because we all know I'm not there with that.

I wonder: is he waiting for a time when he can live a life not marked by loss? Living alongside his beloved partner and child(ren), not in secret, not in fear. Living into a new generation, less pre-occupied with the death of his own parents. After the war, after the revolution, not surrounded by fallen soldiers, all so young. I think Burr just wants to live a whole, whole life. And who among us can't identify with that?!

"Faithful Heights," Night Beds

This is a 14-minute set from NPR, that includes the song I want you to hear. Listen to the whole thing, if you've got 14 minutes to spare, of course. And then look up Night Beds on your music source of choice and listen to all of the songs that aren't in these 14 minutes. And, I hope, love them as I do.

I know you get lost sometimes, man.

Whenever you get lost, hold my hands.

Ecumenical Advocacy Days, part one, I think.

I spent the last week in Washington, D.C., with some friends and with the 99 Collective (not that that's not friends) and 750 people from 50+ denominations and organizations across the country at Ecumenical Advocacy Days. The theme of EAD was "At God's Table," and our focus was food justice, in particular as it pertains to the Farm Bill. There is so much to say that I'm just sort of at a loss for how to best express what it was we did and learned and are called to go out and do, so, for now, I'll leave you with the lyrics of the "theme song" of the event -- "A Place At the Table". 

For everyone born, a place at the table,

for everyone born, clean water and bread,

a shelter, a space, a safe place for growing,

for everyone born, a star over head.

And God will delight when we are creators of justice

and joy, compassion and peace;

yes, God will delight when we are creators of justice,

justice and joy.

For woman and man, a place at the table,

revising the roles, deciding to share,

with wisdom and grace, dividing the power,

for woman and man, a system that’s fair. Refrain

For young and for old, a place at the table,

a voice to be heard, a part in the song,

the hands of a child in hands that are wrinkled,

for young and for old, the right to belong. Refrain

For just and unjust, a place at the table.

abuser, abused, with need to forgive,

in anger, in hurt, a mind-set of mercy,

for just and unjust, a new way to live. Refrain

For everyone born, a place at the table,

to live without fear, and simply to be,

to work, to speak out, to witness and worship,

for everyone born, the right to be free. Refrain