final season for Bush

twas better to die 'neath an irish sky

Like any good Irish lass, I have been known to have a Guinness (or five), and hop on small stages at places like Nanny O’Briens to sing along to joyful ballads about famine, theft, and well, . . . drinking five or more Guinnesses. Like any good Irish lass, I have read the poetry of my ancestors who mastered a language that was forced upon them. I have a stomach made for bland starches, and the skin for staying inside. I will probably have bagpipes at my wedding, exclusively for the purpose of making people with red faces and white hair weep. My DNA-given skill of implementing the silent treatment is both a blessing and a curse. Sure, I look good in green, and I find miniature, magical men with beards to be cute. But for me, being Irish has really always been about something more.

At an early age, my parents taught me that with being Irish comes the responsibility of living a life that honors the story of my ancestors. They taught me that what is most exciting and obligatory about my being Irish is my blood-given right to stand in solidarity with those who have been killed and oppressed by systematic political and military powers. My parents taught me, at a very young age, that being Irish was about the Foggy Dew. St. Patrick's Day is a good reminder for me, about what it means to be Irish.

“The Foggy Dew,” An old Irish Ballad about the Easter uprising of 1916:

As down the glen one Easter morn to a city fair rode I

There Armed lines of marching men in squadrons passed me by
No pipe did hum nor battle drum did sound its loud tattoo
But the Angelus Bell o'er the Liffey's swell rang out through the foggy dew

Right proudly high over Dublin Town they hung out the flag of war
'Twas better to die 'neath an Irish sky than at Suvla or Sud-El-Bar
And from the plains of Royal Meath strong men came hurrying through
While Britannia's Huns, with their long range guns sailed in through the foggy dew

'Twas England bade our wild geese go, that "small nations might be free";
Their lonely graves are by Suvla's waves or the fringe of the great North Sea.
Oh, had they died by Pearse's side or fought with Cathal Brugha*
Their graves we'd keep where the Fenians sleep, 'neath the shroud of the foggy dew.

Oh the night fell black, and the rifles' crack made perfidious Albion reel
In the leaden rain, seven tongues of flame did shine o'er the lines of steel
By each shining blade a prayer was said, that to Ireland her sons be true
But when morning broke, still the war flag shook out its folds in the foggy dew

Oh the bravest fell, and the Requiem bell rang mournfully and clear
For those who died that Eastertide in the spring time of the year
And the world did gaze, in deep amaze, at those fearless men, but few,
Who bore the fight that freedom's light might shine through the foggy dew

As back through the glen I rode again and my heart with grief was sore
For I parted then with valiant men whom I never shall see more
But to and fro in my dreams I go and I kneel and pray for you,
For slavery fled, O glorious dead, when you fell in the foggy dew.

who has a seat at your table?

My interest in raising children is on par with my interest in owning a dog, and anyone who knows me knows that I am not a dog person. (But that’s not where I am going with this blogpost.)

That being said, there is something that I envy that is very innate in the struggle of raising children, and what it all produces. Every time I go to Susan and Andy’s it becomes more and more difficult because I envy the love they have in their family. I envy it so much, it nearly brings me to tears, questioning my own human capacity to be capable of the day-to-day work required for raising children. They have two kids. Henry is five and Cal is two; I have been their weekly babysitter since I moved to Nashville. I am far from being a great babysitter, but they accept me anyway, even when I serve their kids garlic bread for dinner. They are members of the vast family that I have acquired on my life journey; it is a journey in which I have relied upon the loving and giving hearts of strangers who have evolved into forever friends.

Like Kathleen and her children. They have continued to provide for me, a sacred space for love, honesty, and understanding, and all without justification or trial. While the essential timing and unbelievably sincere and sacred efforts stand alone, the Harrington clan is not alone in having been welcoming to me. I have a long list of people to whom I should write heart-felt letters to about the grace, forgiveness, devotion and hospitality shown to me during my adult life everywhere from Jerusalem to Montana. If I knew I was going to die tomorrow, it is unlikely that I would sit around with my best friends or the people I see often. I would probably want to visit people like my friend Marcia in San Francisco, who offered me hospitality during a time of suffering and loneliness.

Patience and hospitality are the earthly things capable to create the welcoming conditions for the kingdom. If I have learned anything from divinity school, I have learned that hospitality is the heart of Christianity. As a liberation theologian, that specifies hospitality for the materially poor, - first and foremost. And parenthood seems to be baptism by fire about hospitality. The lines of mine and yours become less delineated. The thing, I believe, that separates parental love from eros (erotic love), agape (community love), or philos (fraternity), - is the willingness to engage is a particular type of kenosis if you will - - the willingness to empty yourself and die for your child. There is almost a joy in the thought of it.

St. Augustine might say that if we start acting hospitable, we will become hospitable. Choices can become our habits and our habits can become our nature.

Today, let us live with a spirit of hospitality.