Written Monday, October 16, 2006
Kolymbari, Crete, Greece

BLESSING

In Switzerland there is a city. Geneva. In that city there is a river. In that river is an island. On that island is a restaurant. And in that restaurant is a man. Me, looking out a window at a stormy day.  October 11, 2006. Outside, tall plane trees are being thrashed by a blustery wind. Their dry yellow leaves are launched out onto the River Rhone as it races by on its way to the sea at Marseilles. The leaves float like a brave regatta of sailboats, floating and whirling in unison.
The rain fills them and they swiftly sink into the current of the river.
Evanescence is the word that comes to mind – the inevitable brevity of life.

In the room where I stand are three tables, well set for a fine lunch. White linen, crystal glasses, silverware, and roses. Just sitting down together are thirty people gathered for a meal before an afternoon awards ceremony to honor two defenders of human rights.

As the guests settle into place, I consider them. There is Arnold Tsunga, a black African lawyer from Zimbabwe who gave up his private life and practice to work for those who are wrongly arrested, tortured, and imprisoned. He himself was beaten and tortured. And there, at that table is Akbar Ganji, a journalist from Iran, who was arrested and tortured and imprisoned for daring to criticize his government. Both men have been hounded into exile by the vicious dogs of repression.

Sitting around them are friends, colleagues, and fellow activists. There, a woman from the International Red Cross; there, a man from the United Nations High Commission for Refugees; there a woman from Amnesty International; here, a man who has worked in nine countries for five agencies committed to helping those who cannot help themselves.

My eye moves on from face to face, recognizing those who have made it their life’s work to defend human rights, and to work for justice and peace in the world, at the sacrifice of their own well-being. If you passed them in the streets of Geneva, you would not know. If you could see into their hearts and minds you would never forget the fire that is there.
My thoughts are interrupted by the master of ceremonies, calling my name, saying that since I am an ordained minister, I will offer a blessing for the meal. In deference to religious custom, the guests begin to bow their heads.

Wait.
This blessing does not require that you close your eyes or bow your heads.
I ask that you keep your eyes open, your head up.
Listen.
The finest blessing a meal can have is great companionship.
Look around this room. Take notice of those who sit with you.
Look around you. Look at these men and women.
Consider who they are, what they have done, and what they stand for.
Consider that you are not alone on your Way in the world.
Consider that you have the honor to break bread with such as these.
Look.
And know that this meal and each of us is abundantly blessed.

Amen.

_______________

I pass this blessing on to you. That you, too, may know that, despite the evanescence of life, such people are still at hard work in the world - as if even the shortest moment and smallest person counted. I pass this blessing on to you. That you, too, may keep your eyes open and your head up. That you, too, may see and know. That you, too, may bless and be blessed.