text:
The Letter – Remembering Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
On January 16, 2023 By robertalanrifeIn Christian spirituality, Christianity, faith, Family, life together, sacramental living, spiritual formation, The ChurchLeave a comment
What follows is long to modern, twenty-first century soundbyte attention spans. However, in it, one gets a keen sense of what prophetic Christian faith at its best can look like. Dr. King remains a paragon of courage, conviction, and unwavering commitment to peace in the face of odds that make me wilt at the thought. He's one of my faith heroes. I pray, if he isn't already, that he may become one of yours too.
Treat yourself to the following as, together, we commemorate his life, death, ministry career, and legacy.
Letter from Birmingham Jail
MY DEAR FELLOW CLERGYMEN:
While confined here in the Birmingham city jail, I came across your recent statement calling my present activities "unwise and untimely." Seldom do I pause to answer criticism of my work and ideas. If I sought to answer all the criticisms that cross my desk, my secretaries would have little time for anything other than such correspondence in the course of the day, and I would have no time for constructive work. But since I feel that you are men of genuine good will and that your criticisms are sincerely set forth, I want to try to answer your statements in what I hope will be patient and reasonable terms.
I think I should indicate why I am here in Birmingham, since you have been influenced by the view which argues against "outsiders coming in." I have the honor of serving as president of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference, an organization operating in every southern state, with headquarters in Atlanta, Georgia. We have some eighty-five affiliated organizations across the South, and one of them is the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights. Frequently we share staff, educational and financial resources with our affiliates. Several months ago the affiliate here in Birmingham asked us to be on call to engage in a nonviolent direct-action program if such were deemed necessary. We readily consented, and when the hour came we lived up to our promise. So I, along with several members of my staff, am here because I was invited here. I am here because I have organizational ties here.
But more basically, I am in Birmingham because injustice is here. Just as the prophets of the eighth century B.C. left their villages and carried their "thus saith the Lord" far beyond the boundaries of their home towns, and just as the Apostle Paul left his village of Tarsus and carried the gospel of Jesus Christ to the far corners of the Greco-Roman world, so am I. I am compelled to carry the gospel of freedom beyond my own home town. Like Paul, I must constantly respond to the Macedonian call for aid.
Moreover, I am cognizant of the interrelatedness of all communities and states. I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham. Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly. Never again can we afford to live with the narrow, provincial "outside agitator" idea. Anyone who lives inside the United States can never be considered an outsider anywhere within its bounds.
You deplore the demonstrations taking place in Birmingham. But your statement, I am sorry to say, fails to express a similar concern for the conditions that brought about the demonstrations. I am sure that none of you would want to rest content with the superficial kind of social analysis that deals merely with effects and does not grapple with underlying causes. It is unfortunate that demonstrations are taking place in Birmingham, but it is even more unfortunate that the city's white power structure left the Negro community with no alternative.
In any nonviolent campaign there are four basic steps: collection of the facts to determine whether injustices exist; negotiation; self-purification; and direct action. We have gone through all these steps in Birmingham. There can be no gainsaying the fact that racial injustice engulfs this community. Birmingham is probably the most thoroughly segregated city in the United States. Its ugly record of brutality is widely known. Negroes have experienced grossly unjust treatment in the courts. There have been more unsolved bombings of Negro homes and churches in Birmingham than in any other city in the nation. These are the hard, brutal facts of the case. On the basis of these conditions, Negro leaders sought to negotiate with the city fathers. But the latter consistently refused to engage in good-faith negotiation.
Then, last September, came the opportunity to talk with leaders of Birmingham's economic community. In the course of the negotiations, certain promises were made by the merchants–for example, to remove the stores' humiliating racial signs. On the basis of these promises, the Reverend Fred Shuttlesworth and the leaders of the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights agreed to a moratorium on all demonstrations. As the weeks and months went by, we realized that we were the victims of a broken promise. A few signs, briefly removed, returned; the others remained.
As in so many past experiences, our hopes bad been blasted, and the shadow of deep disappointment settled upon us. We had no alternative except to prepare for direct action, whereby we would present our very bodies as a means of laying our case before the conscience of the local and the national community. Mindful of the difficulties involved, we decided to undertake a process of self-purification. We began a series of workshops on nonviolence, and we repeatedly asked ourselves: "Are you able to accept blows without retaliating?" "Are you able to endure the ordeal of jail?" We decided to schedule our direct-action program for the Easter season, realizing that except for Christmas, this is the main shopping period of the year. Knowing that a strong economic withdrawal program would be the by-product of direct action, we felt that this would be the best time to bring pressure to bear on the merchants for the needed change.
Then it occurred to us that Birmingham's mayoralty election was coming up in March, and we speedily decided to postpone action until after election day. When we discovered that the Commissioner of Public Safety, Eugene "Bull" Connor, had piled up enough votes to be in the run-off we decided again to postpone action until the day after the run-off so that the demonstrations could not be used to cloud the issues. Like many others, we waited to see Mr. Connor defeated, and to this end we endured postponement after postponement. Having aided in this community need, we felt that our direct-action program could be delayed no longer.
You may well ask: "Why direct action? Why sit-ins, marches and so forth? Isn't negotiation a better path?" You are quite right in calling for negotiation. Indeed, this is the very purpose of direct action. Nonviolent direct action seeks to create such a crisis and foster such a tension that a community which has constantly refused to negotiate is forced to confront the issue. It seeks so to dramatize the issue that it can no longer be ignored. My citing the creation of tension as part of the work of the nonviolent-resister may sound rather shocking. But I must confess that I am not afraid of the word "tension." I have earnestly opposed violent tension, but there is a type of constructive, nonviolent tension which is necessary for growth. Just as Socrates felt that it was necessary to create a tension in the mind so that individuals could rise from the bondage of myths and half-truths to the unfettered realm of creative analysis and objective appraisal, we must see the need for nonviolent gadflies to create the kind of tension in society that will help men rise from the dark depths of prejudice and racism to the majestic heights of understanding and brotherhood.
The purpose of our direct-action program is to create a situation so crisis-packed that it will inevitably open the door to negotiation. I therefore concur with you in your call for negotiation. Too long has our beloved Southland been bogged down in a tragic effort to live in monologue rather than dialogue.
One of the basic points in your statement is that the action that I and my associates have taken in Birmingham is untimely. Some have asked: "Why didn't you give the new city administration time to act?" The only answer that I can give to this query is that the new Birmingham administration must be prodded about as much as the outgoing one, before it will act. We are sadly mistaken if we feel that the election of Albert Boutwell as mayor will bring the millennium to Birmingham. While Mr. Boutwell is a much more gentle person than Mr. Connor, they are both segregationists, dedicated to maintenance of the status quo. I have hope that Mr. Boutwell will be reasonable enough to see the futility of massive resistance to desegregation. But he will not see this without pressure from devotees of civil rights. My friends, I must say to you that we have not made a single gain for civil rights without determined legal and nonviolent pressure. Lamentably, it is an historical fact that privileged groups seldom give up their privileges voluntarily. Individuals may see the moral light and voluntarily give up their unjust posture; but, as Reinhold Niebuhr has reminded us, groups tend to be more immoral than individuals.
We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. Frankly, I have yet to engage in a direct-action campaign that was "well timed" in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. For years now I have heard the word "Wait!" It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This "Wait" has almost always meant "Never." We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that "justice too long delayed is justice denied."
We have waited for more than 340 years for our constitutional and God-given rights. The nations of Asia and Africa are moving with jetlike speed toward gaining political independence, but we still creep at horse-and-buggy pace toward gaining a cup of coffee at a lunch counter. Perhaps it is easy for those who have never felt the stinging darts of segregation to say, "Wait." But when you have seen vicious mobs lynch your mothers and fathers at will and drown your sisters and brothers at whim; when you have seen hate-filled policemen curse, kick and even kill your black brothers and sisters; when you see the vast majority of your twenty million Negro brothers smothering in an airtight cage of poverty in the midst of an affluent society; when you suddenly find your tongue twisted and your speech stammering as you seek to explain to your six-year-old daughter why she can't go to the public amusement park that has just been advertised on television, and see tears welling up in her eyes when she is told that Funtown is closed to colored children, and see ominous clouds of inferiority beginning to form in her little mental sky, and see her beginning to distort her personality by developing an unconscious bitterness toward white people; when you have to concoct an answer for a five-year-old son who is asking: "Daddy, why do white people treat colored people so mean?"; when you take a cross county drive and find it necessary to sleep night after night in the uncomfortable corners of your automobile because no motel will accept you; when you are humiliated day in and day out by nagging signs reading "white" and "colored"; when your first name becomes "nigger," your middle name becomes "boy" (however old you are) and your last name becomes "John," and your wife and mother are never given the respected title "Mrs."; when you are harried by day and haunted by night by the fact that you are a Negro, living constantly at tiptoe stance, never quite knowing what to expect next, and are plagued with inner fears and outer resentments; when you are forever fighting a degenerating sense of "nobodiness" then you will understand why we find it difficult to wait. There comes a time when the cup of endurance runs over, and men are no longer willing to be plunged into the abyss of despair. I hope, sirs, you can understand our legitimate and unavoidable impatience.
You express a great deal of anxiety over our willingness to break laws. This is certainly a legitimate concern. Since we so diligently urge people to obey the Supreme Court's decision of 1954 outlawing segregation in the public schools, at first glance it may seem rather paradoxical for us consciously to break laws. One may ask: "How can you advocate breaking some laws and obeying others?" The answer lies in the fact that there are two types of laws: There are just and there are unjust laws. I would be the first to advocate obeying just laws. One has not only a legal but a moral responsibility to obey just laws. Conversely, one has a moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws. I would agree with St. Augustine that "an unjust law is no law at all."
Now, what is the difference between the two? How does one determine whether a law is just or unjust? A just law is a man-made code that squares with the moral law or the law of God. An unjust law is a code that is out of harmony with the moral law. To put it in the terms of St. Thomas Aquinas: An unjust law is a human law that is not rooted in eternal law and natural law. Any law that uplifts human personality is just. Any law that degrades human personality is unjust. All segregation statutes are unjust because segregation distorts the soul and damages the personality. It gives the segregator a false sense of superiority and the segregated a false sense of inferiority. Segregation, to use the terminology of the Jewish philosopher Martin Buber, substitutes an "I-it" relationship for an "I-thou" relationship and ends up relegating persons to the status of things. Hence segregation is not only politically, economically and sociologically unsound, it is morally wrong and awful. Paul Tillich said that sin is separation. Is not segregation an existential expression of man's tragic separation, his awful estrangement, his terrible sinfulness? Thus it is that I can urge men to obey the 1954 decision of the Supreme Court, for it is morally right; and I can urge them to disobey segregation ordinances, for they are morally wrong.
Let us consider a more concrete example of just and unjust laws. An unjust law is a code that a numerical or power majority group compels a minority group to obey but does not make binding on itself. This is difference made legal. By the same token, a just law is a code that a majority compels a minority to follow and that it is willing to follow itself. This is sameness made legal.
Let me give another explanation. A law is unjust if it is inflicted on a minority that, as a result of being denied the right to vote, had no part in enacting or devising the law. Who can say that the legislature of Alabama which set up that state's segregation laws was democratically elected? Throughout Alabama all sorts of devious methods are used to prevent Negroes from becoming registered voters, and there are some counties in which, even though Negroes constitute a majority of the population, not a single Negro is registered. Can any law enacted under such circumstances be considered democratically structured?
Sometimes a law is just on its face and unjust in its application. For instance, I have been arrested on a charge of parading without a permit. Now, there is nothing wrong in having an ordinance which requires a permit for a parade. But such an ordinance becomes unjust when it is used to maintain segregation and to deny citizens the First Amendment privilege of peaceful assembly and protest.
I hope you can see the distinction I am trying to point out. In no sense do I advocate evading or defying the law, as would the rabid segregationist. That would lead to anarchy. One who breaks an unjust law must do so openly, lovingly (not hatefully as the white mothers did in New Orleans when they were seen on television screaming "nigger, nigger, nigger"), and with a willingness to accept the penalty. I submit that an individual who breaks a law that conscience tells him is unjust and who willingly accepts the penalty of imprisonment in order to arouse the conscience of the community over its injustice, is in reality expressing the highest respect for law.
Of course, there is nothing new about this kind of civil disobedience. It was seen sublimely in the refusal of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego to obey the laws of Nebuchadnezzar, because a higher moral law was involved. It was practiced superbly by the early Christians, who were willing to face hungry lions and the excruciating pain of chopping blocks rather than submit to certain unjust laws of the Roman Empire. To a degree, academic freedom is a reality today because Socrates practiced civil disobedience. In our own nation, the Boston Tea Party represented a massive act of civil disobedience.
We should never forget that everything Adolf Hitler did in Germany was "legal" and everything the Hungarian freedom fighters did in Hungary was "illegal." It was "illegal" to aid and comfort a Jew in Hitler's Germany. Even so, I am sure that, had I lived in Germany at the time, I would have aided and comforted my Jewish brothers. If today I lived in a Communist country where certain principles dear to the Christian faith are suppressed, I would openly advocate disobeying that country's antireligious laws.
I must make two honest confessions to you, my Christian and Jewish brothers. First, I must confess that over the past few years I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro's great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is not the White Citizen's Counciler or the Ku Klux Klanner, but the white moderate, who is more devoted to "order" than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: "I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action"; who paternalistically believes he can set the timetable for another man's freedom; who lives by a mythical concept of time and who constantly advises the Negro to wait for a "more convenient season." Shallow understanding from people of good will is more frustrating than absolute misunderstanding from people of ill will. Lukewarm acceptance is much more bewildering than outright rejection.
I had hoped that the white moderate would understand that law and order exist for the purpose of establishing justice and that when they fan in this purpose they become the dangerously structured dams that block the flow of social progress. I had hoped that the white moderate would understand that the present tension in the South is a necessary phase of the transition from an obnoxious negative peace, in which the Negro passively accepted his unjust plight, to a substantive and positive peace, in which all men will respect the dignity and worth of human personality. Actually, we who engage in nonviolent direct action are not the creators of tension. We merely bring to the surface the hidden tension that is already alive. We bring it out in the open, where it can be seen and dealt with. Like a boil that can never be cured so long as it is covered up but must be opened with all its ugliness to the natural medicines of air and light, injustice must be exposed, with all the tension its exposure creates, to the light of human conscience and the air of national opinion before it can be cured.
In your statement you assert that our actions, even though peaceful, must be condemned because they precipitate violence. But is this a logical assertion? Isn't this like condemning a robbed man because his possession of money precipitated the evil act of robbery? Isn't this like condemning Socrates because his unswerving commitment to truth and his philosophical inquiries precipitated the act by the misguided populace in which they made him drink hemlock? Isn't this like condemning Jesus because his unique God-consciousness and never-ceasing devotion to God's will precipitated the evil act of crucifixion? We must come to see that, as the federal courts have consistently affirmed, it is wrong to urge an individual to cease his efforts to gain his basic constitutional rights because the quest may precipitate violence. Society must protect the robbed and punish the robber.
I had also hoped that the white moderate would reject the myth concerning time in relation to the struggle for freedom. I have just received a letter from a white brother in Texas. He writes: "All Christians know that the colored people will receive equal rights eventually, but it is possible that you are in too great a religious hurry. It has taken Christianity almost two thousand years to accomplish what it has. The teachings of Christ take time to come to earth." Such an attitude stems from a tragic misconception of time, from the strangely rational notion that there is something in the very flow of time that will inevitably cure all ills. Actually, time itself is neutral; it can be used either destructively or constructively. More and more I feel that the people of ill will have used time much more effectively than have the people of good will. We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men willing to be co-workers with God, and without this hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation. We must use time creatively, in the knowledge that the time is always ripe to do right. Now is the time to make real the promise of democracy and transform our pending national elegy into a creative psalm of brotherhood. Now is the time to lift our national policy from the quicksand of racial injustice to the solid rock of human dignity.
You speak of our activity in Birmingham as extreme. At first I was rather disappointed that fellow clergymen would see my nonviolent efforts as those of an extremist. I began thinking about the fact that stand in the middle of two opposing forces in the Negro community. One is a force of complacency, made up in part of Negroes who, as a result of long years of oppression, are so drained of self-respect and a sense of "somebodiness" that they have adjusted to segregation; and in part of a few middle class Negroes who, because of a degree of academic and economic security and because in some ways they profit by segregation, have become insensitive to the problems of the masses. The other force is one of bitterness and hatred, and it comes perilously close to advocating violence. It is expressed in the various black nationalist groups that are springing up across the nation, the largest and best-known being Elijah Muhammad's Muslim movement. Nourished by the Negro's frustration over the continued existence of racial discrimination, this movement is made up of people who have lost faith in America, who have absolutely repudiated Christianity, and who have concluded that the white man is an incorrigible "devil."
I have tried to stand between these two forces, saying that we need emulate neither the "do-nothingism" of the complacent nor the hatred and despair of the black nationalist. For there is the more excellent way of love and nonviolent protest. I am grateful to God that, through the influence of the Negro church, the way of nonviolence became an integral part of our struggle.
If this philosophy had not emerged, by now many streets of the South would, I am convinced, be flowing with blood. And I am further convinced that if our white brothers dismiss as "rabble-rousers" and "outside agitators" those of us who employ nonviolent direct action, and if they refuse to support our nonviolent efforts, millions of Negroes will, out of frustration and despair, seek solace and security in black-nationalist ideologies, a development that would inevitably lead to a frightening racial nightmare.
Oppressed people cannot remain oppressed forever. The yearning for freedom eventually manifests itself, and that is what has happened to the American Negro. Something within has reminded him of his birthright of freedom, and something without has reminded him that it can be gained. Consciously or unconsciously, he has been caught up by the Zeitgeist, and with his black brothers of Africa and his brown and yellow brothers of Asia, South America and the Caribbean, the United States Negro is moving with a sense of great urgency toward the promised land of racial justice. If one recognizes this vital urge that has engulfed the Negro community, one should readily understand why public demonstrations are taking place. The Negro has many pent-up resentments and latent frustrations, and he must release them. So let him march; let him make prayer pilgrimages to the city hall; let him go on freedom rides–and try to understand why he must do so. If his repressed emotions are not released in nonviolent ways, they will seek expression through violence. This is not a threat but a fact of history. So I have not said to my people: "Get rid of your discontent." Rather, I have tried to say that this normal and healthy discontent can be channeled into the creative outlet of nonviolent direct action. Now this approach is being dismissed as extremist. I must admit that I was initially disappointed in being so categorized.
But as I continued to think about the matter, I gradually gained a measure of satisfaction from the label. Was not Jesus an extremist for love: "Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you." Was not Amos an extremist for justice: "Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream." Was not Paul an extremist for the Christian gospel: "I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus." Was not Martin Luther an extremist: "Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise, so help me God." And John Bunyan: "I will stay in jail to the end of my days before I make a butchery of my conscience." And Abraham Lincoln: "This nation cannot survive half slave and half free." And Thomas Jefferson: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal …" So the question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate or for love? Will we be extremist for the preservation of injustice or for the extension of justice? In that dramatic scene on Calvary's hill three men were crucified. We must never forget that all three were crucified for the same crime–the crime of extremism. Two were extremists for immorality, and thus fell below their environment. The other, Jesus Christ, was an extremist for love, truth and goodness, and thereby rose above his environment. Perhaps the South, the nation and the world are in dire need of creative extremists.
I had hoped that the white moderate would see this need. Perhaps I was too optimistic; perhaps I expected too much. I suppose I should have realized that few members of the oppressor race can understand the deep groans and passionate yearnings of the oppressed race, and still fewer have the vision to see that injustice must be rooted out by strong, persistent and determined action. I am thankful, however, that some of our white brothers in the South have grasped the meaning of this social revolution and committed themselves to it. They are still too few in quantity, but they are big in quality. Some–such as Ralph McGill, Lillian Smith, Harry Golden, James McBride Dabbs, Ann Braden and Sarah Patton Boyle–have written about our struggle in eloquent and prophetic terms. Others have marched with us down nameless streets of the South. They have languished in filthy, roach-infested jails, suffering the abuse and brutality of policemen who view them as "dirty nigger lovers." Unlike so many of their moderate brothers and sisters, they have recognized the urgency of the moment and sensed the need for powerful "action" antidotes to combat the disease of segregation.
Let me take note of my other major disappointment. I have been so greatly disappointed with the white church and its leadership. Of course, there are some notable exceptions. I am not unmindful of the fact that each of you has taken some significant stands on this issue. I commend you, Reverend Stallings, for your Christian stand on this past Sunday, in welcoming Negroes to your worship service on a non-segregated basis. I commend the Catholic leaders of this state for integrating Spring Hill College several years ago.
But despite these notable exceptions, I must honestly reiterate that I have been disappointed with the church. I do not say this as one of those negative critics who can always find something wrong with the church. I say this as a minister of the gospel, who loves the church; who was nurtured in its bosom; who has been sustained by its spiritual blessings and who will remain true to it as long as the cord of life shall lengthen.
When I was suddenly catapulted into the leadership of the bus protest in Montgomery, Alabama, a few years ago, I felt we would be supported by the white church. I felt that the white ministers, priests and rabbis of the South would be among our strongest allies. Instead, some have been outright opponents, refusing to understand the freedom movement and misrepresenting its leaders; all too many others have been more cautious than courageous and have remained silent behind the anesthetizing security of stained-glass windows.
In spite of my shattered dreams, I came to Birmingham with the hope that the white religious leadership of this community would see the justice of our cause and, with deep moral concern, would serve as the channel through which our just grievances could reach the power structure. I had hoped that each of you would understand. But again I have been disappointed.
I have heard numerous southern religious leaders admonish their worshipers to comply with a desegregation decision because it is the law, but I have longed to hear white ministers declare: "Follow this decree because integration is morally right and because the Negro is your brother." In the midst of blatant injustices inflicted upon the Negro, I have watched white churchmen stand on the sideline and mouth pious irrelevancies and sanctimonious trivialities. In the midst of a mighty struggle to rid our nation of racial and economic injustice, I have heard many ministers say: "Those are social issues, with which the gospel has no real concern." And I have watched many churches commit themselves to a completely other worldly religion which made a strange distinction between body and soul, between the sacred and the secular.
So here we are moving toward the exit of the twentieth century with a religious community largely adjusted to the status quo, standing as a tail-light behind other community agencies rather than a headlight leading men to higher levels of justice.
I have travelled the length and breadth of Alabama, Mississippi and all the other southern states. On sweltering summer days and crisp autumn mornings I have looked at the South's beautiful churches with their lofty spires pointing heavenward. I have beheld the impressive outlines of her massive religious education buildings. Over and over I have found myself asking: "What kind of people worship here? Who is their God? Where were their voices when the lips of Governor Barnett dripped with words of interposition and nullification? Where were they when Governor Wallace gave a clarion call for defiance and hatred? Where were their voices of support when tired, bruised and weary Negro men and women decided to rise from the dark dungeons of complacency to the bright hills of creative protest?"
Yes, these questions are still in my mind. In deep disappointment I have wept over the laxity of the church. But be assured that my tears have been tears of love. There can be no deep disappointment where there is not deep love. Yes, I love the church. How could I do otherwise? l am in the rather unique position of being the son, the grandson and the great-grandson of preachers. Yes, I see the church as the body of Christ. But, oh! How we have blemished and scarred that body through social neglect and through fear of being nonconformists.
There was a time when the church was very powerful. It was during that period when the early Christians rejoiced at being deemed worthy to suffer for what they believed. In those days the church was not merely a thermometer that recorded the ideas and principles of popular opinion; it was a thermostat that transformed the mores of society. Whenever the early Christians entered a town, the people in power became disturbed and immediately sought to convict the Christians for being "disturbers of the peace" and "outside agitators." But the Christians pressed on, in the conviction that they were "a colony of heaven," called to obey God rather than man. Small in number, they were big in commitment. They were too God intoxicated to be "astronomically intimidated." By their effort and example they brought an end to such ancient evils as infanticide. and gladiatorial contests.
Things are different now. So often the contemporary church is a weak, ineffectual voice with an uncertain sound. So often it is an arch supporter of the status quo. Far from being disturbed by the presence of the church, the power structure of the average community is consoled by the church's silent and often even vocal sanction of things as they are.
But the judgment of God is upon the church as never before. If today's church does not recapture the sacrificial spirit of the early church, it will lose its authenticity, forfeit the loyalty of millions, and be dismissed as an irrelevant social club with no meaning for the twentieth century. Every day I meet young people whose disappointment with the church has turned into outright disgust.
Perhaps I have once again been too optimistic. Is organized religion too inextricably bound to the status quo to save our nation and the world? Perhaps I must turn my faith to the inner spiritual church, the church within the church, as the true ecclesia and the hope of the world. But again I am thankful to God that some noble souls from the ranks of organized religion have broken loose from the paralyzing chains of conformity and joined us as active partners in the struggle for freedom. They have left their secure congregations and walked the streets of Albany, Georgia, with us. They have gone down the highways of the South on tortuous rides for freedom. Yes, they have gone to jail with us. Some have been dismissed from their churches, have lost the support of their bishops and fellow ministers. But they have acted in the faith that right defeated is stronger than evil triumphant. Their witness has been the spiritual salt that has preserved the true meaning of the gospel in these troubled times. They have carved a tunnel of hope through the dark mountain of disappointment.
I hope the church as a whole will meet the challenge of this decisive hour. But even if the church does not come to the aid of justice, I have no despair about the future. I have no fear about the outcome of our struggle in Birmingham, even if our motives are at present misunderstood. We will reach the goal of freedom in Birmingham, and all over the nation, because the goal of America is freedom. Abused and scorned though we may be, our destiny is tied up with America's destiny. Before the pilgrims landed at Plymouth, we were here. Before the pen of Jefferson etched the majestic words of the Declaration of Independence across the pages of history, we were here. For more than two centuries our forebears labored in this country without wages; they made cotton king; they built the homes of their masters while suffering gross injustice and shameful humiliation–and yet out of a bottomless vitality they continued to thrive and develop. If the inexpressible cruelties of slavery could not stop us, the opposition we now face will surely fail. We will win our freedom because the sacred heritage of our nation and the eternal will of God are embodied in our echoing demands.
I must close now. But before closing I feel impelled to mention one other point in your statement that has troubled me profoundly. You warmly commended the Birmingham police force for keeping "order" and "preventing violence." I doubt that you would have so warmly commended the police force if you had seen its dogs sinking their teeth into unarmed, nonviolent Negroes. I doubt that you would so quickly commend the policemen if .you were to observe their ugly and inhumane treatment of Negroes here in the city jail; if you were to watch them push and curse old Negro women and young Negro girls; if you were to see them slap and kick old Negro men and young boys; if you were to observe them, as they did on two occasions, refuse to give us food because we wanted to sing our grace together. I'm sorry that I can't join you in your praise of the Birmingham police department.
It is true that the police have exercised a degree of discipline in handling the demonstrators. In this sense they have conducted themselves rather "nonviolently" in public. But for what purpose? To preserve the evil system of segregation. Over the past few years I have consistently preached that nonviolence demands that the means we use must be as pure as the ends we seek. I have tried to make clear that it is wrong to use immoral means to attain moral ends. But now I must affirm that it is just as wrong, or perhaps even more so, to use moral means to preserve immoral ends. Perhaps Mr. Connor and his policemen have been rather nonviolent in public, as was Chief Pritchett in Albany, Georgia but they have used the moral means of nonviolence to maintain the immoral end of racial injustice. As T. S. Eliot has said: "The last temptation is the greatest treason: To do the right deed for the wrong reason."
I wish you had commended the Negro sit-inners and demonstrators of Birmingham for their sublime courage, their willingness to suffer and their amazing discipline in the midst of great provocation. One day the South will recognize its real heroes. They will be the James Merediths, with the noble sense of purpose that enables them to face jeering, and hostile mobs, and with the agonizing loneliness that characterizes the life of the pioneer. They will be old, oppressed, battered Negro women, symbolized in a seventy-two-year-old woman in Montgomery, Alabama, who rose up with a sense of dignity and with her people decided not to ride segregated buses, and who responded with ungrammatical profundity to one who inquired about her weariness: "My feet is tired, but my soul is rested." They will be the young high school and college students, the young ministers of the gospel and a host of their elders, courageously and nonviolently sitting in at lunch counters and willingly going to jail for conscience's sake. One day the South will know that when these disinherited children of God sat down at lunch counters, they were in reality standing up for what is best in the American dream and for the most sacred values in our Judaeo-Christian heritage, and thusly carrying our nation back to those great wells of democracy which were dug deep by the founding fathers in their formulation of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence.
Never before have I written so long a letter (or should I say a book?). I'm afraid it is much too long to take your precious time. I can assure you that it would have been much shorter if I had been writing from a comfortable desk, but what else can one do when he is alone for days in the dull monotony of a narrow jail cell, other than write long letters, think strange thoughts and pray long prayers?
If I have said anything in this letter that overstates the truth and is indicative of an unreasonable impatience, I beg you to forgive me. If I have said anything that understates the truth and indicates my having a patience that allows me to settle for anything less than brotherhood, I beg God to forgive me.
I hope this letter finds you strong in the faith. I also hope that circumstances will soon make it possible for me to meet each of you, not as an integrationist or a civil rights leader but as a fellow clergyman and a Christian brother. Let us all hope that the dark clouds of racial prejudice will soon pass away and the deep fog of misunderstanding will be lifted from our fear-drenched communities, and in some not too distant tomorrow the radiant stars of love and brotherhood will shine over our great nation with all their scintillating beauty.
Yours for the cause of Peace and Brotherhood,
Adventia, day 23
On December 19, 2022 By robertalanrifeIn Beauty, Christianity, faith, Family, life together, poetry, Story, the artsLeave a comment
Currently, I am reading through a favourite book of prayers, poetry, and contemplative practice entitled "Hearts on Fire: Praying with the Jesuits" (Loyola Press, Chicago / ed. by Michael Harter, SJ 1993/2004). It is a useful and rich resource as an accompaniment and guide to the Ignatian Spiritual Exercises. It is also a perfect place to start for anyone interested in exploring the highly imaginative, participatory manner Ignatian spirituality teaches meditation by drawing one to inhabit biblical narratives.
For Adventia, day 23, I am sharing this gorgeous and inventive retelling of the Luke 2 story by Michael Moynahan, SJ simply titled, "In the Out House."
It's been a long,
dusty ride.
A steep and winding road
weaves serpentine
up the side of mountains.
They race the sun
with prospects of a new head to tax,
albeit a small one,
an impending certainty.
Sky and mother
are visual proof.
They reach the city
but full of hope.
The husband,
mistaken on occasion
for her father,
fails to act his age
and dashes toward
a door about to close.
"Excuse me,
Could you give us a room for the night?
Some place to lay our heads?"
"Can't you read, buster?
We're all filled up."
It's my wife,
She's about to have her first child."
"That's not my problem."
"He's not a problem.
He's a fact
of life."
"Open your ears, buddy,
because I'm only
gonna say this once.
We ain't got no room.
So scram!"
is drowned
by the sound of a
slammed door.
Three times he will try
to find them lodging.
And with each failure
fell less capable
of caring for his wife
and that life within her
wanting out.
"It doesn't look good.
All their rooms are taken."
God will provide."
And all the time thinking:
"That's what I'm afraid of.
They're sorry
but they're full.
It's looking bleak."
"God will give us
what we need."
He shakes his head.
She believes this
and it comforts him little.
The third stop
looking like a
distant bleak relation
of the previous two.
Until the owner's wife
spies the young girl wince
from movement she understands
all too well.
"You can have
the place out back.
It isn't much
but it will be a roof
over your heads.
There's fresh hay thrown.
The animals won't bother you
and the child will be warm.
I'll get some rags and water.
Go on now,
and baby
are waiting."
the young girl's face
proclaims:
"Magnificent!"
Christmas in Edinburgh
On December 24, 2021 December 24, 2021 By robertalanrifeIn Beauty, Christian spirituality, Christianity, Evangelical Covenant Church, Family, life together, sacramental living, Serve Globally3 Comments
Looking out from the Christmas Festival on Prince's Street
The air feels sharp. Like a paper cut on dry skin. The same air that is moderated by the sea is also saturated with it so that the wind denies however many layers one can throw at its defence.
It's a good thing this city is so photogenic. She blushes with feigned humility at every turn, dipping her shirt to reveal her grey-stone breasts just enough to draw you to her. But, as you draw near, her manner reminds you that you're a mere stone's throw from the North Sea.
In early Winter.
As seen from our window, snow comes wistfully to Comely Bank.
Anyone who follows us on social media, or has been within camera or earshot of us in the past few weeks, is already aware that my wife and I live now in Edinburgh, Scotland. We haven't stopped talking about it. You ever hang around new parents and they never quit talking about their newborn? Yeah, it's kinda like that.
Everything is new. We have new UK phone numbers almost impossible to memorize (memorise). We are learning to write dates day/month/year. We've traded a five-number zip code for a postal code with two caps, a number, another number, and two more caps. We're learning what it's like to shop for days of food at a time rather than weeks. We're learning the complexities of laundry in the UK, a process not unlike rebuilding a laptop.
Thanks to the relative compactness of Edinburgh streets, we've taken like pros to something we would never have done in North America, ride a bus. We walk everywhere else. Living in the relatively central district of Stockbridge I call this the "one-mile zone." We can walk almost anywhere we need to be, including downtown (uptown as the locals call it).
The glaring lack of any formal Thanksgiving tradition here is regrettable in one way, given the many memorable observances we've enjoyed over the years with family, friends, and one unlucky turkey. But, it is also a wonderful thing not having to engage in the inevitable, often heated, debates about Christmas decorating starting "too early." Despite its lack of liturgical credibility, "too early" for me would be mid-October, not American Thanksgiving which just happens to fall less than a month from Christmas.
Edinburgh loves her Christmas decorating. She does it well, with a voracious thoroughness that causes Mrs. Claus to blanche at the sight. Is it thoroughly secular? Yeah, pretty much. Is it beautiful and welcoming? Absolutely. Which, as you will recall from my earlier post on the Enneagram 4, is my love language.
Beauty is next to godliness.
The Walter Scott Memorial
Big wheel keep on turnin'
Edinburgh has lighting down to an art.
More Edinburgh lights
The door's the thing.
I've often questioned artists who claim their particular geography to have the "best light" when they live where there's nothing but an abundance of it, washing out all colour and nuance. When light is involved, "most" does not equal "best." My soul prefers its light at a premium; where it changes much, leaves me alone for long periods of time, and is therefore, precious.
Granton Harbour in morning light, shrewdly shrouded
For me, Edinburgh in winter is that place.
Pathways beckon
St. Bernard's Well, Leith Parkway
A runner for many years, I confess that the best pathways for moving contemplation are these damp corridors of green-framed stone and shadow. It is something about subtleties where colours can pop because they're not constantly blanched by direct sunlight. There's an existential complexity to it utterly lacking in sun-drenched regions.
I have the opposite of seasonal affective disorder (S.A.D.) I'm depressed in constant sun. Nothing changes. It's like trying to drink from a fire hydrant…all the time. It's too much, too often, for no reason.
The breadth of human experience requires more than the cheap seats at a bad movie. It needs emotional distance, space to laugh and hurt and question and doubt and start all over again. The heart needs lament; needs thoughtfulness, discernment, the tepid wondering for which it is engineered. I agree with Pàdraig Ó Tuama's review of Dunez Smith's amazing poem, "I'm going back to Minnesota where sadness makes sense." where he states, "not everyone needs to live in perpetual summer."
Yes. That.
Gravestones at St. Cuthbert's Kirk
St. Cuthbert's
2021. This will be our first Christmas away from our boys. Either one or the other, or both, were always with us for the holidays. However, given the weight of God's call upon us to love and serve Edinburgh, it seems not so high a price to pay, given the great returns we've already enjoyed from this incredible place. Besides, our laddies are squarely in God's hands every bit as much as we, or anyone else.
So then, this year…it is Christmas in Edinburgh.
Building Our Poem
On September 13, 2021 September 13, 2021 By robertalanrifeIn bagpipes, Beauty, celtic music, Christian spirituality, Christianity, Evangelical Covenant Church, faith, Family, life together, literature, music, poetry, sacramental living, Serve Globally, spiritual formation, Story, the arts, The Church1 Comment
"…in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart…"*
"The Bud," 1987
I love poetry. I love its exactitude, its wide-eyed innocence wed to unflinching honesty. The unforced rhythms of perfection, like Grandma's gaze over well-worn glasses. It is the art of lovers, the science of thinkers, the wisdom of doers.
Poetry gives up her secrets cautiously, altruistically, slowly. Every word, like every note of a great symphony, is fully intended, placed unequivocally in its place with an eye, and ear, to building something remarkable out of simple things, something well beyond the sum of its parts.
In a thousand ways, we are the amalgam of our carefully written words; each one added to the emerging poem of our lives. In this process, there are no real mistakes. There is only the discernment asked of us in the changing turn of phrase that will ultimately become our voice in the world.
For me, Rosebud was one such word. Perhaps an entire stanza.
Although my active period in Rosebud was limited to a few months in 1987, her existential tattoos continue to reveal themselves in enduring ways. A tiny, easily missed oasis in the Alberta prairie percolated in me an entire life thereafter committed to several things: the transformative realities birthed in the canyons of friendship, great things can come from wee places, the pursuit of art wed to faith, and the kind of community possible only through probing, and honest, creativity. Family, lived best in and through, story. Our stories now connect in ways both obvious and subtle.
Rosebud Opera House, 1987
Our digs
The diminutive Akokiniskway
On the About tab from my spiritual life blog reads the following statement of purpose: "my life is dedicated to those places where life, liturgy, theology, and the arts intersect to promote an authentic spirituality – who we are becoming." These values existed in me long before I ever made it to this place. But they were stoked by shared inspiration, fireside laughter, broken stage lights and fumbled words, splinters and spoilers, relational fugue and fatigue, the prayers and tears of young lives navigating their way to maturity; to wholeness. To become both passionate and com-passionate, all writ large in the art of our story. The Story.
On the Rosebud Fellowship homepage can be found the following statement, one of the six "objects" that articulates its purpose: "To promote the fellowship of people whose lives have been affected by the Christian mission of Rosebud School of the Arts."
Friends, I am one such person.
My daily Rosebud prayer walk, Canadian style.
In the short time I spent here I found lasting friendships, a deep gratitude for the quality of connections that exist around creativity rooted in spirituality, and a way of living, boldly illustrative of the kind of "Christian mission" to which Rosebud has always been committed, both spoken and unspoken.
However, the vision of this place was never one for kitsch or the quaintly derivative "evangelism through art" which has damaged both evangelism and art in so doing. Sadly, what begins as evangelism can become nothing more than jingoistic cheerleading or public relations. What begins as "art" descends to something diminished and pale, akin to cultural babysitting, the low hanging fruit of the accessible and "relevant" to the demise of beauty, the archetypal perfections to which God, wide-eyed, once whispered, "it is good." When beauty and story are the goal, both art and God win. For me, this is Rosebud's greatest victory.
Table minstrels
To witness the leadership, serene but definitive, directive but collegial, of LaVerne Erickson has always been a wonder to me. A man of endless stories (and not a few impressive name-drops), tireless energy, and towering vision inspires me as much now as it did in those pre-Cambrian days of 1987. I'm still shedding the pounds added from Arlene's unforgivably good cooking. More than a few good words (and some less so!) were knit to my story through the relentless humour of Royal Sproule, the passionate guidance of Doug Levitt, the sanguine wisdom of Lyle Penner, the many towering women of faith and creativity who helped put Rosebud on the map. And, of course, the big-heartedness of Akokniskway herself, calling us all deeper into her welcoming bosom.
My daily outdoor show
I am as Canadian as the day is long, complete with an undying love of trains. I grew up in a blue-collar home, the son of a brewery worker and homemaker. Our 900 square foot bungalow in the quaint but rough-around-the-edges southwest Calgary neighbourhood was poised right next to tracks, now LRT, but once host to regular trains through town. So, when I moved into my room in the Rosebud Hotel, the nightly train arriving just past midnight was like a well-worn pair of jeans. Her whistle neither haunted nor annoyed. It sang to me of prairie goodness, rich in the Canadian story so much my own. Our own.
The poetry of my life is ongoing. Rosebud has faded well into my rearview mirror. But she has never stopped whispering to me of what could be, those places where my past collides with my present to hint at a future.
Rife crazies – Rae, Graeme (25), Calum (30), Me
Now, after decades of Christian ministry, a life dedicated to music, writing, poetry, spiritual formation, and the arts, two boys (both professional musicians), together with my wife Rae (Rosebud incubated our love!), we are planting new words in our emerging poem. This newest word takes us across the Atlantic to begin life and ministry in the UK. We invite as many as we can to join us on this journey. Our poetry improves with every letter added, every nuance of word, phrase, and metaphor.
All of you are all of that.
Rosebud, thank you for being a cradle, an incubator, a muse and sage, a friend. Your poetry is now, and will always be, my own. I take you with me, with us, into a new horizon. Our emerging poem.
Word for word, words for Word.
1987-Rae Kenny and I were married the following year.
Same people, almost 30 years later.
2016, Peterborough Cathedral, England
When muscle, bone, and sinew can't find heart
and listening and looking. Then, severed in time
from the wishing well of wonder, we wander
through rushes and slivers of our moments, bent
over mirrored water, haunted.
There is a wrinkle in the hour'd fabric of
our days when tender grows the minstrel's
song. It rings across golden fields of
shimmering wheat – milled hopes, rolled and real.
Bardic but breathless it sounds, reveling in tremors
of songs still sung to handmade candles.
They shine to our hopes, ablaze with just
a hint of what could be.
There is a certain moment, beholden to itself,
in which ghosts and gazes meet to discuss
their future. Still, birthed
from the ashes of forgottenness
an ember yet lurks, small but waiting, patient –
alert to any movement or sounds of humming.
Catch it if it sings.
©R. A. Rife, 2016
* Quoted from his famous work, Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. July 13, 1798 by Wm. Wordsworth
Re-emergence – A Prayer
On July 31, 2021 By robertalanrifeIn Christian spirituality, Christianity, faith, Family, life together, sacramental living, spiritual formation, The Church, worshipLeave a comment
Found at iStock
Lord of all good things, through squinted eyes we peer into our great unknown and, with expectant hearts, step trustingly ahead.
One step, then two – three? How many?
We long for each other, for the smell of another's presence, their touch on our sleeve. We timidly reach out to embrace those from whom we've distanced. Even strangers seem less intimidating somehow!
Oh, to feel the sacred solidity of body squeezing body, one heart next to another's, in real time.
Are we safe yet, Lord?
Regathering has seemed like a waking dream. Our computer screens show faces, beautiful and wrinkled, tawny and taut, smiling and praying, laughing and weeping.
But, for love of neighbour we've masked those faces…until now. We hid our faces for safety. We unhide now, in hope that we remain safe, but sharing what always lay beneath, stifled and waiting.
Like groundhogs reemerging into Spring from endless Winter, we do so a little wary, weary, eyes still heavy from pandemic sleep. Dare we to stretch? To yawn deeply and draw into our longing lungs the languid, lazy air?
Stories shared across tables are always better. Songs sung shoulder to shoulder always sound richer, more melodious. Prayers are always more real holding another's hand, fingerprints and sweat intermingled with faith. Coffee tastes deeper when we smell it on another's breath.
Lord, how long? Do we risk those very souls we love with our "return to normal"? What is appropriate? Best? Our loneliness battles our concerns, and we waffle. Then, in a burst of damn-the-torpedoes we gather, only to feel guilty a little. Afraid a little. Lord, how long?
Lord, we remember what each other feels like. Do you?
Take us, again, into the brightness of each other.
A Coddiwomple Continues
On May 12, 2021 By robertalanrifeIn Christian spirituality, Christianity, Evangelical Covenant Church, faith, Family, life together, liturgy, music, Operation UK 2020, Serve Globally, spiritual formation, worship1 Comment
It's been awhile since we've been here together. For that I apologize. The biggest part of a blogger's life is unassailable responsibility to the community gathered around him or her. It means staying in touch regardless of how chaotic, or not, one's life becomes. Because, after all, into every life some chaos must come, right?
However, in a sense I do not apologize. Not in the strictest sense. Instead, I see the ellipsis between this entry and the last as indicative of time for preparation, for transformation, for contemplation; even, for rest. These have been days of conquest, rising to claim what God keeps tossing into my garden. These have been days of trust, quietly waiting upon God who promises that, doing so will bring rewards well beyond the waiting. Most of all, they have been days of joy. Holy joy borne of resting in cosmic realities of Presence and process.
Rae and I continue our journey toward life and ministry in the U.K. We wrap up our brief sojourn at a basement suite provided by good friends as we drive to Spokane on Sunday. To Canada on Monday where we quarantine for fourteen days (and hopefully still like each other afterwards!). We visit my family, many friends and say goodbyes. Then, Rae flies to London on June 30th where she begins the unwelcome task of finding a suitable job.
At 57 years old.
During a pandemic.
With no other income!
As for me, I continue pursuing ministry partnerships and financial supporters.
As an artist not a fundraiser.
We are not daunted however having come to believe this to be God's call for us. We thank you, dear readers, for your interest in our journey. We thank those of you who have chosen to partner with us financially (link below). Most of all, we thank you for being our friends and simply walking alongside us.
Enjoy this song performed by a group of us a year ago. It's a song I wrote meant as a formal charge to the congregation to "Go in peace to love and serve the Lord." It is our theme song as we push into this, our coddiwomple of soul.
Peace, dear ones.
If you can, join our ministry family as a sustaining partner here.
I Will Lift Up Mine Eyes to the Hills…
On January 21, 2021 January 21, 2021 By robertalanrifeIn Beauty, faith, Family, life together, poetry, sacramental living11 Comments
Art by @kemiroart
A favourite Psalm of mine proclaims the following, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help. My help cometh from the Lord, which made heaven and earth." The simple act of looking to the hills does not, of itself, bring promise. It is an act of desperation, the longing for salvation wrought of shared hopeful faith. In the end, our help doesn't come from looking to the hills, but from the hand of God whose hills they are.
President Joseph R. Biden, Jr. and Vice President Kamala Harris will have their work cut out for them. We are in times of unprecedented division, delusion, decrepitude, and chaos. But, in all the good and hopeful things coming out of the Inauguration yesterday, none was so moving than this from young poet laureate, Amanda Gorman.
Normally I post poetry on my LitBits site. I felt it required a spiritual center stage. Enjoy, and enter in with all who seek a better future; all who look to the hills and cry for help.
The Hill We Climb by Amanda Gorman
When day comes, we ask ourselves,
Where can we find light in this never-ending shade?
The loss we carry,
a sea we must wade
We braved the belly of the beast.
We've learned that quiet isn't always peace
And the norms and notions
of what just is
Isn't always just-ice.
And yet the dawn is ours
before we knew it
Somehow we do it
Somehow we weathered and witnessed
a nation that isn't broken
but simply unfinished
We the successors of a country and a time
where a skinny black girl
descended from slaves and raised by a single mother
can dream of becoming President
only to find herself reciting for one.
And yes we are far from polished,
far from pristine
But that doesn't mean that we are
striving to form a union that is perfect.
We are striving to forge our union with purpose
To compose a country committed to all cultures, colours, characters and
conditions of man.
And so we lift our gaze not to what stands between us
but what stands before us
We close the divide because we know to put our future first
We must first put our differences aside
We lay down our arms
So we can reach out our arms
to one another.
We seek harm to none and harmony for all.
Let the globe, if nothing else, say this is true:
That even as we grieved, we grew
That even as we hurt, we hoped
That even as we tired, we tried.
That we'll forever be tied together, victorious.
Not because we will never again know defeat
But because we will never again sow division.
Scripture tells us to envision
That everyone shall sit under their own vine and fig tree
And no one shall make them afraid.
If we're to live up to our own time
Then victory won't lie in the blade
But in all the bridges we've made
That is the promise to glade
The hill we climb
If only we dare.
Because being American is more than a pride we inherit
It's the past we step into
And how we repair it.
We've seen a force that would shatter our nation
Rather than share it
Would destroy our country if it meant delaying democracy.
And this effort very nearly succeeded.
But while democracy can be periodically delayed,
it can never be permanently defeated.
In this truth,
in this faith we trust
For while we have our eyes on the future,
history has its eyes on us.
This is the era of just redemption.
We feared at its inception
We did not feel prepared to be the heirs
of such a terrifying hour
but within it we found the power
to author a new chapter.
To offer hope and laughter to ourselves.
So while once we asked,
how could we possibly prevail over catastrophe?
Now we assert
how could catastrophe possibly prevail over us?
We will not march back to what was
but move to what shall be.
A country that is bruised but whole,
benevolent but bold,
fierce and free.
We will not be turned around
or interrupted by intimidation
because we know our inaction and inertia
will be the inheritance of the next generation.
Our blunders become their burdens.
But one thing is certain;
if we merge mercy with might,
and might with right,
then love becomes our legacy
and change our children's birthright.
So let us leave behind a country
better than the one we were left with.
Every breath from my bronze-pounded chest,
we will raise this wounded world into a wondrous one.
We will rise from the gold-limbed hills of the west,
We will rise from the windswept northeast
where our forefathers first realized revolution.
We will rise from the lake-rimmed cities of the midwestern states,
we will rise from the sunbaked south.
We will rebuild, reconcile and recover
and every known nook of our nation and
every corner called our country,
our people diverse and beautiful will emerge
battered and beautiful.
When day comes we step out of the shade,
aflame and unafraid,
The new dawn blooms as we free it.
For there is always light,
if only we're brave enough to see it.
If only we're brave enough to be it.
Christmastide – Practicing Surprise
On December 24, 2020 By robertalanrifeIn Christian spirituality, Christianity, faith, Family, life together, sacramental living, spiritual formation, StoryLeave a comment
Much has been written about this period of the holy story the church has called Christmastide. We hear words like waiting, longing, anticipation, inbreaking, birthing, hoping, emmanuel, and sing of shepherds and sheep, angels, alleluias and announcements, mangers and mangy stables and , all in voices bright sing gloria in excelsis deo (glory to God in the highest).
Consumer culture rides its coattails toward a bloated bottom line. Corporate culture plays with its nuances to encourage warmth of feeling and brand vibes. Christian culture uses it to battle their annual "war on Christmas." Cancel culture uses it to remedy the former. And, Hallmark culture uses it to sell Thomas Kinkade paintings (I have nothing against him, I promise!). Such a tangle of ideas and emotions, all running rampant…at Christmas.
Thomas Kinkade, "The Nativity"
Even in an arguably post-Christian culture, it is challenging to share anything particularly new about a story this well known. For those of us tasked with its telling it can be especially difficult to reverse the potential for a familiarity-bred contempt, both in the church, and in the culture at large. But tell it we do. Every year.
The stultifying caprice of our COVIDays, coupled with unparalleled political farcity seems to have diminished our ability to see any hopeful horizons and consequently, ravage our capacity to dream. One wonders if one can ever again, wonder. As the writer of Proverbs once observed, "Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life" (13:12).
But, dare we think ourselves alone to be the hope-starved? Those to whom the heavenly babe first came were far more so.
Read appropriately, in its original context, the birth narrative of Jesus would have sounded incredulous. A questionable yarn akin to UFO talkies or gu'rmint conspiracy theories in the local version of Bethlehem's National Enquirer. 'Twould have been anything but a family-friendly, consumer-ready tale fit for animated movie screens and glittering holiday bling.
Instead, the Hebrew nation fixated on their lot as Roman-branded religious fanatics and kicked against the goads of military occupation. And, theirs was an occupation not just politically by the Romans, but theologically and morally by religious leaders pretending to follow Torah but largely interested in political safety and the biggest voice at the table (sound familiar?).
Jan Gossaert (Jean Gossart) (Flemish, d. 1532), "The Adoration of the Kings," 1510–15. Oil on oak, 179.8 × 163.2 cm. National Gallery, London. https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/NG2790
Long had they given up hope that anything would actually change. That their station might somehow improve. That, in great, great grandpa's memory was something about messiah, the line of David, and covenant promises, among other fantastical things. They had done what almost every other conquered people has always done – settled into the long night of mediocrity and acceptance. Their survival mode button was stuck in the 'on' position.
Oh, there were outliers for sure. History is replete with them. There are always a remnant of stalwarts who refuse such resigned demeanour.
For example, Anna, whose long and lonely life had been given to prayerfulness and presence. Simeon, similarly, happy just to die having seen the fulfillment of a promise. Zechariah, whose priestly advocacy over Israel was well-known and whose doubts equalled his dedication. Elizabeth was giddy just to be pregnant in old age (God rather fancies such stunts), let alone with the New Testament's resident off-the-grid hippy. And, of course, Mary. Aw, Mary – sweet but strong, young but wise, believing but thoughtful. Mary, perhaps more than anyone, understood the full importance and impact of what was told her by the angelic messenger. Apparently yes, she did know. ; )
"My mind is blown and my heart is full. Okay, so if I'm hearing you correctly, God's finally doing something? Not just anything, but making the cosmic statement that the lesser is the more, the small leads the great, the poor rule over the rich. It's all been upended, and you remembered everything that you've ever promised to me and my people? I'm in!"*
Danylo Movchan (Ukrainian, 1979–), "Nativity," 2015. Tempera and gilding on board, 32 × 24 cm. Descending down into death. In icons, the cave of the nativity is meant to recall Christ's tomb.
It is on the one hand a strength that such a story resides deep in our shared memory and finds revered place in our common consciousness. But, sometimes the familiarity of character, plot, and setting can sublimate the luminous mysteries at work under the surface. We kinda know the story but it doesn't move us anymore. The aha! has been lost in the constant retelling that lacks reliving.
We can attribute much that is warm and good and beautiful to our affixation with the Christmas story. We still value the notion, however vague, that love lies at its heart, that forgiveness has at least something to do with all this, that family and community somehow matter, and that God doesn't mind getting his hands (and diapered backside) dirty.
In our cynical moments, if nothing else, it keeps us looking for good deals at Walmart and happily arguing over Starbucks cups. And who doesn't love that after fighting winter traffic for two hours?
But, upon reflection, guided by the Spirit who guided the star who guided the wise men who guides us still, we confess Christmastide to be a picture of heavenly surprise. To retell such a treasured tale should be of all things, an exercise in practicing surprise.
And everyone loves surprises.
A happy and surprising Christmastide to each and every one of you!
*Rob's take on Luke 1:46-55, often called "The Magnificat" or simply "Mary's Song of Praise."
Sacred Spaces (vol. 1)
On November 28, 2020 November 28, 2020 By robertalanrifeIn Christian spirituality, Christianity, Evangelical Covenant Church, faith, Family, life together, Operation UK 2020, sacramental living, Serve GloballyLeave a comment
I have shared here on numerous occasions my intention to follow the Spirit's voice across the pond where we will serve with Serve Globally somewhere in Britain. This call has percolated in my wife and I for many years and we are finally ready to pour whatever heady liquid is forthcoming into frothy mugs of Gospel peace for all who need it.
Rae and I, Llanthony Priory, 2016
A big part of that process is…gulp…fundraising. An unsexy word if ever there was one. But, alas, despite whatever stigma is attached thereto, I muscle through it to enjoin all within earshot to join us in this venture. Follow along as an interested witness to what God is doing. Follow us by way of joining our prayer community. Or, follow us by joining our finance community.
What I post here is a new offering, not just for our Serve Globally family, but for this blog as well. Along with our regular semi-monthly newsletter, I have added "Sacred Spaces," (I apologize for the exterior link! It keeps things tidier) a page uniquely dedicated to encouraging hope and nourishing the spiritual imagination.
My regular readers will recognize much of the material. It comes from here! But it is placed into a readable Mailchimp design for easy email distribution.
You are my precious blog family, equally dedicated to the mysteries of the spiritual journey. And, of all people, I want to invite you deeper into this adventure, this coddiwomple, with us.
I love you all. Come, let us journey together…
Thanks be
On November 26, 2020 By robertalanrifeIn Evangelical Covenant Church, faith, Family, life together, Operation UK 2020, Serve Globally, The ChurchLeave a comment
Thanksgiving, 2020.
Me and my wife
Rarely has anything been so easy for me as giving thanks this year. Rae and I continue to see plans unfold to pursue life and ministry in Britain. We are now both citizens of the US, complete with passports and the added blessing of participation in the democratic process. And, not a moment too soon!
New citizens of a viral America!
With the help of our son, Calum, a host of other blessed volunteers and contractors, and moneys from very magnanimous congregants, we spent half a year refinishing floors, painting every available surface both inside and out, adding new carpet, a new HVAC unit, hot water tank, oven, and rebuilding an underground sprinkler system.
We sat, biting our fingernails, for four very tense months. But, with mere moments to spare, we finally sold the house we've called home for fourteen years to an utterly delightful young family. We got the exact figure we'd known all along we'd receive. And, best of all, we sold to genuine people less interested in bricks and mortar as emotionless investment than they are in growing a family in a house uniquely designed for such a thing.
I write this not from typical chair but from a lazy-boy recliner not my own in a basement suite kindly offered us by good friends as we prepare ourselves for UK living. 3400 square feet to about 800. We love it! We've become rabbits, rather comfortable in a small burrow – safe, well-lit, warm, and wonderfully cozy. We say we're "practicing Europe" right now.
Despite being officially unemployed for ten months, my wife's job continues uninterrupted. I've never been more thankful to have a desperately over-qualified life partner to help make the trains run on time as I putz around town pressing flesh (more virtual these days), writing, studying, reading, or doing important stuff that often doesn't look important. She has single-handedly kept us afloat since January. Thanks, babe!
We've stood back in wonder, COVID-19 obstacles notwithstanding, as our sons have become young men of character, maturity, courage, and integrity. Their lives aren't perfect, which places them in good stead with the rest of humanity. But, they're content – and intent – on building their own futures, eyes cast on their own horizons. They may be our sons. But, they've become our friends.
A slightly crazed family Rife with Graeme, left and Calum, right.
I continue apace toward my late-in-life milestone of ordination. It never really interested me before because I hadn't found a collective sufficiently aligned with sufficiently enough of me with whom to marry. That marriage will happen, virtual of course, by the will of God and if the creek don' rise, sometime next year.
The multiple contingencies required of viral lockdowns have forced a certain quietude upon my otherwise taut persona. Long coffeeshop days spent poring over my journal, whatever book currently captivates me, and various meetings with friends and colleagues has deeply simplified. Now, it is hours spent sitting in my chair cyber-reaching out to potential global ministry partners and investors. Telling our calling story. Sharing our vision, our hope for the future.
Let's be honest, it's always a much simpler affair to offer thanks when one sits in a place of relative comfort, devoid of excess chaos, and brimming with possibility. I write as one healthy enough to do so, without the pressing concerns many are forced to endure.
In this unprecedented (a word very much overused, but still helpful) time, many have lost loved ones to something unseen, insistent, insidious. Others, through measures taken to curb this invisible enemy, have lost livelihoods, family businesses, self-respect, and more.
The socio-political timbre of our age has turned watercooler conversations into sparring matches with those we once thought odd, but still our neighbours. Friendships once held together by something much deeper have been rent asunder through clouds of suspicion, name-calling, or suspected ideological "abnormalities".
"As for me and my house," said Joshua so long ago, "we will serve the Lord." Sounds straightforward enough. But, if the past few years have taught us anything at all, it's that how this looks in real time can be quite different for each of us.
This Thanksgiving I am choosing to revise Joshua's statement of intent, weaving it with an even better statement of Jesus. For the manifold blessings of this year and the still greater currency of God's ongoing presence, I submit, "as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord by loving God completely, and our neighbour as ourselves."
On this Thanksgiving Day, 2020, I wish much love and light to you, my dear reader community!
*If you'd like more detailed information on our pending ministry ventures in Britain and/or would like to join our prayer/financial team, message me on Facebook, or email me at robert.rife@covchurch.org.
*To become a financial partner, go here.


Two years after the country was rattled by the Virginia Tech shooting that left 33 dead, THIRTEEN takes a critical look at the issues surrounding teen depression and suicide in Cry for Help, premiering Wednesday, April 29 at 9 p.m. on PBS (check local listings) or come back here after the premier on April 29th to watch the full episode online.
While school shootings are rare, signs of mental illness in the perpetrators of these crimes are not. School shooters often have a history of suicide attempts, suicidal thoughts or depression³ – which makes identifying those conditions through mental health screening critically important.
Cry for Help takes an intimate look at the efforts of two high schools to identify adolescents at risk. Hamilton High School in Ohio and Clarkstown North High School in New York have both been affected by teen suicide and have launched powerful new programs to prevent future tragedies.
Following the unrelated suicides of four students that shook the Hamilton community, school officials are taking a direct approach with "Character Day" – a raw, emotional, and honest program designed to motivate students to open up and ask for help. In Clarkstown, school officials are taking advantage of the time their students spend on the Internet by creating an online community – one where teens can anonymously air their problems and seek support from their peers and professionals.
Cry for Help also examines the often difficult transition from high school to college through a first-person account of a young woman who has battled mental illness. Stacy Hollingsworth, a straight-A student and gifted musician, was by all appearances a well-adjusted and accomplished young person. When Stacy phoned home from a campus psychiatric hospital during her freshman year at college, it was then that her parents realized things were not as perfect as they seemed. She had been hiding depression, suicidal thoughts, and feelings of paralyzing hopelessness for years. Stacy and her parents chronicle the painstaking journey to put her life back together, and how she founded her college's first on-campus chapter of the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill.
Additionally, Cry for Help looks at the efforts by some parents to tackle behavior and communication issues during their children's earliest years – before depression, violence, anger or suicidal impulses take over.
Interviewees include Dr. Chris Lucas, professor of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry at New York University; Dr. Frank Robertz, co-founder of Institute for Violence Prevention and Applied Criminology in Berlin, Germany; and Dr. Nolan Zane, Director of the Asian American Center on Disparities Research.
THIRTEEN's Cry for Help is funded by the Estate of Marya Sielska; Members of THIRTEEN; the Irene Ritter Foundation; Judy Collins; the Leon Lowenstein Foundation; Donna and Phil Satow; the Marion E. Kenworthy-Sarah H. Swift Foundation; and Viewers Like You.
Cry for Help is a production of THIRTEEN for WNET.ORG. Mary Murphy is Producer and Scott Davis is Senior Producer. Edie Magnus is Reporter and Executive Producer. Neal Shapiro and Stephen Segaller are Executives-in-Charge.
¹ Campus Mental Service, Recommendations for Change. Vastag et al, 2001.
² Nejm 2006. Study from Velez et al, American Academy of Child and Adolescent Psychiatry 1988.
³ Secret Service Threat Assessment Study for the U.S. Justice Dept.


Goats are ruminants, meaning they have 4 stomachs. A goat's rumination method of processing food requires plenty of roughage and fiber to work properly. Unlike other domestic ruminants like sheep and cattle, goats are not considered "grazers". They are more like deer and are "browsers" eating from high to low, preferring trees and shrubs to grass. They are notorious for wasting hay as they will pick out the best parts first, but it is perfectly natural for them to nibble here and there. If you are considering getting a goat as a "lawnmower", just know they will eat your trees, rose bushes and raspberries long before they even touch any grass.
We feed about 8-9 ton of hay per year. Depending on the season and weather conditions the amount and type will vary. Milking does will have about 2# per goat of 90% or higher alfalfa fed 2X a day. Everyone has free choice grass hay that is usually a 70-30% timothy, orchard and alfalfa mix. Our pastures have a variety of grass an forage for fresh grazing variety.
We feed mostly what is available and convenient at a reasonable price. Some of the specific feeds we use on a regular basis are pictured to the right.
What each goat gets as far as grain depends highly on age and stage of lactation or development. Pregnant and lactating does will generally receive higher quantities of the heavier protein and fiber. Kids will get more fat in their diet, and bucks need very little extra feed supplements except for during breeding season. We do not recommend giving grain to wethers (neutered males) unless we are trying to "finish" them before butchering. Even then, the muscling from a good quality alfalfa hay and forage is, in our opinion, better than grain finish.
The biggest thing that can affect the health and productivity of a herd is proper minerals. We feed a loose mineral that is formulated for the Northern Rockies being higher in selenium and also balanced well for goats in copper, phosphorus, magnesium, zinc and cobalt. In addition to the loose mineral, we have a variety of salt licks available and Vitalix protein and vitamin tubs.
Before and after kidding, we give a selenium and vitamin E paste to the does. This helps replenish and maintain energy during a stressful process. We also keep powdered and paste electrolytes on hand for a plethora of scenarios. Electrolytes are important when the weather gets outrageously hot as well as general traveling, shows, moving pens and any time an animal is off feed or under the weather. We cover our bases by administering plenty of electrolytes!
Please Do Not Kill Your Goats With Kindness!!!
It is and easy thing for people to love to spoil their goats, and why wouldn't you? They are perfect and adorable trouble makers. BUT goats have a more delicate digestive system than most realize, particularly when it comes to fat. Goats layer fat on their internal organs (heart, lungs, liver etc..) before they will get outwardly fat. Dairy goats especially will never and should never be plump, they are designed to be very lean athletic animals. The health problems on severely overweight goats can quickly spiral out of control and can end with a very sad and painful good bye to the pets you loved so much!
Treats are a great way to train goats to new pastures, new gates and in general showing and handling.
Our goats are particularly fond of peanuts. Whole in shell, no salt, roasted or raw no mater, they love them!
We also like banana chips, they are cheap to make ourselves (no sugar added) and the people can enjoy those treats too!
For the most part the milking does are picky and we don't want their milk to taste like last weeks leftovers. For bucks and dry stock, we will give fresh corn husks, garden vegetables, pumpkin and other things that come from our garden.
In the end the only ones that really like compost are the chickens.
Bio-security is very important to us as well as maintaining a healthy herd. We like to use natural methods when we can, but some situations require more conventional methods of treatment. All new animals are inspected and quarantined for a time period before being introduced to the rest of the herd. While we do offer outside breeding to our bucks, we expect the same kind of disease prevention and awareness and require a health check before any goat is exposed to our herd.
We use herbal worming methods as preventative but use conventional wormers (SafeGuard and Ivormec) as needed.
Kids are treated with herbal preventatives for Coccidiosis but again we will also use Dimethox or Corid if necessary as treatment.
Since veterinarians that know goats are hard to come by or are often unavailable, we keep a fully stocked medicine cabinet for just about every medical emergency no matter how big or small!
We don't pretend to know everything and raising animals is always a learning and growing process. Fortunately there are some great minds with years of experience that have published lots of information for the public on other internet sites. There are many methods to raising goats and ultimately you have to decide what works for you. The biggest thing to keep in mind is the more you read you will find yourself in fewer emergency and dire situations. Preparation is key!
Here are some of the sites and resources we have found extremely helpful for general knowledge as well as last minute planing and emergencies.
ADGA offers a variety of learning materials for herd management and performance programs! There is so much to learn from the professionals!
My hometown goating group! They host shows, LA events and offer links to other breeders around the state.
Based in Great Falls this group also hosts great shows and events.


We were headed to the Cayman Islands and expected to be able to get off the ship sometime mid morning.
Before the trip even started we had signed up for the Port Adventure to the Beach. I figured that as much fun as some of the other adventures might be…..the kids really wanted to just swim, and swim and swim and swim and SWIM. And, taking the different ages of the kids into account and Angelica's fitness level….the beach just seemed like the best place to be for our family.
The day started out much like the night before had ended off….grey and muggy with some showers off and on.
In order to get off the boat, we needed to board a smaller boat which then taxied us to the docks. The Cayman Islands did not have the capability for the cruise ship to dock. And so around 11am, we lined up at the bottom of the cruise ship to start the "tendering" process. As we pulled away from the cruise ship, it started to POUR. The air was still warm, but it was definitely wet.
It took about 10 minutes for us to get to the dock and as we stepped off the boat, it was still raining. We were a bit early to meet up with our Port Adventure Group and so we walked around the shops on the dock of the Grand Caymans….and while we were popping in and out of the little shops looking at souvenirs the rain stopped.
Finally it was time to head to the beach, and we, along with approx 100 others, got onto the buses and headed out. The bus driver was a fabulous tour guide. He talked non-stop for the 15 minutes it took to drive down to the beach that we were going to. He had a lot of interesting facts and stories about the Cayman Islands and the scenery was incredible.
We finally showed up at the beach and again, it was raining….we all huddled under the beach's small covered area and listened to the beach host explain a few things and then…….then they released us and we headed out to claim our very own little patch of heaven on the beach.
The weather couldn't seem to make up it's mind and it alternated between raining and not raining. In fact, the Cruise people came by to let everyone know that the buses would be available to take us back early if we wanted because of the bad weather.
I'd say that more than half of the people returned to the ship, but seeing as we had come to the beach with the point of getting wet…..we weren't planning on going ANYWHERE.
The water was warm, and the air was warm, and we had umbrellas to cover our stuff; and so we just swam and played in the sand. It was SO. MUCH. FUN.
The baby fell asleep after about an hour of playing in the water, crawling on the beach and throwing the sand; and so we wrapped him up in a damp towel, put him on a beach chair under an umbrella and he slept for about an hour. On most of our Port days, he had a good hour nap….I think he was just so worn out from the excitement of it all.
It was so much fun to swim in the warm, BLUE ocean water, when all we are used to is a slightly grey/brown freezing cold ocean experience.
Jon rented a jet-ski and took the three older kids out for turns. We also rented some snorkel gear and the kids had a blast just swimming around, trying to find different fish and shells.
Jeremy LOVED snorkeling. He snorkeled for the entire time that we were at the beach (3 hours). He collected some very cool looking little shells. This was pretty much what he looked like for almost all of the time that we were at the beach.
Josiah LOVED the beach and figured out that he could actually swim while we were at this beach. I think that the combination of the waves lifting him helped and for whatever reason he was very confident and was SO excited to actually be out swimming. He didn't go very far away from the shore, and stayed very close to us but he was actually swimming, on his own!
Starting to swim in the Cayman Islands is a pretty cool life experience.
The rain had eased up a bit and the weather was actually pretty nice. It was warm, but we were not being fried to a crisp by the broiling sun. I was actually pretty happy that it was a bit cloudy because then I wasn't stressing about sunscreen and making the kids wear shirts and hats and trying to avoid sunstroke.
They could just play without being nagged at. It was a win/win for all of us.
About an hour before we were scheduled to leave, the rain started up again and then…..
Can you see in that picture? Click on the photo to make it bigger…..
Yes, Lightening. We had Thunder and Lightening and it was kinda of cool. It was far enough away but still….it was interesting.
The bus returned for us around 3:30pm and we headed back. The last call for boats to the cruise ship was at 4:30pm and there was a HUGE line up. So instead of looking around a bit, we just got in the line up and headed back to the ship.
It had been a WONDERFUL DAY and we had so much fun. The rain didn't dampen our spirits, in fact, we were SO looking forward to being at COZUMEL the next day and heading to the beach AGAIN!
If you are interested in looking at all the photos from the Grand Caymans, click here!
I didn't take too many photos because I was concerned about getting water and sand in my camera.
I've gotten a few questions and I'll be answering them when I talk about the next sea day (which is day 6) so if you had any questions about our trip or wondered about something, let me know and I'll be sure to do my best answer them.
Next Next post: One Month in….


text:
/**
 * Only valid JSON data types can be used for types
 *
 * Make sure the keys in `env.model.ts` exist in `env.json`
 * otherwise it'll throw message like this
 * Property '<missing-key>' is missing in type '{}'
 *
 */
"use strict";
//# sourceMappingURL=env.js.map

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub


text:
Amuse-bouche är en typ av mindre "aptitretare" som ofta serveras på mer exklusiva restauranger innan den verkliga förrätten kommer in på bordet. Många betraktar detta som ett "gratisprov" på vad köket förmår, men i praktiken är priset inbakat i den övriga menyn. På vissa restauranger serveras ett flertal amuse-bouche och det har blivit en viktig del av restaurangens möjlighet att ge gästerna en så bra helhetsupplevelse av besöket som möjligt.

Referenser

Restauranger
Franska maträtter

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


text:
Genesee County
Affordable Housing in Grand Blanc
Genesee County, Michigan
3 Low Income Apartment Communities In Grand Blanc
The Landings on East Hill
4250 E Hill Rd
Grand Blanc, Michigan
$746-1,104
1-4 BR
Riverbend Apartments
5216 Perry Rd
Grand Meadows II
12624 Pagels Dr
Section 8 Vouchers, Apartments, and Waiting Lists in Grand Blanc, Michigan
Public Housing Agencies Serving Grand Blanc, Michigan
Flint Housing Commission Section 8 Housing Choice Voucher (HCV); Public Housing
Guide To Affordable Housing in Grand Blanc, Michigan
There are 3 low income housing apartment communities offering 292 affordable apartments for rent in Grand Blanc, Michigan.
Income Based Apartments in Grand Blanc, Michigan
Grand Blanc features 0 income based apartments. Tenants of income based apartments typically pay no more than 30% of their income towards rent and utilities.
Low Rent Apartments in Grand Blanc, Michigan
There are 292 rent subsidized apartments that do not provide direct rental assistance but remain affordable to low income households in Grand Blanc.
Housing Choice Vouchers in Grand Blanc, Michigan
On average, Section 8 Housing Choice vouchers pay Grand Blanc landlords $600 per month towards rent. The average voucher holder contributes $300 towards rent in Grand Blanc.
The maximum amount a voucher would pay on behalf of a low-income tenant in Grand Blanc, Michigan for a two-bedroom apartment is between $739 and $903.
2022 Grand Blanc, Michigan Fair Market Rents and Housing Choice Voucher Payment Standards
Grand Blanc, Michigan Fair Market Rent
$545 $645 $821 $1,034 $1,113
Grand Blanc, Michigan Payment Standard Range
$491 to $600 $581 to $710 $739 to $903 $931 to $1,137 $1,002 to $1,224
Grand Blanc, MI Affordable Housing Snapshot
$46,743 ±$4,907
$710 ±$29
Percentage Of Renters Overburdened
56.77% ± 11.01pp
Grand Blanc is a city in Genesee County, Michigan with a population of 8,088. There are 3,422 households in the city with an average household size of 2.32 persons. 42.31% of households in Grand Blanc are renters.
Income and Rent Overburden in Grand Blanc
The median gross income for households in Grand Blanc is $46,743 a year, or $3,895 a month. The median rent for the city is $710 a month.
Households who pay more than thirty percent of their gross income are considered to be Rent Overburdened. In Grand Blanc, a household making less than $2,367 a month would be considered overburdened when renting an apartment at or above the median rent. 56.77% of households who rent are overburdened in Grand Blanc.
Area Median Income In Grand Blanc
HUD often uses an area larger than a city to determine the AMI because HUD anticipates those searching for housing will look beyond individual cities during their housing search. For Grand Blanc, the AMI is calculated from all households within Genesee County.
In Grand Blanc, HUD calculates the Area Median Income for a family of four as $65,600
Rental Assistance in Grand Blanc
Income Qualifications for HUD Rental Assistance in Grand Blanc
Renters earning up to 30% of the Grand Blanc AMI may qualify for rental assistance programs that target Extremely Low Income households.
Renters earning up to 50% of the Grand Blanc AMI may qualify for rental assistance programs that target Very Low Income households.
Renters earning up to 80% of the Grand Blanc AMI may qualify for rental assistance programs that target Low Income households.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
<dialect xmlns="http://www.thymeleaf.org/extras/dialect"
         xmlns:xsi="http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema-instance"
         xsi:schemaLocation="http://www.thymeleaf.org/extras/dialect
                       http://www.thymeleaf.org/xsd/thymeleaf-extras-dialect-2.1.xsd"
         prefix="ddl"
         namespace-uri="http://www.thymeleaf.org/dandelion"
         namespace-strict="false"
         class="com.github.dandelion.thymeleaf.dialect.DandelionDialect">

   <attribute-processor name="bundle-includes">
      <documentation>
         <![CDATA[

Comma-separated list of bundles to activate in the current request.

         ]]>
      </documentation>
   </attribute-processor>

   <attribute-processor name="bundle-excludes">
      <documentation>
         <![CDATA[

Comma-separated list of bundles to exclude from the current request.

         ]]>
      </documentation>
   </attribute-processor>

   <attribute-processor name="js-excludes">
      <documentation>
         <![CDATA[

Comma-separated list of JavaScript assets to exclude from the current request.

         ]]>
      </documentation>
   </attribute-processor>

   <attribute-processor name="css-excludes">
      <documentation>
         <![CDATA[

Comma-separated list of CSS assets to exclude from the current request.

         ]]>
      </documentation>
   </attribute-processor>

   <attribute-processor name="placeholder-include">
      <restrictions tags="-html"/>
      <documentation>
         <![CDATA[

Placeholder used to tell Dandelion where to inject the corresponding assets. Assets will be injected into the corresponding element.

         ]]>
      </documentation>
   </attribute-processor>

   <attribute-processor name="placeholder-replace">
      <restrictions tags="-html"/>
      <documentation>
         <![CDATA[

Placeholder used to tell Dandelion where to inject the corresponding assets. Assets will replace the corresponding element.

         ]]>
      </documentation>
   </attribute-processor>
</dialect>