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EDITOR'S COMMENT:

Hello Everyone!

In recent months, I've been participating in a small class organized by some
long-time friends of mine. The twice-monthly class is focused on The Sayings
Gospel Q, which is an attempt by modern biblical scholars to extract what
Jesus actually said and did from the New Testament, in particular Matthew
and Luke.

You can find out more about this The Sayings Gospel Q here:

http://www.religioustolerance.org/gosp_q.htm

When Jesus is looked at through the eyes of Q, a figure very different from
the Jesus many of us grew up with emerges. Gone, to a large degree, is the
fire-breaking, messianic, apocalyptic, sending non-believers to hell Jesus a
significant part of the New Testament champions. What emerges, instead, is a
wisdom teacher who is preoccupied with something he refers to as "The
Kingdom of God". Using Sermon on the Mount type sayings, this gentler Jesus
champions one practice, above all others, as the royal road to God: loving
one's enemies.

If you really think about this, as we've been doing, loving your enemies is,
indeed, a very radical idea. It was exceedingly radical two thousand years
ago, and, sadly, remains so today.

Anyway, one of our recent assignments was to share stories that we thought
were good examples of people genuinely loving their enemies. Who were these
people? What did they do? What happened as the result? Is there a principle
here that can be identified and put into practice that could transform the
lives of people today in the same way it reportedly transformed the lives of
those who first encountered this radical idea two thousand years ago?

What follows are the two "love your enemy" stories that I shared. The first
story, "A Soft Answer", I've shared with this list before; the second story
is a remarkable restaging of the first story that I experienced in
Washington DC in March of 2000.

Do you have any stories like these? Stories you've experienced yourselves or
heard from others? If so, I would love to hear them.

--- David Sunfellow

P.S. My posts have been fewer in recent days because my financial situation,
like many of yours, has been getting increasingly tight and I've been having
to explore other ways to generate income. I'll return to NHNE's regular high
volume programming as soon as possible.

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A SOFT ANSWER
By Terry Dobson

http://nhne-pulse.org/?page_id=110

A turning point in my life came one day on a train in the middle of a drowsy
spring afternoon. The old car clanked and rattled over the rails. It was
comparatively empty -- a few housewives with their kids in tow, some old
folks out shopping, a couple of off-duty bartenders studying the racing
form. I gazed absently at the drab houses and dusty hedge rows.

At one station the doors opened, and suddenly the quiet afternoon was
shattered by a man bellowing at the top of his lungs -- yelling violent,
obscene, incomprehensible curses. Just as the doors closed the man, still
yelling, staggered into our car. He was big, drunk, and dirty. He wore
laborerıs clothing. His front was stiff with dried vomit. His eyes bugged
out, a demonic, neon red. His hair was crusted with filth. Screaming, he
swung at the first person he saw, a woman holding a baby. The blow glanced
off her shoulder, sending her spinning into the laps of an elderly couple.
It was a miracle that the baby was unharmed.

The couple jumped up and scrambled toward the other end of the car. They
were terrified. The laborer aimed a kick at the retreating back of the old
lady. ³You old whore!² he bellowed. ³Iıll kick your ass!² He missed; the old
woman scuttled to safety. This so enraged the drunk that he grabbed the
metal pole at the center of the car and tried to wrench it out of its
stanchion. I could see that one of his hands was cut and bleeding. The train
lurched ahead, the passengers frozen with fear. I stood tip.

I was young and in pretty good shape. I stood six feet, weighed 225. Iıd
been putting in a solid eight hours of aikido training every day for the
past three years. I liked to throw and grapple. I thought I was tough.
Trouble was, my martial skill was untested in actual combat. As students of
aikido, we were not allowed to fight.

My teacher taught us each morning that the art was devoted to peace.
³Aikido,² he said again and again, ³is the art of reconciliation. Whoever
has the mind to fight has broken his connection with the universe. If you
try to dominate other people, you are already defeated. We study how to
resolve conflict, not how to start it.²

I listened to his words. I tried hard. I wanted to quit fighting. I even
went so far as to cross the street a few times to avoid the ³chimpira,² the
pinball punks who lounged around the train stations. Theyıd have been happy
to test my martial ability. My forbearance exalted me. I felt both tough and
holy. In my heart of hearts, however, I was dying to be a hero. I wanted a
chance, an absolutely legitimate opportunity whereby I might save the
innocent by destroying the guilty.

³This is it!² I said to myself as I got to my feet. ³This slob, this animal,
is drunk and mean and violent. People are in danger. If I donıt do something
fast, somebody will probably get hurt. Iım gonna take his ass to the
cleaners.²

Seeing me stand up, the drunk saw a chance to focus his rage. ³Aha!² he
roared. ³A foreigner! You need a lesson in Japanese manners!² He punched the
metal pole once to give weight to his words.

I held on lightly to the commuter strap overhead. I gave him a slow look of
disgust and dismissal. I gave him every bit of piss-ant nastiness I could
summon up. I planned to take this turkey apart, but he had to be the one to
move First. And I wanted him mad, because the madder he got, the more
certain my victory. I pursed my lips and blew him a sneering, insolent kiss.
It hit him like a slap in the face. ³All right!² he hollered. ³Youıre gonna
get a lesson.² He gathered himself for a rush at me. Heıd never know what
hit him.

A split second before he moved, someone shouted ³Hey!² It was ear splitting.
I remember being struck by the strangely joyous, lilting quality of it ‹ as
though you and a friend had been searching diligently for something, and he
had suddenly stumbled upon it. ³Hey!² I wheeled to my left, the drunk spun
to his right. We both stared down at a little old Japanese man. He must have
been well into his seventies, this tiny gentleman, sitting there immaculate
in his kimono and hakama. He took no notice of me, but beamed delightedly at
the laborer, as though he had a most important, most welcome secret to
share.

³Cımere,² the old man said in an easy vernacular, beckoning to the drunk.
³Cımere and talk with me.² He waved his hand lightly. The giant man
followed, as if on a string. He planted his feet belligerently in front of
the old gentleman and towered threateningly over him.

³Talk to you?² he roared above the clacking wheels. ³Why the hell should I
talk to you?² The drunk now had his back to me. If his elbow moved so much
as a millimeter, Iıd drop him in his socks.

The old man continued to beam at the laborer. There was not a trace of fear
or resentment about him. ³Whatıcha been drinkinı?² he asked lightly, with
interest. ³I been drinkinı sake,² the laborer bellowed back, ³and itıs none
of your god dam business!²

³Oh, thatıs wonderful,² the old man said with delight. ³Absolutely
wonderful! You see, I love sake, too. Every night, me and my wife (sheıs
seventy-six, you know), we warm up a little bottle of sake and take it our
into the garden, and we sit on the old wooden bench that my grandfatherıs
first student made for him. We watch the sun go down, and we look to see how
our persimmon tree is doing. My great-grandfather planted that tree, you
know, and we worry about whether it will recover from those ice storms we
had last winter. Persimmons do not do well after ice storms, although I must
say that ours has done rather better that I expected, especially when you
consider the poor quality of the soil. Still, it is most gratifying to watch
when we take our sake and go out to enjoy the evening -- even when it
rains!² He looked up at the laborer, eyes twinkling, happy to share his
delightful information.

As he struggled to follow the intricacies of the old manıs conversation, the
drunkıs face began to soften. His fists slowly unclenched. ³Yeah,² he said
slowly, ³I love persimmons, tooŠ² His voice trailed off.

³Yes,² said the old man, smiling, ³and Iım sure you have a wonderful wife.²

³No,² replied the laborer, ³my wife died.² He hung his head. Very gently,
swaying with the motion of the train, the big man began to sob. ³I donıt got
no wife, I donıt got no home, I donıt got no job, I donıt got no money, I
donıt got nowhere to go. Iım so ashamed of myself.² Tears rolled down his
cheeks; a spasm of pure despair rippled through his body. Above the baggage
rack a four-color ad trumpeted the virtues of suburban luxury living.

Now it was my turn. Standing there in my well-scrubbed youthful innocence,
my make-this-world-safe-for-democracy righteousness, I suddenly felt dirtier
than he was.

Just then, the train arrived at my stop. The platform was packed, and the
crowd surged into the car as soon as the doors opened. Maneuvering my way
out, I heard the old man cluck sympathetically. ³My, my,² he said with
undiminished delight, ³that is a very difficult predicament, indeed. Sit
down here and tell me about it.²

I turned my head for one last look. The laborer was sprawled like a sack on
the seat, his head in the old manıs lap. The old man looked down at him, all
compassion and delight, one hand softly stroking the filthy, matted head.

As the train pulled away, I sat down on a bench. What I had wanted to do
with muscle and meanness had been accomplished with a few kind words. I had
seen aikido tried in combat, and the essence of it was love, as the founder
had said. I would have to practice the art with an entirely different
spirit. It would be a long time before I could speak about the resolution of
conflict.

ŠŠŠŠ

Terry Dobson was a holder of a fifth-degree black belt in aikido, coauthor
of ³Aikido in Everyday Life² (North Atlantic Books), and author of the book
³Itıs a Lot Like Dancing: An Aikido Journey² (Frog, Ltd.), among other
works. He died in 1992 at age 55. This article, published in NEW AGE JOURNAL
in 1981, first appeared in the ³Lomi School Bulletin.²

..............

A SOFT ANSWER IN WASHINGTON D.C.
By David Sunfellow

In March of 2000 I made a trip to Washington DC with the members of the
Sedona Charter School's sixth grade class -- five girls, three boys, and two
teachers. My youngest daughter, Rayel, was one of the girls. My primary job
was to turn the adventure into a movie that family, friends, and local
businesses could enjoy when we returned to Sedona. I was also responsible
for keeping an eye on the boys at night.

As might be expected, the boys were rambunctious and difficult to manage.
One of the boys came from a broken home and was quite taken with the violent
antics of professional wrestling. He not only loved this shady, shallow, and
violent world, but he aspired to deal with real life situations in a similar
way: Fight, defeat, and humiliate your opponents. Because these attitudes
were influencing his behavior during the day, it occurred to me that it
might be helpful to tell him the story of someone else who thought fighting
violence with violence was the way to solve conflicts. So before bed one
night, I told him Terry Dobson's story, "A Soft Answer". A little annoyed,
he listened, but doubted the story was true. In spite of my reassurances to
the contrary, he was suspicious that I was making it up, trying to make a
point that wasn't really viable in the real world.

The next day, first thing in the morning, all us climbed aboard a bus to
continue our tour of Washington. Along with one or two other riders, we were
the only ones on the bus. About 10 minutes into the ride, a black man got on
the bus. Able to tell that we were visitors who weren't accustomed to big
cities and buses, he chose a seat near the boy I had told Dobson's story to
the night before. Then he began talking, loudly, about how sick and tired he
was of people coming to Washington. They were pests, irritants, nuisances.
They should leave and go home.

All of us, especially the young boy who the black man was directing most of
his comments to, and me, as the only adult male in the group, became very
comfortable. And the more uncomfortable we became, the louder and more
strident the black man became in his comments.

After a couple minutes of this, I finally spoke up. Instead of escalating
the situation by telling to him to quiet down, be respective, behave
himself, I asked him if he lived in Washington DC, and if so, for how long.

Surprised by my question, he paused, and then changed his tone completely.
Sheepishly, he told us he had been born in Washington and never traveled
outside the city. In all his life, this is the only place he had ever been.
Then I introduced all of us to him and told him that we came from a tiny
town in Arizona -- and that many of us had never been to Washington before.
It was a big trip for us that the kids had worked to pay for and local
businesses had helped fund. I asked him what sites would he suggest we see?
Which ones should we avoid? What suggestions could he give newbies like us
to have a safe trip?

By the time we reached our stop, he had not only given us some helpful tips,
but was apologizing, profusely, for treating us so badly. He said that being
loud and aggressive was one way he learned to protect himself in Washington.

And that was that. We all said goodbye. Wished him well. And continued on
our journey.

While the adults in the situation all breathed a sigh of relief that we
managed to extricate ourselves (and the children we were caring for) from a
potentially dangerous situation, I never knew what the young boy I had told
the Dobson story to thought of what had happened. Was this a turning point
in his life, as it had been for Dobson? Did he even make the connection
between the two events -- the story I told him the night before and it
restaging itself on a bus in Washington the next morning? Rather than asking
him what he thought, I felt the best path was to allow everything to sink
in, quietly, without discussion and analysis.

That said, I've spent years marveling that such a magical, near miraculous
event could unfold like a script from a movie. I am bowed, awed, humbled
before the powers that make such things possible.

You can find a short clip from the end of the movie posted here:
http://bit.ly/3NnOU4

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Published by David Sunfellow
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