In 8 days I will be on sabbatical. Other than knowing I already miss our youth I really don't know what to expect. I have plans, but suspect God giggles at them and angels cover their faces with an "uh-oh". My to-do list gets longer by the day, and now includes activities like painting the two walls we missed 7 years ago, and cleaning out my laptop (including bookmarks. What evil genius invented bookmarks?). Suddenly 13 weeks of relative freedom seems like nothing. In fact, in some ways I'm feeling more constrained than usual.
That's how the devil works, isn't it? God gives us a gift grounded in freedom, and we (at least I) immediately unwrap it, take it apart, and nail it to the ground. Then wonder why I can't pick up this great gift and use it with abandon. Whether it's the gift of words (I am not spending enough time wordsmithing my sermons; I am not blogging enough; my Home Depot lists lack panache.) or the gift of freedom in Christ, our/my temptation is to render them a burden.
When gifts become a burden, it's time to rearrange, rethink, and recharge. Sometimes the only discipline needed is enjoyment. Which gets us right back to "in 8 days". Angels, uncover your eyes: I'm going to need your help.
Wednesday, June 02, 2010
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Shabbatical Reading List
Would you read with me this summer? During my sabbatical I will be reading and blogging, and would love to have others to talk with. Here's my approximate schedule by week; I'll announce any changes here. I begin the 2-year Renovare Institute in July; I'm hoping that reading list will augment rather than replace this one.
| 6/11/2010 | Rest and clean my house | |
| 6/14/2010 | Play and continue to clean my house | |
| 6/21/2010 | Other reading and projects | |
| 6/28/2010 | Sabbath, Abraham Heschel | |
| 7/5/2010 | The Sabbath World: Glimpses of a Different Order of Time, Judith Shulevitz | |
| 7/12/2010 | Mudhouse Sabbath, Lauren Winner | |
| 7/19/2010 | Visiting Oxford, MS and Asheville, NC | |
| 7/26/2010 | Catch-up and projects | |
| 8/2/2010 | Acedia and Me, Kathleen Norris | |
| 8/9/2010 | Streams of Living Water, Richard Foster | |
| 8/16/2010 | Catch-up and projects | |
| 8/23/2010 | The Holy Longing, Ronald Rolheiser | |
| 8/30/2010 | Living the Sabbath, Norman Wirzba and Wendell Berry | |
| 9/6/2010 | Catch-up and projects | |
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
The Gulf is Drowning
Oil Industry: Quit whining and build the berms and sandbars already!
Congress: Stop protecting your own interests and raise the financial cap to unlimited.
BP: Stop pouring in poison as if that helps and plug the hole. (And, by the way: who builds a long pipe without shutoff valves?)
EPA: Really? There's nothing you can do?
You and me and everyone else: Can we choose to live differently?
God: It's looking a little apocalyptic from here...
Congress: Stop protecting your own interests and raise the financial cap to unlimited.
BP: Stop pouring in poison as if that helps and plug the hole. (And, by the way: who builds a long pipe without shutoff valves?)
EPA: Really? There's nothing you can do?
You and me and everyone else: Can we choose to live differently?
God: It's looking a little apocalyptic from here...
Thursday, April 29, 2010
My Utmost for His Highest for today
by Oswald Chambers
. . . it has not yet been revealed what we shall be . . . —1 John 3:2
Our natural inclination is to be so precise— trying always to forecast accurately what will happen next— that we look upon uncertainty as a bad thing. We think that we must reach some predetermined goal, but that is not the nature of the spiritual life. The nature of the spiritual life is that we are certain in our uncertainty. Consequently, we do not put down roots. Our common sense says, “Well, what if I were in that circumstance?” We cannot presume to see ourselves in any circumstance in which we have never been.
Certainty is the mark of the commonsense life— gracious uncertainty is the mark of the spiritual life. To be certain of God means that we are uncertain in all our ways, not knowing what tomorrow may bring. This is generally expressed with a sigh of sadness, but it should be an expression of breathless expectation. We are uncertain of the next step, but we are certain of God. As soon as we abandon ourselves to God and do the task He has placed closest to us, He begins to fill our lives with surprises. When we become simply a promoter or a defender of a particular belief, something within us dies. That is not believing God — it is only believing our belief about Him.
Jesus said, “. . . unless you . . . become as little children . . .” (Matthew 18:3 ). The spiritual life is the life of a child. We are not uncertain of God, just uncertain of what He is going to do next. If our certainty is only in our beliefs, we develop a sense of self-righteousness, become overly critical, and are limited by the view that our beliefs are complete and settled. But when we have the right relationship with God, life is full of spontaneous, joyful uncertainty and expectancy.
Jesus said, “. . . believe also in Me” (John 14:1 ), not, “Believe certain things about Me”. Leave everything to Him and it will be gloriously and graciously uncertain how He will come in— but you can be certain that He will come. Remain faithful to Him.
. . . it has not yet been revealed what we shall be . . . —1 John 3:2
Our natural inclination is to be so precise— trying always to forecast accurately what will happen next— that we look upon uncertainty as a bad thing. We think that we must reach some predetermined goal, but that is not the nature of the spiritual life. The nature of the spiritual life is that we are certain in our uncertainty. Consequently, we do not put down roots. Our common sense says, “Well, what if I were in that circumstance?” We cannot presume to see ourselves in any circumstance in which we have never been.
Certainty is the mark of the commonsense life— gracious uncertainty is the mark of the spiritual life. To be certain of God means that we are uncertain in all our ways, not knowing what tomorrow may bring. This is generally expressed with a sigh of sadness, but it should be an expression of breathless expectation. We are uncertain of the next step, but we are certain of God. As soon as we abandon ourselves to God and do the task He has placed closest to us, He begins to fill our lives with surprises. When we become simply a promoter or a defender of a particular belief, something within us dies. That is not believing God — it is only believing our belief about Him.
Jesus said, “. . . unless you . . . become as little children . . .” (Matthew 18:3 ). The spiritual life is the life of a child. We are not uncertain of God, just uncertain of what He is going to do next. If our certainty is only in our beliefs, we develop a sense of self-righteousness, become overly critical, and are limited by the view that our beliefs are complete and settled. But when we have the right relationship with God, life is full of spontaneous, joyful uncertainty and expectancy.
Jesus said, “. . . believe also in Me” (John 14:1 ), not, “Believe certain things about Me”. Leave everything to Him and it will be gloriously and graciously uncertain how He will come in— but you can be certain that He will come. Remain faithful to Him.
Thursday, April 08, 2010
Shabbatical
As you may know, I am on sabbatical this summer. If you have no idea what that actually means, you're not alone: the more research I did, the less it turned out I actually knew! So here are some of the questions I had, and the answers I found.
How long is it?
My sabbatical will be three months long, which is standard, though some last as long as a year.
Why do you get one?
Because being centered in God and healthy in body, mind, and spirit is critical to ministerial leadership -- and to following Jesus.
What is a sabbatical?
The bottom line is that a sabbatical is a time to “not do what you normally do.”
Based on the Biblical concept of Sabbath, a sabbatical is a period of rest and renewal. It's not a vacation, but a deliberate re-centering in one's calling. For an academic, that often means doing personal research or pursuing an advanced degree. For a pastor, a sabbatical is often a time for travel to holy places, such as Palestine or Iona (Scotland ) or the basilica of Guadalupe in Mexico City
The word “sabbatical” comes from the word “sabbath”. Sabbath is the fourth of the Ten Commandments, and is central to the Torah system of social justice and right action.
How long is it?
My sabbatical will be three months long, which is standard, though some last as long as a year.
Why do you get one?
Because being centered in God and healthy in body, mind, and spirit is critical to ministerial leadership -- and to following Jesus.
The calling of ministerial leadership is a claim upon one’s entire life. Whether one is ordained and employed, or a lay person and volunteering, accepting God’s call to ministry leadership means that every part of your life is available for God’s use, and that we are specially accountable to God and our community for our use of your time, gifts, and resources. This is a profound responsibility, affecting not only our lives but those of our families, friends, and churches.
The United Church of Christ, like most denominations, recognizes that pastors have responsibility to their communities whether they are on campus or not, at all times of the day and night. So the agreement between the pastor and the church usually stipulates a periodic time of renewal, for the sake of all parties involved. My “letter of call” from our church calls for a 3 month sabbatical every five years. I was called as your pastor in November 2002, and this is my first sabbatical.
What about our church?
This summer is an opportunity for our church to “not do what you normally do.” Council member Debra Carpenter and Cantor Susan Hough have been working with me to provide for our church’s care and development. By the beginning of May, we will send out the plan and all contact information to each household.
We agreed from the beginning that this was a great time for our church to do new things, hear new voices, strengthen lay leadership, and have fun.
- New things: the theme this summer is Servolution! Our major ministry activities will be scheduled random acts of kindness – sharing the love of God in fun and practical ways.
- New voices: we are scheduling a number of preachers over the summer to bring different perspectives and life experience to the interpretation of Jesus’ gospel.
- Strengthen lay leadership: Council and Staff will supervise the daily business of the church, coordinate ongoing ministries, and appoint a single contact for emergency pastoral needs.
- Have fun: This summer's emphasis on random acts of kindness will be a fun way to share God's love -- and every single person will have a vital role it. It's a Servolution, after all!
There will also be clergy coverage. Rather than having a single person try to do everything, we will engage 2-3 part-time sabbatical replacements, each utilizing the best of the gifts God has given them.
What will you be doing?
With God’s help, this will be a time of “how to live” rather than “what to do”. I hope you'll join me in some of the experiments and readings -- I would love to discuss all of this with you!
- Theme: Shabbat-ical – composing a life based on God’s Sabbath rhythm. (Shabbat is the Hebrew word for the Sabbath.)
- Primary spiritual practices: Doing just one thing at a time, and the Ignatian exercises.
- Primary activities: Researching Sabbath; restructuring our household activity to be able to observe Sabbath; writing a Rule of life; and blogging about our discoveries. I also hope to perfect my baking technique for pain a l’ancienne!
- Travel plans: Worshiping with other communities. As a family, we expect to go to
I also plan to read and blog on my reading. Some likely books are:
- Sabbath, Abraham Heschel
- Mudhouse Sabbath, Lauren Winner
- The Sabbath World: Glimpses of a Different Order of Time, Judith Shulevitz
- Living the Sabbath, Norman Wirzba and Wendell Berry
- Streams of Living Water, Richard Foster
- The Holy Longing, Ronald Rolheiser
- Acedia and Me, Kathleen Norris
And, for the fun of it:
- The
- The Tenth Muse: My Life In Food, Judith Jones.
- Whatever I haven’t read of Michael Pollan and Anne Tyler, among others.
Finally and firstly: I look forward to spending time with my husband Bran and our daughter Elisabeth, who have been very patient with me for (at least) the last eight years.
If you have other questions, please email me!
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
A head spin worthy of Linda Blair
I wasn't going to blog this, because it may sound like an attack on particular individuals. But since I've been pondering it for 24 hours, I'm forging ahead, fully aware that someone in the SF bay area, someone else is blogging in shock over something I've said.
Yesterday I visited my alma mater seminary. Our church decided to welcome a minister-in-training next school year and I was there to sit at a table for questions and give a two-minute promo for our church.
BACKGROUND: My alma mater is pretty liberal. Its self-image derives from a certain kind of wide-open ecumenism that welcomes seekers and strangers and the estranged, is uncomfortable dictating expectations, and hopes to encourage the Spirit in all of us. So, for example, a gay leather daddy with a sense of how The Unnamed Divine is working in his life would be welcome to attend. In this way, it is an amazingly open and diverse place.
Because of this openness, it is historically wary of more ... traditional? that's not quite right .. approaches to faith. And, because it is founded in the work of white liberals, by and large, it tends to treat its very welcome people of color as exotica. So, for example: if a black lesbian attended the school, and spoke comfortably of Jesus' activity in her life, her confession of Jesus might well be viewed with kind and gentle cultural sensitivity. "She's black, right? and her culture thinks of Jesus this way." The underlying message would be, then, that unfortunately we are all shaped by our culture, and if she were more self-aware she might find more open and non-discriminating ways to express her experience. But -- thank The Divine! -- her (black, not gay) community will no doubt benefit from her experience as a lesbian and learn from that, plus she'll be able to reach them because she speaks their language.
A white woman saying the same sentence, though, must be, well, a bigot, or sheltered, or at the wrong place, or straight, or... you get the drift. Since there's no cultural excuse, confession using "traditional" language is suspect.
The other outcome of this openness is an aversion or unreflective neglect of public prayer. We talk about prayer, but don't do it. Just don't think about it, or craft it very carefully so as not to either offend or go too deeply into treacherous waters.
EVENT: So anyway, the event starts. The host welcomes all of us, tells us how it will work (pastors and agency reps get 2 minutes to talk about the uniqueness of their settings), introduces his staff, etc. No opening prayer. No blessing. No mention of call or God or anything like that. The parade of speakers goes on.
At some point one woman goes to the microphone and apologizes for the absence of her senior pastor, who is attending the family of a young man in surgery that very moment with a broken neck after a motorcycle accident. She makes light of the circumstances (which, in a broad comedy movie would be funny, were there no injuries), and assures us that the good news is that the young man is able to wiggle his fingers. Immediately she launches directly into a rah-rah about her church, which does sound very interesting, and sits down.
Two or three more speakers follow. Not one of them acknowledges that we have just been told about a young man with a broken neck in surgery at that moment, with the good news being that he does have some movement in his fingers.
Remember that scene in the Exorcist where Linda Blair's head is spinning? That's exactly how I felt, sitting in my seminary, with 2 dozen clergy, maybe 3 dozen students, a dire circumstance, and not even a dash, a smidgeon of prayer.
So of course when I got up my heart was pounding. I couldn't remember what I had planned to say; I just knew I had to pray. So invited everyone to pray. I think I prayed for the man and the doctors and family. I think I prayed for the seminarians and their call to follow Jesus and to serve him with their lives. I feel confident I forgot to mention where I was from or what my name was. I know I said I missed prayer while I was there 12 years ago, and that my field education way the most important part of my training. I did say that we take prayer seriously, and the Bible seriously, and because we take the Bible seriously we are a progressive congregation. I did say that if they spend a year with us we would take them seriously, encouraging them to aim high, risk big, fail dramatically, and try again in the name of the gospel.
Another dozen speakers. No closing prayer. No blessing, but an invitation to have a cookie.
No one visited my table, but two clergy thanked me for the prayer. One student assured me that they don't pray there at all -- that they talk about it but don't do it. So I didn't feel insane.
Even though 60 eyes or so suggested I was. Or at the least, a white bisexual tattooed-and-pierced Jesus-freak threat to liberal thinking everywhere.
Yesterday I visited my alma mater seminary. Our church decided to welcome a minister-in-training next school year and I was there to sit at a table for questions and give a two-minute promo for our church.
BACKGROUND: My alma mater is pretty liberal. Its self-image derives from a certain kind of wide-open ecumenism that welcomes seekers and strangers and the estranged, is uncomfortable dictating expectations, and hopes to encourage the Spirit in all of us. So, for example, a gay leather daddy with a sense of how The Unnamed Divine is working in his life would be welcome to attend. In this way, it is an amazingly open and diverse place.
Because of this openness, it is historically wary of more ... traditional? that's not quite right .. approaches to faith. And, because it is founded in the work of white liberals, by and large, it tends to treat its very welcome people of color as exotica. So, for example: if a black lesbian attended the school, and spoke comfortably of Jesus' activity in her life, her confession of Jesus might well be viewed with kind and gentle cultural sensitivity. "She's black, right? and her culture thinks of Jesus this way." The underlying message would be, then, that unfortunately we are all shaped by our culture, and if she were more self-aware she might find more open and non-discriminating ways to express her experience. But -- thank The Divine! -- her (black, not gay) community will no doubt benefit from her experience as a lesbian and learn from that, plus she'll be able to reach them because she speaks their language.
A white woman saying the same sentence, though, must be, well, a bigot, or sheltered, or at the wrong place, or straight, or... you get the drift. Since there's no cultural excuse, confession using "traditional" language is suspect.
The other outcome of this openness is an aversion or unreflective neglect of public prayer. We talk about prayer, but don't do it. Just don't think about it, or craft it very carefully so as not to either offend or go too deeply into treacherous waters.
EVENT: So anyway, the event starts. The host welcomes all of us, tells us how it will work (pastors and agency reps get 2 minutes to talk about the uniqueness of their settings), introduces his staff, etc. No opening prayer. No blessing. No mention of call or God or anything like that. The parade of speakers goes on.
At some point one woman goes to the microphone and apologizes for the absence of her senior pastor, who is attending the family of a young man in surgery that very moment with a broken neck after a motorcycle accident. She makes light of the circumstances (which, in a broad comedy movie would be funny, were there no injuries), and assures us that the good news is that the young man is able to wiggle his fingers. Immediately she launches directly into a rah-rah about her church, which does sound very interesting, and sits down.
Two or three more speakers follow. Not one of them acknowledges that we have just been told about a young man with a broken neck in surgery at that moment, with the good news being that he does have some movement in his fingers.
Remember that scene in the Exorcist where Linda Blair's head is spinning? That's exactly how I felt, sitting in my seminary, with 2 dozen clergy, maybe 3 dozen students, a dire circumstance, and not even a dash, a smidgeon of prayer.
So of course when I got up my heart was pounding. I couldn't remember what I had planned to say; I just knew I had to pray. So invited everyone to pray. I think I prayed for the man and the doctors and family. I think I prayed for the seminarians and their call to follow Jesus and to serve him with their lives. I feel confident I forgot to mention where I was from or what my name was. I know I said I missed prayer while I was there 12 years ago, and that my field education way the most important part of my training. I did say that we take prayer seriously, and the Bible seriously, and because we take the Bible seriously we are a progressive congregation. I did say that if they spend a year with us we would take them seriously, encouraging them to aim high, risk big, fail dramatically, and try again in the name of the gospel.
Another dozen speakers. No closing prayer. No blessing, but an invitation to have a cookie.
No one visited my table, but two clergy thanked me for the prayer. One student assured me that they don't pray there at all -- that they talk about it but don't do it. So I didn't feel insane.
Even though 60 eyes or so suggested I was. Or at the least, a white bisexual tattooed-and-pierced Jesus-freak threat to liberal thinking everywhere.
Monday, March 01, 2010
Looking ahead to Taize
Wonderful husband is due back tomorrow night after 9 days out of town. Though I'm fighting a cold (doesn't it sound like "I" have some actual control over this?) I am looking ahead to the 18th when I do my own traveling.
Taize.
Some go to Mecca, others to Lourdes, still others crawl on their knees all the way to Puebla. I'm not one of them, but am indulging a repeating whim to go to Taize.
For those who don't know anything about Taize, I refer you to this excellent blog post by a youth minister on his group's stay: Youthblog
Perhaps the unique aspect to Taize is not its form of worship so much (though that's what impresses and gets copied to varying levels of success) or its intentional ecumenism (rare for a monastery) but the fact that the vast majority of attendees for a week of silence, prayer, and work are under age 30.
This is the legacy of the martyred Fr. Roger: he envisioned youth finding Christ, en masse, for real, and taking the gospel message of service and love out into the world.
I cannot wait.
(Though I do hope it warms above 27F soon...)
Taize.
Some go to Mecca, others to Lourdes, still others crawl on their knees all the way to Puebla. I'm not one of them, but am indulging a repeating whim to go to Taize.
For those who don't know anything about Taize, I refer you to this excellent blog post by a youth minister on his group's stay: Youthblog
Perhaps the unique aspect to Taize is not its form of worship so much (though that's what impresses and gets copied to varying levels of success) or its intentional ecumenism (rare for a monastery) but the fact that the vast majority of attendees for a week of silence, prayer, and work are under age 30.
This is the legacy of the martyred Fr. Roger: he envisioned youth finding Christ, en masse, for real, and taking the gospel message of service and love out into the world.
I cannot wait.
(Though I do hope it warms above 27F soon...)
Thursday, February 11, 2010
So shut off the neon, already!
When Wonderful Husband and I were in seminary, he worked for a homeless ministry and I worked in downtown San Francisco. Not so different on a daily basis. What we noticed that was, even in our off hours -- not at work, not doing outreach -- we attracted crazy people. You know what I mean by crazy people? Everyone from I-can't-get-out-a-single-linear-sentence crazy to just-as-soon-kill-you-as-talk-to-you crazy to I-know-we-haven't-met-but-here's-my-life-story crazy. On the days that the crazies who accosted us outnumbered the other contacts we had, we were certain that we had bright neon signs, visible only to others, that said "crazy people welcome!".
Sometimes the neon would be on and we'd just get a lot -- I mean dozens -- of strangers coming up and talking to one or the other of us. Sometimes it would be less confrontational, like the weeks that one of my classmates had a crush on me and followed me everywhere. Everywhere. Hiding behind trees. Leaving really strange gifts. (Yes, I reported it as stalking. Yes, it stopped eventually.) Or the day that one of the homeless guys we both knew grabbed Wonderful Husband by the throat as we said hello to him. Or the day that another of our guys started daydreaming aloud about the children he'd injured. When the neon is on, it's not about numbers but about quality of interaction.
By and large our church lacks neon. We've had a few challenges -- your average dual-diagnosis homeless men, the borderline personality who would scream at our poor office manager over the phone when I wasn't in to scream at, the really broken soul who didn't realize that it was her own behavior that caused the problems she had -- but nothing constant or really dramatic.
But I think that the lack of neon, the lack of drama, is taking its toll on people. Over the last few months, a couple of our regular members -- clinically sane people -- have started acting out in that oh-so-lovely nice churchy passive-aggressive way. You know: the ones who that whatever whim they have must be a church priority even if everything else has to come to a stop or a full 180 to accommodate them -- until they drop it suddenly because they got bored or distracted, leaving behind angry and confused helpers and unfinished work. Or the ones who whimper about how hurt and damaged they are (no fault of their own) as they systematically work over everyone in their paths. Or the ones who will pick fights with the mother-figure (me) because their spouses won't take it anymore. And, my perennial favorites: the ones who brag about their money, give less than a mite, and then want personalized service (including monetary investment) from The Church.
So Lord, if you're listening, would you shut off the neon, please? Or give me whatever patience you've got, because right now I just want to unplug the whole damned electrical system.
Sometimes the neon would be on and we'd just get a lot -- I mean dozens -- of strangers coming up and talking to one or the other of us. Sometimes it would be less confrontational, like the weeks that one of my classmates had a crush on me and followed me everywhere. Everywhere. Hiding behind trees. Leaving really strange gifts. (Yes, I reported it as stalking. Yes, it stopped eventually.) Or the day that one of the homeless guys we both knew grabbed Wonderful Husband by the throat as we said hello to him. Or the day that another of our guys started daydreaming aloud about the children he'd injured. When the neon is on, it's not about numbers but about quality of interaction.
By and large our church lacks neon. We've had a few challenges -- your average dual-diagnosis homeless men, the borderline personality who would scream at our poor office manager over the phone when I wasn't in to scream at, the really broken soul who didn't realize that it was her own behavior that caused the problems she had -- but nothing constant or really dramatic.
But I think that the lack of neon, the lack of drama, is taking its toll on people. Over the last few months, a couple of our regular members -- clinically sane people -- have started acting out in that oh-so-lovely nice churchy passive-aggressive way. You know: the ones who that whatever whim they have must be a church priority even if everything else has to come to a stop or a full 180 to accommodate them -- until they drop it suddenly because they got bored or distracted, leaving behind angry and confused helpers and unfinished work. Or the ones who whimper about how hurt and damaged they are (no fault of their own) as they systematically work over everyone in their paths. Or the ones who will pick fights with the mother-figure (me) because their spouses won't take it anymore. And, my perennial favorites: the ones who brag about their money, give less than a mite, and then want personalized service (including monetary investment) from The Church.
So Lord, if you're listening, would you shut off the neon, please? Or give me whatever patience you've got, because right now I just want to unplug the whole damned electrical system.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
There's always one more thing left to do
Colin Beavan's post this morning. You go on, No Impact Man!
Monday, January 25, 2010
Yes, sometimes I do have to boast
Our webminister said that the mic settings (etc.) for this song were set up for great sound, but didn't record the choir well. Okay. But they still sound great, and God was in the house!
Song: God Will Lead Us On! (David Lantz III and John Parker, Daybreak Choral Series)
Song: God Will Lead Us On! (David Lantz III and John Parker, Daybreak Choral Series)
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
When snark sneaks out
On Sunday, in the middle of an impassioned plea for help to Haiti, the speaker disparaged American systems of emergency aid. It was a sarcastic side comment, irrelevant to the topic, and it made me wince.
I winced not only because it was unnecessarily negative, and not just because it weakened the overall message, which was so important. I winced because I could imagine myself doing the same thing. Different topics, different audiences, sure, but my inner snark sneaks out more often than I'd like. This speaker's slip was showing, exposing my tawdry undergarments in the process.
Honestly, I don't know why I do it. The speaker I heard has a lot of built-up anger and resentment, and it often spills out in negativity. Is that me, too? Or is it something else: some demonic possession of my tongue, snaking my words through paths of unkindness. It doesn't matter: I don't want it anymore.
Lord, whatever it is that causes negativity in me, help me find it. Lord, when I find it, help me understand it. Then, dear One, help me forgive others and myself, and, please, if you can't heal it, crush it.
I winced not only because it was unnecessarily negative, and not just because it weakened the overall message, which was so important. I winced because I could imagine myself doing the same thing. Different topics, different audiences, sure, but my inner snark sneaks out more often than I'd like. This speaker's slip was showing, exposing my tawdry undergarments in the process.
Honestly, I don't know why I do it. The speaker I heard has a lot of built-up anger and resentment, and it often spills out in negativity. Is that me, too? Or is it something else: some demonic possession of my tongue, snaking my words through paths of unkindness. It doesn't matter: I don't want it anymore.
Lord, whatever it is that causes negativity in me, help me find it. Lord, when I find it, help me understand it. Then, dear One, help me forgive others and myself, and, please, if you can't heal it, crush it.
Friday, January 08, 2010
What's best?
I am applying for a long shot week-long writing workshop. Part of the application is submitting a piece of writing, 1000 words or less. Any topic, any form, but one's best writing.
For years all I have written are blog posts, sermons, and grocery lists, all of which are merely personal letters to loved ones and Trader Joe's. Sermons are too long. Groceries lists too opaque. So I read back through the nearly five years of this blog, searching for something that would accurately gauge my gifts. That's a lie: I was looking for something that was better than my actual best, something that would wow the committee:
"Have you read this one yet? She's a pastor in California."
"No, not yet." Reads. Tears of laughter and sadness roll down the reader's face. "How could we have missed this brilliance before? Where has she been?"
"I don't know, but I think we should send this to the Pulitzer committee today. Maybe she would lead a workshop for us."
"We couldn't afford her."
"Thank God we opened this email. My spiritual life has been made complete."
Or, alternatively:
bread
wine
olive oil
meat
potatoes
humble pie.
For years all I have written are blog posts, sermons, and grocery lists, all of which are merely personal letters to loved ones and Trader Joe's. Sermons are too long. Groceries lists too opaque. So I read back through the nearly five years of this blog, searching for something that would accurately gauge my gifts. That's a lie: I was looking for something that was better than my actual best, something that would wow the committee:
"Have you read this one yet? She's a pastor in California."
"No, not yet." Reads. Tears of laughter and sadness roll down the reader's face. "How could we have missed this brilliance before? Where has she been?"
"I don't know, but I think we should send this to the Pulitzer committee today. Maybe she would lead a workshop for us."
"We couldn't afford her."
"Thank God we opened this email. My spiritual life has been made complete."
Or, alternatively:
bread
wine
olive oil
meat
potatoes
humble pie.
Monday, January 04, 2010
to give up your life
retweeted from Todd Agnew who retweeted from Steve Timmis (@stimmis)
- "If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me." Jesus Christ
- If I'm not prepared to jeopardise a friendship so that I can tell others about Christ, I can be fairly certain I won't give up my life.
- If I'm not prepared to miss out on promotion so I can stay & help plant churches, I can be fairly certain I won't give up my life...
- If I'm not willing to pursue people who are different from me in order to bless them, I can be failry certain I won't give up my life...
- If I refuse to give up a holiday abroad so I can support someone in gospel ministry. I can be fairly confident I won't give up my life...
- If I'm not prepared to give up my bed to go and serve someone, I can be fairly confident I won't give up my life...
- Can't ultimately be sure until I'm called on to do so. But there are indicators in what I am reluctant to give up...
Sunday, January 03, 2010
the problem with confession
There's a darned good reason people confess to priests, and it's not about intercessors or indulgences: sometimes confession is good for the soul and really bad for the hearer. Remember the conviction I wrote about in an earlier post? Today I made the mistake of acting on it. For the past year and a half, I have loved being with our youth, and counted myself selfish for loving it, and despaired over the days that ticked by without a new youth and family minister, and been privately grateful for the delay (see "selfish" above). A few days ago, I emailed the youth volunteers and hiring committee about meeting to regroup and to ask God precisely what the heck He is trying to teach us. Early this morning I decided I wanted to tell the youth about the delay, about the volunteers needing to regroup and confront the Lord, and ask for their prayers and input.
After worship, I re-read Mark Yaconelli's "Contemplative Youth Ministry", (btw--thank you, Heather, for recommending this a couple of years back. Or curse you. Whichever.) and remembered once again how much I like working with our kids. And what I love about working with adults. And what I love about my own relationship with God. Surprise: they are all the same thing. It's presence: the presence of God, the presence of vulnerability, the presence of truth and light, the presence of hope, the presence of abundant life. Asked in the form of a jeopardy question: What is contemplation, Alex? I want to not divorce myself from our kids because it's yet another opportunity for God to be present with me, and for me to witness and witness to God's presence in the lives of others.
But confessing to the youth would be wrong, at least in the mea culpa, tell me what you want, here's what I really want, wow that's manipulative way I was considering. So, my priestly friends, offer up a few intercessory prayers for me, assign me some ignatian examens, and let's all just move on. Okay?
Monday, December 28, 2009
Prayer for critics and enemies
Prayer Regarding Critics and Enemies by Serbian Orthodox Bishop
By Bishop Nikolai Velimirovic, Serbian bishop who spoke out against Naziism, was arrested, and taken to Dachau.
(reposted from brianmclaren.net)
Bless my enemies, O Lord. Even I bless them and do not curse them. Enemies have driven me into your embrace more than friends have. Friends have bound me to earth; enemies have loosed me from earth and have demolished all my aspirations in the world.
Enemies have made me a stranger in worldly realms and an extraneous inhabitant of the world.
Just as a hunted animal finds safer shelter than an unhunted animal does, so have I, persecuted by enemies, found the safest sanctuary, having ensconced myself beneath Your tabernacle, where neither friends nor enemies can slay my soul.
Bless my enemies, O Lord. Even I bless and do not curse them.
They, rather than I, have confessed my sins before the world. They have punished me, whenever I have hesitated to punish myself. They have tormented me, whenever I have tried to flee torments. They have scolded me, whenever I have flattered myself. They have spat upon me, whenever I have filled myself with arrogance. Bless my enemies, O Lord. Even I bless them and do not curse them.
Whenever I have made myself wise, they have called me foolish. Whenever I have made myself mighty, they have mocked me as though I were a [fly].
Whenever I have wanted to lead people, they have shoved me into the background.
Whenever I have rushed to enrich myself, they have prevented me with an iron hand.
Whenever I thought that I would sleep peacefully, they have wakened me from sleep.
Whenever I have tried to build a home for a long and tranquil life, they have demolished it and driven me out.
Truly, enemies have cut me loose from the world and have stretched out my hands to the hem of your garment.
Bless my enemies, O Lord. Even I bless them and do not curse them.
Bless them and multiply them; multiply them and make them even more bitterly against me:
So that my fleeing will have no return; So that all my hope in men may be scattered like cobwebs; So that absolute serenity may begin to reign in my soul; So that my heart may become the grave of my two evil twins: arrogance and anger;
So that I might amass all my treasure in heaven; Ah, so that I may for once be freed from self-deception, which has entangled me in the dreadful web of illusory life.
Enemies have taught me to know what hardly anyone knows, that a person has no enemies in the world except himself. One hates his enemies only when he fails to realize that they are not enemies, but cruel friends.
It is truly difficult for me to say who has done me more good and who has done me more evil in the world: friends or enemies. Therefore bless, O Lord, both my friends and my enemies. A slave curses enemies, for he does not understand. But a son blesses them, for he understands.
For a son knows that his enemies cannot touch his life. Therefore he freely steps among them and prays to God for them. Bless my enemies, O Lord. Even I bless them and do not curse them.
By Bishop Nikolai Velimirovic, Serbian bishop who spoke out against Naziism, was arrested, and taken to Dachau.
(reposted from brianmclaren.net)
Bless my enemies, O Lord. Even I bless them and do not curse them. Enemies have driven me into your embrace more than friends have. Friends have bound me to earth; enemies have loosed me from earth and have demolished all my aspirations in the world.
Enemies have made me a stranger in worldly realms and an extraneous inhabitant of the world.
Just as a hunted animal finds safer shelter than an unhunted animal does, so have I, persecuted by enemies, found the safest sanctuary, having ensconced myself beneath Your tabernacle, where neither friends nor enemies can slay my soul.
Bless my enemies, O Lord. Even I bless and do not curse them.
They, rather than I, have confessed my sins before the world. They have punished me, whenever I have hesitated to punish myself. They have tormented me, whenever I have tried to flee torments. They have scolded me, whenever I have flattered myself. They have spat upon me, whenever I have filled myself with arrogance. Bless my enemies, O Lord. Even I bless them and do not curse them.
Whenever I have made myself wise, they have called me foolish. Whenever I have made myself mighty, they have mocked me as though I were a [fly].
Whenever I have wanted to lead people, they have shoved me into the background.
Whenever I have rushed to enrich myself, they have prevented me with an iron hand.
Whenever I thought that I would sleep peacefully, they have wakened me from sleep.
Whenever I have tried to build a home for a long and tranquil life, they have demolished it and driven me out.
Truly, enemies have cut me loose from the world and have stretched out my hands to the hem of your garment.
Bless my enemies, O Lord. Even I bless them and do not curse them.
Bless them and multiply them; multiply them and make them even more bitterly against me:
So that my fleeing will have no return; So that all my hope in men may be scattered like cobwebs; So that absolute serenity may begin to reign in my soul; So that my heart may become the grave of my two evil twins: arrogance and anger;
So that I might amass all my treasure in heaven; Ah, so that I may for once be freed from self-deception, which has entangled me in the dreadful web of illusory life.
Enemies have taught me to know what hardly anyone knows, that a person has no enemies in the world except himself. One hates his enemies only when he fails to realize that they are not enemies, but cruel friends.
It is truly difficult for me to say who has done me more good and who has done me more evil in the world: friends or enemies. Therefore bless, O Lord, both my friends and my enemies. A slave curses enemies, for he does not understand. But a son blesses them, for he understands.
For a son knows that his enemies cannot touch his life. Therefore he freely steps among them and prays to God for them. Bless my enemies, O Lord. Even I bless them and do not curse them.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Copenhagen Sermon -- Archbishop of Canterbury
Copenhagen Sermon
Given by The Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Rowan Williams
'Perfect love casts out fear'. It's a well-known biblical text; in its original setting, it's about how we learn to have the proper kind of confidence in the love and forgiveness of God. This kind of confidence, St John says, comes from understanding that we are – miraculously – able to stand in the same place as God himself. 'In this world we are as he is'. Our own confidence, our fearlessness, is built on seeing love at work through us – not our personal warm feelings or positive emotions or even kind actions, but the love that really sets people free and brings something new into the world: God's love, dealing with the deepest tangles and knots of our situation, the love that was the essence of Jesus' life and death and resurrection.
And the deepest religious basis for our commitment to the environment in which God has placed us is this recognition that we are called to be, and are enabled to be, the place where God's love for the world comes through. We have to flesh out in our lives that fundamental biblical conviction that when God looks on the world he finds it good. We have to show in our lives some echo of the delight God finds in creation, recalling the astonishing image in the Book of Proverbs of God's eternal wisdom playing and rejoicing in the whole span of the universe.
Love casts out fear. If we begin from the belief that God wants us to rejoice and delight in the created world, our basic attitude to the environment will not be anxiety or the desperate search for ways of controlling it; it will be the excited and hopeful search for understanding it and honouring its goodness and its complex, interdependent beauty. If there is any 'fear' around here, it should be fear of spoiling the heritage given us, of forgetting the overwhelming scale and depth of the gift and of our responsibility and care for it, fear of forgetting that we are called to show consistent and sacrificial love for the created world as we must show towards our fellow-human beings. And, as we should have learned by now, the truth is that we cannot show the right kind of love for our fellow-humans unless we also work at keeping the earth as a place that is a secure home for all people and for future generations.
But there is another kind of fear we have to think about, a fear that should prompt us to get in touch again with the love that made us and sustains us. At the present moment, we are faced with the consequences of generations of failure to love the earth as we should; and we are also faced with the choices that might make those consequences less destructive than they would otherwise be. Each of us as an individual, each international business concern, each national government – all of us have choices. We are not doomed to carry on in a downward spiral of the greedy, addictive, loveless behaviour that has helped to bring us to this point. Yet it seems that fear still rules our hearts and imaginations. We have not yet been able to embrace the cost of the decisions we know we must make. We are afraid because we don't know how we can survive without the comforts of our existing lifestyle. We are afraid that new policies will be unpopular with a national electorate. We are afraid that younger and more vigorous economies will take advantage of us – or we are afraid that older, historically dominant economies will use the excuse of ecological responsibility to deny us our right to proper and just development.
There is, in a word, no shortage of excellent excuses for turning away from decisions that will mean real change. But at least let's be honest about where they come from: it is fear – not necessarily irrational fear, not even necessarily purely selfish fear, but fear all the same. And so long as that dominates our calculations, we are stepping back from love – love for the creation itself, which we must look at as God looks at it, love for one another and for the generations still unborn, who need us to do whatever we can to guarantee a stable, productive and balanced world to live in – not a world of utterly chaotic and disruptive change, of devastation and desertification, of biological impoverishment and degradation.
Love casts out fear. The truth is that what is most likely to get us to take the right decisions for our global future is love. The temptation is to underline fear so as to persuade one another of the urgency of the situation: things are so bad, so threatening, that we have to do something. And indeed there are moments when we might think, rather bitterly, that the human race is still not frightened enough by the prospect of what it has stored up for itself. But this is to drive out one sickness by another. That kind of fear can simply paralyse us, as we all know; it can make us feel that the problem is too great and we may as well pull up the bedclothes and wait for disaster. What's more, it can tempt us into just blaming one another or waiting for someone else to make the first move because we don't trust them. We need more than that for lifegiving change to happen.
And that is what we are here to say today. We meet as people of faith in the context of this critical moment in human history; and so we are not here just to plead or harangue, let alone to encourage panic and terror. We are here to say two simple things to ourselves, our neighbours and our governments.
First: don't be afraid; but ask how the policies you follow and the lifestyle that you take for granted look in the light of the command to love the world you inhabit. Ask what would be a healthy and sustainable relationship with this world, a relationship that would in some way manifest both joy in and respect for the earth. Start with the positive question – how do we show that we love God's creation?
Second: don't separate this from the question of how we learn to trust one another within a world of limited resources. In such a world there can be no trust without justice, without the assurance of knowing that my neighbour is there for me when I face insecurity or risk. How shall we build international institutions that make sure the resources get where they are needed – that, for example, 'green taxes' will deliver more security for the disadvantaged, that transitions in economic patterns will not weigh most heavily on those least equipped to cope?
Love casts out fear; and the promise that makes sense of all this is the promise we heard in the reading from St Paul's letter to the Romans: if we allow God to teach us trust and if we learn to live in trust and confidence, the whole created order feels the effects. The 'slavery' imposed on the created order by human sinfulness and selfishness gives way to liberation; human freedom and the fulfilment of the destiny of the world around are manifested together, and the result is glory.
In this season of Advent, we renew our confident hope that such a future is possible. We give thanks for the Christmas gift of Jesus Christ that has broken through our selfishness and begun the work of our liberation. We reaffirm our conviction and commitment in the name of love; and we say 'don't be afraid' to all who stand uncertainly on the edge of decision. Don't be afraid; act for the sake of love.
© Rowan Williams 2009
Given by The Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Rowan Williams
'Perfect love casts out fear'. It's a well-known biblical text; in its original setting, it's about how we learn to have the proper kind of confidence in the love and forgiveness of God. This kind of confidence, St John says, comes from understanding that we are – miraculously – able to stand in the same place as God himself. 'In this world we are as he is'. Our own confidence, our fearlessness, is built on seeing love at work through us – not our personal warm feelings or positive emotions or even kind actions, but the love that really sets people free and brings something new into the world: God's love, dealing with the deepest tangles and knots of our situation, the love that was the essence of Jesus' life and death and resurrection.
And the deepest religious basis for our commitment to the environment in which God has placed us is this recognition that we are called to be, and are enabled to be, the place where God's love for the world comes through. We have to flesh out in our lives that fundamental biblical conviction that when God looks on the world he finds it good. We have to show in our lives some echo of the delight God finds in creation, recalling the astonishing image in the Book of Proverbs of God's eternal wisdom playing and rejoicing in the whole span of the universe.
Love casts out fear. If we begin from the belief that God wants us to rejoice and delight in the created world, our basic attitude to the environment will not be anxiety or the desperate search for ways of controlling it; it will be the excited and hopeful search for understanding it and honouring its goodness and its complex, interdependent beauty. If there is any 'fear' around here, it should be fear of spoiling the heritage given us, of forgetting the overwhelming scale and depth of the gift and of our responsibility and care for it, fear of forgetting that we are called to show consistent and sacrificial love for the created world as we must show towards our fellow-human beings. And, as we should have learned by now, the truth is that we cannot show the right kind of love for our fellow-humans unless we also work at keeping the earth as a place that is a secure home for all people and for future generations.
But there is another kind of fear we have to think about, a fear that should prompt us to get in touch again with the love that made us and sustains us. At the present moment, we are faced with the consequences of generations of failure to love the earth as we should; and we are also faced with the choices that might make those consequences less destructive than they would otherwise be. Each of us as an individual, each international business concern, each national government – all of us have choices. We are not doomed to carry on in a downward spiral of the greedy, addictive, loveless behaviour that has helped to bring us to this point. Yet it seems that fear still rules our hearts and imaginations. We have not yet been able to embrace the cost of the decisions we know we must make. We are afraid because we don't know how we can survive without the comforts of our existing lifestyle. We are afraid that new policies will be unpopular with a national electorate. We are afraid that younger and more vigorous economies will take advantage of us – or we are afraid that older, historically dominant economies will use the excuse of ecological responsibility to deny us our right to proper and just development.
There is, in a word, no shortage of excellent excuses for turning away from decisions that will mean real change. But at least let's be honest about where they come from: it is fear – not necessarily irrational fear, not even necessarily purely selfish fear, but fear all the same. And so long as that dominates our calculations, we are stepping back from love – love for the creation itself, which we must look at as God looks at it, love for one another and for the generations still unborn, who need us to do whatever we can to guarantee a stable, productive and balanced world to live in – not a world of utterly chaotic and disruptive change, of devastation and desertification, of biological impoverishment and degradation.
Love casts out fear. The truth is that what is most likely to get us to take the right decisions for our global future is love. The temptation is to underline fear so as to persuade one another of the urgency of the situation: things are so bad, so threatening, that we have to do something. And indeed there are moments when we might think, rather bitterly, that the human race is still not frightened enough by the prospect of what it has stored up for itself. But this is to drive out one sickness by another. That kind of fear can simply paralyse us, as we all know; it can make us feel that the problem is too great and we may as well pull up the bedclothes and wait for disaster. What's more, it can tempt us into just blaming one another or waiting for someone else to make the first move because we don't trust them. We need more than that for lifegiving change to happen.
And that is what we are here to say today. We meet as people of faith in the context of this critical moment in human history; and so we are not here just to plead or harangue, let alone to encourage panic and terror. We are here to say two simple things to ourselves, our neighbours and our governments.
First: don't be afraid; but ask how the policies you follow and the lifestyle that you take for granted look in the light of the command to love the world you inhabit. Ask what would be a healthy and sustainable relationship with this world, a relationship that would in some way manifest both joy in and respect for the earth. Start with the positive question – how do we show that we love God's creation?
Second: don't separate this from the question of how we learn to trust one another within a world of limited resources. In such a world there can be no trust without justice, without the assurance of knowing that my neighbour is there for me when I face insecurity or risk. How shall we build international institutions that make sure the resources get where they are needed – that, for example, 'green taxes' will deliver more security for the disadvantaged, that transitions in economic patterns will not weigh most heavily on those least equipped to cope?
Love casts out fear; and the promise that makes sense of all this is the promise we heard in the reading from St Paul's letter to the Romans: if we allow God to teach us trust and if we learn to live in trust and confidence, the whole created order feels the effects. The 'slavery' imposed on the created order by human sinfulness and selfishness gives way to liberation; human freedom and the fulfilment of the destiny of the world around are manifested together, and the result is glory.
In this season of Advent, we renew our confident hope that such a future is possible. We give thanks for the Christmas gift of Jesus Christ that has broken through our selfishness and begun the work of our liberation. We reaffirm our conviction and commitment in the name of love; and we say 'don't be afraid' to all who stand uncertainly on the edge of decision. Don't be afraid; act for the sake of love.
© Rowan Williams 2009
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
writing christmas
Honestly, it's been so long since I've done any serious writing that I'm not sure I know how any more. What do I mean by serious? Crafted language, inspired by the Breath of God (rather than the completed work of someone else), that puts the poetic in perspective, that makes mystery manageable, that in-spires as well as ex-piring.
So we get to Christmas, and a couple of hours of research later, nothing out there says what I want it to say the way I want it to say it to the people I want to say it to. Or for. Whichever. Now I have the choice of continuing to look for the right words (someone else's) for a few more hours, or taking those same hours and begging God for both breath and skill. And trust. And patience.
How many hours would it take 100 monkeys with typewriters to come up with Shakespeare? And how many hours until Christmas eve?
So we get to Christmas, and a couple of hours of research later, nothing out there says what I want it to say the way I want it to say it to the people I want to say it to. Or for. Whichever. Now I have the choice of continuing to look for the right words (someone else's) for a few more hours, or taking those same hours and begging God for both breath and skill. And trust. And patience.
How many hours would it take 100 monkeys with typewriters to come up with Shakespeare? And how many hours until Christmas eve?
Friday, December 11, 2009
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
Out of body -- back in 30 minutes
So I get to the office today and there's a message on my phone from my cousin* Debbie. I was last in contact with Debbie in the early 1970s. She got my church number from her mother, Lynne.** I do a little googling and find Lynne in a YouTube video. I may have also found her son's wife's blog.
You'll have to excuse me now: my body seems to be typing without me.
*She may be my cousin too -- I don't understand these things. Her great-grandmother and my grandmother were sisters.
**I think Lynne is genealogically my mother's cousin. I don't think I have been in contact with her since my mother died -- 2 years before I started at this church. Maybe. Unexpected, nonetheless.
You'll have to excuse me now: my body seems to be typing without me.
*She may be my cousin too -- I don't understand these things. Her great-grandmother and my grandmother were sisters.
**I think Lynne is genealogically my mother's cousin. I don't think I have been in contact with her since my mother died -- 2 years before I started at this church. Maybe. Unexpected, nonetheless.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Is it too late to be a youth minister?
I love my kids.
I feel for the parents and teachers.
If you're a praying sort, would you please keep them and their families in prayer? I'm seeing a few slo-mo train wrecks in the works.
And btw: if you're a former teacher of mine, I'm sorry. Pick an event. I'm sorry for it.
I feel for the parents and teachers.
If you're a praying sort, would you please keep them and their families in prayer? I'm seeing a few slo-mo train wrecks in the works.
And btw: if you're a former teacher of mine, I'm sorry. Pick an event. I'm sorry for it.
Friday, December 04, 2009
4 new family milestones
#1
Location: Neighborhood sit-down Mexican restaurant, packed at dinner hour.
Scene: Mama and Toddler Daughter out for girls' night. Both on banquette side, facing out. Mama wearing business casual, Toddler in dress and leggings. Toddler has eaten well, been well mannered, a joy.
Time: Dinner winding down. Check paid. Toddler starting to play with straws and spoons. Good moods all around.
Event: Toddler pokes Mama with her mouth-held straw. Straw pokes back of Toddler's throat.
Milestone: First public full frontal vomiting of horchata and tortilla. Ongoing, pathetic.
#2
Milestone: First time Mama holds Daughter's hair back while she throws up.
#3
Milestone: First time young teenage stranger goes to kitchen and comes back with many napkins, and helps me spread them around and under Daughter's fountain. And does it again. My hero. His mother helpfully suggests I clean out Daughter's mouth with water to help stop the vomiting.
Aside: Did I mention we were facing out, toward the other people in the restaurant? Or that the family directly across from us was celebrating with a huge platter of beautiful shellfish -- crabs, mussels, oysters?
#4
Toddler goes to bed at 7:45 pm. By choice.
Location: Neighborhood sit-down Mexican restaurant, packed at dinner hour.
Scene: Mama and Toddler Daughter out for girls' night. Both on banquette side, facing out. Mama wearing business casual, Toddler in dress and leggings. Toddler has eaten well, been well mannered, a joy.
Time: Dinner winding down. Check paid. Toddler starting to play with straws and spoons. Good moods all around.
Event: Toddler pokes Mama with her mouth-held straw. Straw pokes back of Toddler's throat.
Milestone: First public full frontal vomiting of horchata and tortilla. Ongoing, pathetic.
#2
Milestone: First time Mama holds Daughter's hair back while she throws up.
#3
Milestone: First time young teenage stranger goes to kitchen and comes back with many napkins, and helps me spread them around and under Daughter's fountain. And does it again. My hero. His mother helpfully suggests I clean out Daughter's mouth with water to help stop the vomiting.
Aside: Did I mention we were facing out, toward the other people in the restaurant? Or that the family directly across from us was celebrating with a huge platter of beautiful shellfish -- crabs, mussels, oysters?
#4
Toddler goes to bed at 7:45 pm. By choice.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Have a beer with the President?
I never understood the "if you wanna have a beer with him, vote for him" standard of presidential election. I don't want a president who is my peer. If I have to choose between liking and respecting, I'd rather respect.
As you might imagine, it has been a long time since I respected my president, prone as we have been to electing The Guy Next Door. I've met the guy next door. I don't want him as president.
Obama is bearing up well under a constant campaign to "other" him. Fearful people from various threads of the tattered political flag are working hard to make him a noncitizen, a socialist, a communist, a czar/tyrant who will abolish free election, a turncoat dove, the antichrist. While this is all ludicrous -- all of it -- and much of it racist, and some of it anti-intellectual (can anyone say "Palin"? No, not Michael, though he would be a lot easier to stomach.), here's the bottom line for me: though I want us to agree on the Big Things (like the belief that the real purpose of government is caring for the least among us), I don't want my president to be my mirror image. I've seen myself in the mirror, and I wouldn't want me as president.
So, I want my president to be "other" than me in some really critical ways. I want a president who is way smarter, more well-informed, more even-keeled, more thoughtful, and quicker than I am. I want my president to be more humble than I am. And, when we disagree, I want my president and his advisors to have enough spine to not label me unpatriotic/unamerican/unreal, even if I stoop to name-calling myself.
I don't always agree with President Obama, and Jesus is still my commander in chief. But finally, I have a nonfictional president* I respect.
May God bless and keep him and his.
*Hey, Josiah Bartlet was my president for a long time. I just wish he existed outside Aaron Sorkin's head.
As you might imagine, it has been a long time since I respected my president, prone as we have been to electing The Guy Next Door. I've met the guy next door. I don't want him as president.
Obama is bearing up well under a constant campaign to "other" him. Fearful people from various threads of the tattered political flag are working hard to make him a noncitizen, a socialist, a communist, a czar/tyrant who will abolish free election, a turncoat dove, the antichrist. While this is all ludicrous -- all of it -- and much of it racist, and some of it anti-intellectual (can anyone say "Palin"? No, not Michael, though he would be a lot easier to stomach.), here's the bottom line for me: though I want us to agree on the Big Things (like the belief that the real purpose of government is caring for the least among us), I don't want my president to be my mirror image. I've seen myself in the mirror, and I wouldn't want me as president.
So, I want my president to be "other" than me in some really critical ways. I want a president who is way smarter, more well-informed, more even-keeled, more thoughtful, and quicker than I am. I want my president to be more humble than I am. And, when we disagree, I want my president and his advisors to have enough spine to not label me unpatriotic/unamerican/unreal, even if I stoop to name-calling myself.
I don't always agree with President Obama, and Jesus is still my commander in chief. But finally, I have a nonfictional president* I respect.
May God bless and keep him and his.
*Hey, Josiah Bartlet was my president for a long time. I just wish he existed outside Aaron Sorkin's head.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Answer to a young friend
A few weeks ago you asked me why your parents wouldn't simply let you make your own mistakes. You were angry and anguished. I didn't answer you then: I knew you needed a loving heart and an open ear more than a quick brain. Here is what I might have said if you'd asked me and hoped for an answer.
Imagine that you've just gotten your driver's license. You found an old motorcycle on Craigslist and mechanically minded friend helped you rehab it. The bike has no sweetness, but it runs. Finally you have some freedom.
You read on the internet that running muriatic acid through your tank will flush out all the old built-up gunk. You don't read the whole article (especially not the part that says to remove the tank from the bike first, wear goggles, etc), and so you snag a big bottle of pool cleaner.
I see you standing there with the bike propped up and running and the pool cleaner in hand. Should I let you pour it in?
Suppose I did exactly the same thing when I had my bike, to disastrous results. How about then? Should I let you pour it in, knowing you really value both your bike and your life?
And if I love you very much, and know what it took for me to get past the whole muriatic-acid incident, and never ever want you to have to go through that...
And if I know that the cost is just too high, that the lesson you would learn simply isn't worth it...
My dear young friend:
I can't speak for your parents, but I know that I want you to make your own mistakes. I want you to learn from actually living. And, I want you to never, ever go through some of the things I've been through. Ever. Because the lessons learned just aren't worth it.
Because I love you, I will do everything I can to help you skip those particular lessons. Not because I don't trust you, or don't want you to learn, or think I always know better, but because I love you enough and have survived by the grace of God long enough to want you to not destroy yourself, or someone else.
Hope that helps. I'm praying for you, and my ears and heart are always open.
Pastor Elane
Imagine that you've just gotten your driver's license. You found an old motorcycle on Craigslist and mechanically minded friend helped you rehab it. The bike has no sweetness, but it runs. Finally you have some freedom.
You read on the internet that running muriatic acid through your tank will flush out all the old built-up gunk. You don't read the whole article (especially not the part that says to remove the tank from the bike first, wear goggles, etc), and so you snag a big bottle of pool cleaner.
I see you standing there with the bike propped up and running and the pool cleaner in hand. Should I let you pour it in?
Suppose I did exactly the same thing when I had my bike, to disastrous results. How about then? Should I let you pour it in, knowing you really value both your bike and your life?
And if I love you very much, and know what it took for me to get past the whole muriatic-acid incident, and never ever want you to have to go through that...
And if I know that the cost is just too high, that the lesson you would learn simply isn't worth it...
My dear young friend:
I can't speak for your parents, but I know that I want you to make your own mistakes. I want you to learn from actually living. And, I want you to never, ever go through some of the things I've been through. Ever. Because the lessons learned just aren't worth it.
Because I love you, I will do everything I can to help you skip those particular lessons. Not because I don't trust you, or don't want you to learn, or think I always know better, but because I love you enough and have survived by the grace of God long enough to want you to not destroy yourself, or someone else.
Hope that helps. I'm praying for you, and my ears and heart are always open.
Pastor Elane
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Convicted
Recently I FB'd* about being convicted but in denial. "Convicted", in evangelical-speak**, means "to feel guilty about something. You feel an uneasiness or restlessness in your heart.... It is your conscience,speaking to you, in the unsaved. It is the Holy Spirit speaking to you, in the saved." (Robyn, on ChristiaNet, 10-29-08) Well said, Robyn, whoever you are: uneasiness or restlessness in the heart. Spiritual dis-ease, a symptom of the Holy Spirit having slapped you upside the head of your soul. The lingering ache of a Simpsonian "d'oh".
I wax digression.
Remember when Wonderful Husband decided the economic world as we knew it was coming to an end and we should have a garden and chickens? I blogged at the time that he had unwittingly opened the Pandora's Box of my simple-living Scott-and-Helen-Nearing romantic fantasy of Right Living. Since then,
*To FB is to write on your Facebook status update. When did we decide a website could become an acronymic verb? I guess when "google" entered the OED.
**Liberal Christians don't talk this way.
I wax digression.
Remember when Wonderful Husband decided the economic world as we knew it was coming to an end and we should have a garden and chickens? I blogged at the time that he had unwittingly opened the Pandora's Box of my simple-living Scott-and-Helen-Nearing romantic fantasy of Right Living. Since then,
- I've been accumulating books and blogs like Marion Nestle's What to Eat, and Walter Brueggemann's Prayers for a Privileged People, and Mother Earth News/Grit, and Colin Beavan's No Impact Man. Joel Salatin's You Can Farm came this week. They should all come in plain brown paper wrappers, unmarked, silently hand-delivered by someone wearing a hat and mask.
- I got the church hooked up with a bulk food distributing company specializing in natural and organic stuff; that catalog is sitting on my church desk, sheathed in its Priority Mail envelope.
- On Craigslist I found a guy a mile or so from me who keeps bees and produces honey; I've bookmarked the listing but have not transcribed his number onto paper or into my phone.
- This week our church received a CIPL "oscar" for greening, and I signed us up to screen the movie No Impact Man during the Copenhagen climate change talks.
- Canning this weekend (Note to family: you now know what you're getting for Xmas).
- A friend is coming for drinks today and I'm trying to figure out where to get locally made vodka and olives.
*To FB is to write on your Facebook status update. When did we decide a website could become an acronymic verb? I guess when "google" entered the OED.
**Liberal Christians don't talk this way.
Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Soulation Exercise
In the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius, consolation is "every increase of faith, hope and love, and all interior joy that invites and attracts to what is heavenly and to the salvation of one's soul, by filling it with peace and quiet in its Creator and Lord." Desolation is "that state of interior disturbance which is caused by the devil: 'darkness of soul; turmoil of spirit; urgings to what is low and earthly; restlessness rising from many disturbances and temptations, which lead to want of faith, want of hope, want of love."
Sat in the sun trying to identify the moments of consolation and desolation in my week. Individual instances were hard to picture: the ebb & flow seems almost constant.
We don't remember breathing, the intake and expulsion of breath unless we gasp for air and fear we may not get it.
Yogic breathing and singing both teach you to expel breath fully. You discover that if you do this, the air immediately flows in to fill the void. You may have to pay attention to get all that you can, or train to get all you can consistently, but when your body is empty it takes in air.
So it is with consolation and desolation. Consolation is the ensouled body filling with the Spirit and her fruits. Desolation is the expulsion of the Spirit and the experience of that emptiness.
In normal breathing, desolation and consolation ebb and flow according to their natures. We take notice only when we find ourselves gasping for air, or so full we float.
Our spiritual practice, then, is to expand our lungs, and to expel fully with the certain knowledge that we will breathe in when we are finally empty.
Sat in the sun trying to identify the moments of consolation and desolation in my week. Individual instances were hard to picture: the ebb & flow seems almost constant.
We don't remember breathing, the intake and expulsion of breath unless we gasp for air and fear we may not get it.
Yogic breathing and singing both teach you to expel breath fully. You discover that if you do this, the air immediately flows in to fill the void. You may have to pay attention to get all that you can, or train to get all you can consistently, but when your body is empty it takes in air.
So it is with consolation and desolation. Consolation is the ensouled body filling with the Spirit and her fruits. Desolation is the expulsion of the Spirit and the experience of that emptiness.
In normal breathing, desolation and consolation ebb and flow according to their natures. We take notice only when we find ourselves gasping for air, or so full we float.
Our spiritual practice, then, is to expand our lungs, and to expel fully with the certain knowledge that we will breathe in when we are finally empty.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Simple pleasures
Roasted delicata squash with parmesan
With
1 part lavender liqueur (homemade last fall)
1 part French dry vermouth
dash Angostura bitters
ice
And
a healthy chattering toddler
who unfortunately just poured out her water into her tray.
With
1 part lavender liqueur (homemade last fall)
1 part French dry vermouth
dash Angostura bitters
ice
And
a healthy chattering toddler
who unfortunately just poured out her water into her tray.
Have a kosher Easter!
  | | Sugar Easter Charms (K) ( SKU Number: 5600-EA-AC-1 ) Charming is an understatement for these 1/2" - 7/8" miniature sugar charms. Your Easter treats will be too cute to eat!! A generous 24 pieces per package, includes 8 each of Chick, Egg and Bunny. Molded sugar. KOSHER - manufactured under the supervision of the Kashruth Division of the Orthodox Union. |
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Why Mary didn't blink
This morning one of our chickens, Meg, flapped her way out of their run. I heard a squawk, and turned to see her walking alongside the others, outside the fencing, puzzled. I went to pick her up and she hopped a bit away, flapped a little, and then settled down against my chest as I stroked her. She's used to my giving her food and treats, picking her up, smoothing her ruffled feathers.
As the baby continued to eat her breakfast (or toss her breakfast on the floor. Whatever.) our cat Jamba joined the throng beneath her chair to collect whatever manna might fall. I reached my hand down to stroke him. He didn't flinch, letting my hand graze his fur as he continued his pursuit.
We are often mystified -- even incredulous --at Mary's acceptance of the angel's presence. Some reject it outright, explaining it as a patriarchal view of a simperingly weak woman. Or as just not what a young teenager would do. Or even as a rape of sorts -- Leda and the swan.
Perhaps our response to Mary's equanimity reflects our own experience of God's loving provision. We doubt because we have not spent our lives knowing we were being fed, loved, cared for. We are the feral cats, the factory-farmed food, accustomed to scrounging or gulping, lost or confined.
But for Meg, and Jamba, and Mary, the Provider is loving, trustworthy, and ultimately safe. And the only response to the assuredness of love is: Yes.
As the baby continued to eat her breakfast (or toss her breakfast on the floor. Whatever.) our cat Jamba joined the throng beneath her chair to collect whatever manna might fall. I reached my hand down to stroke him. He didn't flinch, letting my hand graze his fur as he continued his pursuit.
We are often mystified -- even incredulous --at Mary's acceptance of the angel's presence. Some reject it outright, explaining it as a patriarchal view of a simperingly weak woman. Or as just not what a young teenager would do. Or even as a rape of sorts -- Leda and the swan.
Perhaps our response to Mary's equanimity reflects our own experience of God's loving provision. We doubt because we have not spent our lives knowing we were being fed, loved, cared for. We are the feral cats, the factory-farmed food, accustomed to scrounging or gulping, lost or confined.
But for Meg, and Jamba, and Mary, the Provider is loving, trustworthy, and ultimately safe. And the only response to the assuredness of love is: Yes.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Sixth learning
Sometimes you're the one doing the interviewing.
(No, not a job interview. Ignatian exercises.)
(No, not a job interview. Ignatian exercises.)
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Fourth learnings
The problem with greed is that the "too much" is never as good as the "enough", and lures us into believing that this is because it is not enough.
I can construct reasons for shame in the most benign of circumstances.
"At the end of the everlasting "why" there is a "yes" and a "Yes" and a "YES!" (poorly paraphrased from "A Room With a View")
My deepest, most authentic desire turns out to be what I thought it was: to be flooded constantly by the fire that burns but does not burn up, by the God who wants to know me even more than I want to know Them, by the unselfconsciousness that allows for the miracle of the intimate "I am the Lord's servant. May it be with me according to your will," and for the ongoing miracle itself. Yes, that's one desire.
Every day one must reopen the floodgates and keep the hinges oiled.
And the strangest learning today? Even me.
I can construct reasons for shame in the most benign of circumstances.
"At the end of the everlasting "why" there is a "yes" and a "Yes" and a "YES!" (poorly paraphrased from "A Room With a View")
My deepest, most authentic desire turns out to be what I thought it was: to be flooded constantly by the fire that burns but does not burn up, by the God who wants to know me even more than I want to know Them, by the unselfconsciousness that allows for the miracle of the intimate "I am the Lord's servant. May it be with me according to your will," and for the ongoing miracle itself. Yes, that's one desire.
Every day one must reopen the floodgates and keep the hinges oiled.
And the strangest learning today? Even me.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Third learning
If the distance is fuzzy, and you have to squint to see close-up, new lenses are the first step.
Second learnings
Eye makeup is useless on retreat, because if the tears don't get it, the sweat will.
If someone you trust and respect recommends a book, read it.
If someone you trust and respect recommends a book, read it.
First learnings
Now I understand why people have spiritual directors and what they are supposed to do.
To do one thing at a time I have to intend to do one thing at a time. If I'm going to spend time listening to God's longings inside me, the annual-planning-books-and-readings have to go back in the box, back in the car.
My deepest authentic desire is also God's desire for me. God's desires and wills express themselves through my silently singing core.
Sleep is not a shameful act, or a sign of unbearable weakness.
What counts as "overwork" changes. What is "overwork" now might not have been 10 years or even a year ago. That's not about aging per se, but about circumstance and location.
That deep longing of my heart may be exactly what the church needs too.
"My" needs may be God's "needs" in me.
I like coastal weather: viva fog!
To do one thing at a time I have to intend to do one thing at a time. If I'm going to spend time listening to God's longings inside me, the annual-planning-books-and-readings have to go back in the box, back in the car.
My deepest authentic desire is also God's desire for me. God's desires and wills express themselves through my silently singing core.
Sleep is not a shameful act, or a sign of unbearable weakness.
What counts as "overwork" changes. What is "overwork" now might not have been 10 years or even a year ago. That's not about aging per se, but about circumstance and location.
That deep longing of my heart may be exactly what the church needs too.
"My" needs may be God's "needs" in me.
I like coastal weather: viva fog!
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Meat loafing
Have you ever seen meat emerging from the other end of a grinder? Pink mottled red and white, too thick to ooze, too broken up to be recognizably steer or pig or pullet. Or Lamb.
The thing about ground meat is you can shape it, make something different (if not new). Bound with starch, it can become a ball or a loaf. Spiced, a sausage. Browned and immersed, it is a ragu or chili. Carefully wrapped with the thinnest of pastry, it is a wonton. How ground meat turns out is in the hands of the cook.
Maybe that's why a soul can feel like ground chuck: broken, smushed, rent. I didn't realize that I'd been on the wrong end of the grinder until I got here. Parked the car. Checked in. Read a welcome note from the spiritual director I'm meeting, and sobbed. But I trust that the all-time most Creative Cook knows what to do with minced soul.
Mixed with plenty of Lamb, I should be something different when I leave.
The thing about ground meat is you can shape it, make something different (if not new). Bound with starch, it can become a ball or a loaf. Spiced, a sausage. Browned and immersed, it is a ragu or chili. Carefully wrapped with the thinnest of pastry, it is a wonton. How ground meat turns out is in the hands of the cook.
Maybe that's why a soul can feel like ground chuck: broken, smushed, rent. I didn't realize that I'd been on the wrong end of the grinder until I got here. Parked the car. Checked in. Read a welcome note from the spiritual director I'm meeting, and sobbed. But I trust that the all-time most Creative Cook knows what to do with minced soul.
Mixed with plenty of Lamb, I should be something different when I leave.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Completely off-topic
Seriously, I could make a theological case for going here, but you're smarter than that.
Pesto is like sex. When it's mediocre, I'd rather have something else. It's not satisfying. It's a little flat, a little "last week". You expect it to be like that long ago summer you only remember in your nostalgic fantasies, but it's more like running into an ex-lover who has gone to seed.
But when it's right, pesto titillates every sense, and satisfies beyond its components. Basil, olive oil, toasted nuts, cheese. Individually all are good. But when they come together, well, you remember that God does love us, and that She made us sensual, physical beings.
Wow.
Pesto is like sex. When it's mediocre, I'd rather have something else. It's not satisfying. It's a little flat, a little "last week". You expect it to be like that long ago summer you only remember in your nostalgic fantasies, but it's more like running into an ex-lover who has gone to seed.
But when it's right, pesto titillates every sense, and satisfies beyond its components. Basil, olive oil, toasted nuts, cheese. Individually all are good. But when they come together, well, you remember that God does love us, and that She made us sensual, physical beings.
Wow.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Jesus, PhD
Sometimes when I read the gospels I hear Jesus talking in Dr. Phil's voice. "How's That working for ya?"
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Lately I've been fascinated with the speed at which Baby is learning and using words. More on that later. But here's the goodie: we're sitting down to lunch and I close my eyes and hold out my hands to bless God for the food. I feel her little hand take my finger, and hear her "amen" at the end. Wow.
So the word list as of today:
shoes, socks, o's, Tanqy, apple, banana, "I see you", mama, dada, more, cheese, flower, airplane, truck, bus, car, go (when the light turns green), help, up, down, dirty, chickens and duck (and their voices), outside, inside, brush teeth, purse, keys, phone, spoon, milk, glasses, water, bottle, cup, toast, cookie, bar, strawberry, blueberry, cracker, goldfish, cold, hot, hat, Ellen, yay!, hands, feet, belly, eyes, ears, nose, on, please, yes, no, pacie, blanket, mine, you (although which one of us "you" is, is stil in question), cat, Jamba, church.
And Amen.
So the word list as of today:
shoes, socks, o's, Tanqy, apple, banana, "I see you", mama, dada, more, cheese, flower, airplane, truck, bus, car, go (when the light turns green), help, up, down, dirty, chickens and duck (and their voices), outside, inside, brush teeth, purse, keys, phone, spoon, milk, glasses, water, bottle, cup, toast, cookie, bar, strawberry, blueberry, cracker, goldfish, cold, hot, hat, Ellen, yay!, hands, feet, belly, eyes, ears, nose, on, please, yes, no, pacie, blanket, mine, you (although which one of us "you" is, is stil in question), cat, Jamba, church.
And Amen.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Thank God for Sam. Really.
Who knew that we hit a trend? Or that Everyone with a table saw would start making chicken coops (starting at $450, thank you very much)? And that there's serious peer pressure to build your own out of really anything -- doghouse, shed, VW van, pallets. I considered a bookshelf, an ikea cabinet, doghouses, sheds, shipping crates. Found a rabbit hutch for $50 (just like a small chicken hutch without a perch) but couldn't make firm contact with the seller. Found an Everyone making coops I really liked , but I'm cheap.
Finally returned to the Wizard, Sam pf Sam's Downtown Feed, who has been my sage throughout this. He cut me a deal. So here's the coop that's coming home Saturday.
Now we have to figure out a paint scheme. I'm headed toward maroon and lime green, but I suspect I'm in the minority.
Finally returned to the Wizard, Sam pf Sam's Downtown Feed, who has been my sage throughout this. He cut me a deal. So here's the coop that's coming home Saturday.
Now we have to figure out a paint scheme. I'm headed toward maroon and lime green, but I suspect I'm in the minority.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Back on the farm
I haven't been sleeping well -- up too late, congested (and seriously snoring, poor Husband) -- but I have been getting up early. The dark is still, cars are sleeping. I go off with my Bible to Peets, chat a bit with the Peets peeps, then sit down to strong coffee and Job. Pretty ideal.
Tonight Baby went to bed without a struggle. The chickens did too -- not one pooped on me. Unlike this morning.
Evening chores took longer than usual because one whole tomato plant blew over, cage and all, and I had to string it up. But it left behind two tiny orange tomatoes, along with the cucumbers that seem to grow overnight. Cut the last of the chard, which I'll cook with some other greens then make stock with the stems. Figs from TJs, but strawberries from the farm. Ditto the first corn of the season -- picked yesterday, shucked and cooked today, with just a little bit of butter and barely simmered through -- and tomatoes that are darker red than blood.
Now, if you don't know me well, you don't realize that every phrase after "ideal" belongs on Amazon's list of "statistically improbable phrases". Okay, the line about making stock is more usual, but the rest was unimaginable even 3 years ago. I love my high heels and proper glassware. Buses and subways are good. Cafes on every corner should be a law (no, I'm not talking about Starbucks here. Cafes.) And if you can't catch up on all the news worldwide by walking down the street overhearing, it's a sorry city.
We plan. God laughs, and gives eggs.
Tonight Baby went to bed without a struggle. The chickens did too -- not one pooped on me. Unlike this morning.
Evening chores took longer than usual because one whole tomato plant blew over, cage and all, and I had to string it up. But it left behind two tiny orange tomatoes, along with the cucumbers that seem to grow overnight. Cut the last of the chard, which I'll cook with some other greens then make stock with the stems. Figs from TJs, but strawberries from the farm. Ditto the first corn of the season -- picked yesterday, shucked and cooked today, with just a little bit of butter and barely simmered through -- and tomatoes that are darker red than blood.
Now, if you don't know me well, you don't realize that every phrase after "ideal" belongs on Amazon's list of "statistically improbable phrases". Okay, the line about making stock is more usual, but the rest was unimaginable even 3 years ago. I love my high heels and proper glassware. Buses and subways are good. Cafes on every corner should be a law (no, I'm not talking about Starbucks here. Cafes.) And if you can't catch up on all the news worldwide by walking down the street overhearing, it's a sorry city.
We plan. God laughs, and gives eggs.
Friday, July 31, 2009
What are friends for?
It's astonishing that even when God offers to help, I can manage to gratefully decline.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Pandora didn't know how good she had it!
When the economy first started to tank, Wonderful Husband, decided it would be prudent to landscape our backyard and our front yard with edibles, to have chickens, maybe a goat. I balked: I've had goats, and a greenhouse, and I've been around a lot of chickens. I really wanted a Mediterranean, low-water landscape -- lavender and rosemary as far as your nose could smell. Plus I knew that when push came to shove, both the garden and the chickens would become lines on my to-do list.
But it mattered to him, and heck, I like fresh food as much as the next person, so here we are, backyard gardening and six chickens. (The front yard is still under discussion.)
Unfortunately, Wonderful Husband had no clue about the beast he had just let out of its box. I blame the bookshelves, really: they're still in fiction/nonfiction arrangement, rather than topic/author/date as they used to be. If our library was in order, Wonderful Husband might have noticed my "most precious" bookshelf. Some fiction, some religion, but mostly sustainable living, housebuilding, the gardens of Vita Sackville-West.
For many years, I treasured Scott and helen Nearing as much as I did God. Maybe more. I used Kloss' book on clean living until the pages wore out. I've read umpteen books on alternative building (such as straw bales, rammed earth, domes, yurts), and can tell you how to cook a meal on your car's exhaust system as you drive cross-country. A decade ago I drew up full plans for a Craftsman-style bungalow with stove heating. And have I mentioned to you the pilgrimage to Arcosanti? More recently, I've chewed on Omnivore's Dilemma and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, and put up many pints of apricots, jam, and syrup.
And now the beast is loose. I'm dreaming about leaving paid ministry for rural homesteading, and house church planting, another kid, a bunch more dogs, co-op schooling. And the goats, because I love them and cheese is so easy. I'm wondering if Wendell Berry needs an assistant, or if Barbara Kingsolver has land near her.
God trumps the Nearings these days, by far. But I'm not sure I'd still be honoring God's call by choosing a road less taken. Or, that we'd survive financially. But the box is open and the tomatoes are starting to ripen.
Poor Husband. Better finally update those shelves.
But it mattered to him, and heck, I like fresh food as much as the next person, so here we are, backyard gardening and six chickens. (The front yard is still under discussion.)
Unfortunately, Wonderful Husband had no clue about the beast he had just let out of its box. I blame the bookshelves, really: they're still in fiction/nonfiction arrangement, rather than topic/author/date as they used to be. If our library was in order, Wonderful Husband might have noticed my "most precious" bookshelf. Some fiction, some religion, but mostly sustainable living, housebuilding, the gardens of Vita Sackville-West.
For many years, I treasured Scott and helen Nearing as much as I did God. Maybe more. I used Kloss' book on clean living until the pages wore out. I've read umpteen books on alternative building (such as straw bales, rammed earth, domes, yurts), and can tell you how to cook a meal on your car's exhaust system as you drive cross-country. A decade ago I drew up full plans for a Craftsman-style bungalow with stove heating. And have I mentioned to you the pilgrimage to Arcosanti? More recently, I've chewed on Omnivore's Dilemma and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, and put up many pints of apricots, jam, and syrup.
And now the beast is loose. I'm dreaming about leaving paid ministry for rural homesteading, and house church planting, another kid, a bunch more dogs, co-op schooling. And the goats, because I love them and cheese is so easy. I'm wondering if Wendell Berry needs an assistant, or if Barbara Kingsolver has land near her.
God trumps the Nearings these days, by far. But I'm not sure I'd still be honoring God's call by choosing a road less taken. Or, that we'd survive financially. But the box is open and the tomatoes are starting to ripen.
Poor Husband. Better finally update those shelves.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Going back
I had the privilege of officiating at a memorial service today. Officially I am on vacation through midnight, but the deceased was a longtime and very active member of our church community, so my being there mattered. 193 people attended, more than we've had before, and though the room was sweltering, the breath of the Holy Spirit moved like a breeze among us.
Perhaps the greatest gift of this profession is being Christ for people in their most important moments. It is the priestly role: from Aaron to Jesus to each of us, standing in the breach between God and God's people is an extraordinary honor. I guess it is also an extraordinary responsibility, though I've never experienced it as a burden.
Protestants of the low church varieties like to pretend that priests are at best irrelevant, and at worst sacrilegious. But every culture at every time has had those people, or those roles, in which God was formally made present through a single human being. There is something about someone "holding the space" -- that is, actively parting the veil between the mundane and the divine-- that we need. In our times of trial or tragedy or triumph, we look for a priest, if not for a word then for a symbol of the thin line between God and the rest of us. So officiating is a privilege, for not only do we say the words and do the gestures: we are the eternal, undying, love of God, incarnate if only for an hour.
Certainly worth going back early for.
Perhaps the greatest gift of this profession is being Christ for people in their most important moments. It is the priestly role: from Aaron to Jesus to each of us, standing in the breach between God and God's people is an extraordinary honor. I guess it is also an extraordinary responsibility, though I've never experienced it as a burden.
Protestants of the low church varieties like to pretend that priests are at best irrelevant, and at worst sacrilegious. But every culture at every time has had those people, or those roles, in which God was formally made present through a single human being. There is something about someone "holding the space" -- that is, actively parting the veil between the mundane and the divine-- that we need. In our times of trial or tragedy or triumph, we look for a priest, if not for a word then for a symbol of the thin line between God and the rest of us. So officiating is a privilege, for not only do we say the words and do the gestures: we are the eternal, undying, love of God, incarnate if only for an hour.
Certainly worth going back early for.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
... and God laughs
I'm on vacation, right?
Sunday, 2:48 a.m.
My eyes spring open as my brain engages. The house is soundless and dark, but I am awake as if an alarm bell were clanging. Reluctantly look at the clock, expecting the blue glow of five-colon-zero-zero.
Ha ha.
So I turn over, thinking that I should get more sleep. Around 3:30 I give in, and within seconds Child begins to cry. I wait a while So That She Learns to Self-Comfort, but she's got that flat crying sound that says something's up. A few minutes in the dark with her and a clean pacifier and she's back in the crib. I put the coffee on and slice Susan's bread for toast.
Ha ha.
Once again I hear the dulcet tones of Child, this time it's a bottle cry. Pour, warm, feed, shhhh. Back into crib. Sit down in chair with Bible, toast, coffee and cat. The dog's collar begins jingling.
Ha ha.
Happily, he settles himself down, but by now I'm mentally writing a sermon, planning worship, selecting new pillows for the living room, reading a You book, working on a Rule. All in my head; all before 4:15. So I get up, get more coffee, come upstairs, and start looking for a church to visit, since the plan to go to the evangelical contemporary church near our home church looks less and less appealing. The plan changes.
Ha ha ha giggle snort.
We plan; God laughs. Sunday morning on vacation before 5 a.m.
Sunday, 2:48 a.m.
My eyes spring open as my brain engages. The house is soundless and dark, but I am awake as if an alarm bell were clanging. Reluctantly look at the clock, expecting the blue glow of five-colon-zero-zero.
Ha ha.
So I turn over, thinking that I should get more sleep. Around 3:30 I give in, and within seconds Child begins to cry. I wait a while So That She Learns to Self-Comfort, but she's got that flat crying sound that says something's up. A few minutes in the dark with her and a clean pacifier and she's back in the crib. I put the coffee on and slice Susan's bread for toast.
Ha ha.
Once again I hear the dulcet tones of Child, this time it's a bottle cry. Pour, warm, feed, shhhh. Back into crib. Sit down in chair with Bible, toast, coffee and cat. The dog's collar begins jingling.
Ha ha.
Happily, he settles himself down, but by now I'm mentally writing a sermon, planning worship, selecting new pillows for the living room, reading a You book, working on a Rule. All in my head; all before 4:15. So I get up, get more coffee, come upstairs, and start looking for a church to visit, since the plan to go to the evangelical contemporary church near our home church looks less and less appealing. The plan changes.
Ha ha ha giggle snort.
We plan; God laughs. Sunday morning on vacation before 5 a.m.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Fantasy and reality
Got back last night at 10; got to bed around 2. Child slept in, as did dog, as did I (8:30 which is some kind of record for me). Had a couple of errands that needed doing today, and managed those.
Fantasy: I don't sleep for the 16 hours of travel, get to bed at roughly normal time.
Reality: Slept no more than 1.5 hours during travel. Hang out with Child's caregiver until maybe 11, then gaze at tv until less wired.
Fantasy: House is roughly clean and tidy, then I put in 2-3 hours making it right.
Reality: There are no piles, and Child's clothes are clean, but the compost bucket under the sink is truly horrifying, and I realize what counts as "clean and tidy" for me is not necessarily what counts for others.
Fantasy: After Child goes to bed, I have a grownup cocktail out on the patio then enter a gleaming house for a nice nibble and some well-written words.
Reality: Manhattan in a cracked Bushmill's glass while watching TLC, recorded. (A perfect Manhattan, it should be said.)
Fantasy: nice bath, then bed by 10.
Reality: Fall asleep while reading. Out loud. To Child. Several times between 7:30 and 8. Now re-energized but without desire to do anything productive or holy.
Home. Really.
Fantasy: I don't sleep for the 16 hours of travel, get to bed at roughly normal time.
Reality: Slept no more than 1.5 hours during travel. Hang out with Child's caregiver until maybe 11, then gaze at tv until less wired.
Fantasy: House is roughly clean and tidy, then I put in 2-3 hours making it right.
Reality: There are no piles, and Child's clothes are clean, but the compost bucket under the sink is truly horrifying, and I realize what counts as "clean and tidy" for me is not necessarily what counts for others.
Fantasy: After Child goes to bed, I have a grownup cocktail out on the patio then enter a gleaming house for a nice nibble and some well-written words.
Reality: Manhattan in a cracked Bushmill's glass while watching TLC, recorded. (A perfect Manhattan, it should be said.)
Fantasy: nice bath, then bed by 10.
Reality: Fall asleep while reading. Out loud. To Child. Several times between 7:30 and 8. Now re-energized but without desire to do anything productive or holy.
Home. Really.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Litourgeia
(Or however it's spelled in Serbian.)
Quiet suddenly pours over the worshippers standing in the church. The Holy Spirit (or is it merely light?) streams through the nave windows, first on the people then, as time passes, on the faces of Jesus and Mary, Mother of God.
In the last few minutes before the Divine Work of the People begins, a priest and two young men stand in a side chapel, blessing bread and candles before wrapping them in bags and taking them out. The young men are good humored, in jeans and tees, beautifully incanting the prayers. They leave with their packages, then return and slip through the door of an angel into the hidden altar room. When they reappear, gold robes cover their jeans, their hair is pulled back, and they bear large sienna candles, pure beeswax.
Men stand on one side, women on the other. Only the frail sit in the chairs so close to the altar, and only when their ancient legs can take no more. For the next hour and a half, the priests and the choir of men sing the liturgy, their voices mingling in deep and dancing tones. (How I've missed this sound!) Throughout we cross ourselves and bend at the waist, over and over, at every mention of every holy name. Some touch the ground; others gesture toward it. The half-room of men sing the responses. Men singing, consistently, confidently. From time to time, mostly on the alleluias, the chorus sprouts higher voices. All sing or speak the Creed -- at least it sounds like the Creed -- that 1600 year old statement of unity and faith, sung in the heavens and on earth.
Over and over we and the altar and the bread and wine are blessed with incense, rising up as prayer into the dome vault, and perhaps beyond. Everyone puts money in the offering, as the golden young men weave through the crowd. We don't put in much (I am extravagant with 100 dinar, or $1.35) as this isn't when tithing happens, but everyone responds to the blessing we've received.
As the baptized faithful move forward to take communion, others step to the "store" to buy candles to light at the various niches. Mary the Mother of God, St. Michael, Jesus, perhaps others receive prayers, kisses, flowers. Even apples, below the Mother of Tenderness.
Outside there is a breeze, and gentled voices, except for the occasional squeal of delight from a playing child. The Roma women sitting at the gates have also received today, both money and acknowledgment, like the beggars at the temple in Luke.
In an hour and a half of a foreign language, with the waves of voices lapping and the Sun illuminating all dimensions, your mind has room to move. From the words to the sound to the mosaics, from the mundane (what shall I make for dinner?) to the divine, to plans and regrets and hopes, God is in the details, all of them, including the monkey mind and the vast transcendence.
Sabbath. Finally.
Alleluia. Amen.
Quiet suddenly pours over the worshippers standing in the church. The Holy Spirit (or is it merely light?) streams through the nave windows, first on the people then, as time passes, on the faces of Jesus and Mary, Mother of God.
In the last few minutes before the Divine Work of the People begins, a priest and two young men stand in a side chapel, blessing bread and candles before wrapping them in bags and taking them out. The young men are good humored, in jeans and tees, beautifully incanting the prayers. They leave with their packages, then return and slip through the door of an angel into the hidden altar room. When they reappear, gold robes cover their jeans, their hair is pulled back, and they bear large sienna candles, pure beeswax.
Men stand on one side, women on the other. Only the frail sit in the chairs so close to the altar, and only when their ancient legs can take no more. For the next hour and a half, the priests and the choir of men sing the liturgy, their voices mingling in deep and dancing tones. (How I've missed this sound!) Throughout we cross ourselves and bend at the waist, over and over, at every mention of every holy name. Some touch the ground; others gesture toward it. The half-room of men sing the responses. Men singing, consistently, confidently. From time to time, mostly on the alleluias, the chorus sprouts higher voices. All sing or speak the Creed -- at least it sounds like the Creed -- that 1600 year old statement of unity and faith, sung in the heavens and on earth.
Over and over we and the altar and the bread and wine are blessed with incense, rising up as prayer into the dome vault, and perhaps beyond. Everyone puts money in the offering, as the golden young men weave through the crowd. We don't put in much (I am extravagant with 100 dinar, or $1.35) as this isn't when tithing happens, but everyone responds to the blessing we've received.
As the baptized faithful move forward to take communion, others step to the "store" to buy candles to light at the various niches. Mary the Mother of God, St. Michael, Jesus, perhaps others receive prayers, kisses, flowers. Even apples, below the Mother of Tenderness.
Outside there is a breeze, and gentled voices, except for the occasional squeal of delight from a playing child. The Roma women sitting at the gates have also received today, both money and acknowledgment, like the beggars at the temple in Luke.
In an hour and a half of a foreign language, with the waves of voices lapping and the Sun illuminating all dimensions, your mind has room to move. From the words to the sound to the mosaics, from the mundane (what shall I make for dinner?) to the divine, to plans and regrets and hopes, God is in the details, all of them, including the monkey mind and the vast transcendence.
Sabbath. Finally.
Alleluia. Amen.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Random thought #3: Roma
I made the mistake of forgetting for a too-long moment about the Roma.
I had been thinking that Belgrade is remarkably level. Not topographically: like SF, it is built on 7 hills. But the years of wheelbarrows of paper money to buy bread are long gone. The chasm between poor and middle class is bridgeable. In general, Serbs run the gamut from antique white to beige to tan. Most are Orthodox, with some Muslims and Jews thrown in. People are well-fed, but few are fat. Houses are similar in kind and value (say what you will about Communism). Food is cheap; imported clothing expensive. I had been thinking that the standard of living varies, but if there are truly rich here, they/we have the decency not to stand out.
But I had forgotten about the Roma, until a little boy stood eye level urging me to buy candy. I was on the bus, taking a seat after standing with a heavy bag for a while. Other seats had opened, but I was too slow and too laden to reach them in time. Tired, and a little cranky, I quickly took the seat vacated by a 20-year-old on her way to the fair. When I looked up, a little boy was looking me in the face and offering me "candy". He wasn't offering whatever the Serbian word for candy is, but "candy". He was brown skinned, like well-steeped tea, and small. He might have been 4, or 8. I knew before looking that he was unaccompanied. He offered me candy, spoke a few words, and waited. His cutoff sweatshirt was filthy, his face stained with sugar and dirt. And my money was all buried at the bottom of my backpack, and safely in an account somewhere. When I responded with grimaces and "um-hmm"s, he got off at the next stop, squeezing through the legs of the beige adults around him.
A stop later there were two children crossing the street, the elder carrying the younger. "Elder" here being relative: maybe 7 years old. The younger? Perhaps my daughter's age: 18 months. No adults. Dirty. Determined.
Just an hour or two before I had been asking a OB nurse what happened to unwanted children here. If given up at the hospital they go to orphanages, where they will, with God's help, be placed with family members. If not they stay in orphanages until, well, until something else happens.
Of course, the Roma children are not unwanted. Though the Roma (the ones we tend to call Gypsies) are desperately poor, they love their children too. And their children are often the only ones who can bring in any money. Brown-skinned teens lane-split on foot, asking to wash car windows. Little ones wander the streets selling candy or asking for money. Elders sit by the churchyard gates or near the ATMs, pleading, their bowls and boxes empty.
My wonderful husband and I have been talking about adopting another child. But the difficulty of it -- the cumbersome process -- stops us. Then this one looks me square in the face, and though I want to pick him up and carry him home, I have nothing to give him. Nothing of use, anyway.
Serbs don't cry on the bus, but you know how Americans are.
Never forget about the Romas, or the others, wherever you are.
During the Reaganite cold war, Sting sang:
"There is no monopoly in common sense/ On either side of the political fence
We share the same biology/ Regardless of ideology
Believe me when I say to you
I hope the Russians love their children too"
I hope we love the Roma children too. And the Black foster kids. And the Mexican kids. And our own kids.
"Suffer the little children to come to me." Says our wise and sometimes too-distant Savior.
I had been thinking that Belgrade is remarkably level. Not topographically: like SF, it is built on 7 hills. But the years of wheelbarrows of paper money to buy bread are long gone. The chasm between poor and middle class is bridgeable. In general, Serbs run the gamut from antique white to beige to tan. Most are Orthodox, with some Muslims and Jews thrown in. People are well-fed, but few are fat. Houses are similar in kind and value (say what you will about Communism). Food is cheap; imported clothing expensive. I had been thinking that the standard of living varies, but if there are truly rich here, they/we have the decency not to stand out.
But I had forgotten about the Roma, until a little boy stood eye level urging me to buy candy. I was on the bus, taking a seat after standing with a heavy bag for a while. Other seats had opened, but I was too slow and too laden to reach them in time. Tired, and a little cranky, I quickly took the seat vacated by a 20-year-old on her way to the fair. When I looked up, a little boy was looking me in the face and offering me "candy". He wasn't offering whatever the Serbian word for candy is, but "candy". He was brown skinned, like well-steeped tea, and small. He might have been 4, or 8. I knew before looking that he was unaccompanied. He offered me candy, spoke a few words, and waited. His cutoff sweatshirt was filthy, his face stained with sugar and dirt. And my money was all buried at the bottom of my backpack, and safely in an account somewhere. When I responded with grimaces and "um-hmm"s, he got off at the next stop, squeezing through the legs of the beige adults around him.
A stop later there were two children crossing the street, the elder carrying the younger. "Elder" here being relative: maybe 7 years old. The younger? Perhaps my daughter's age: 18 months. No adults. Dirty. Determined.
Just an hour or two before I had been asking a OB nurse what happened to unwanted children here. If given up at the hospital they go to orphanages, where they will, with God's help, be placed with family members. If not they stay in orphanages until, well, until something else happens.
Of course, the Roma children are not unwanted. Though the Roma (the ones we tend to call Gypsies) are desperately poor, they love their children too. And their children are often the only ones who can bring in any money. Brown-skinned teens lane-split on foot, asking to wash car windows. Little ones wander the streets selling candy or asking for money. Elders sit by the churchyard gates or near the ATMs, pleading, their bowls and boxes empty.
My wonderful husband and I have been talking about adopting another child. But the difficulty of it -- the cumbersome process -- stops us. Then this one looks me square in the face, and though I want to pick him up and carry him home, I have nothing to give him. Nothing of use, anyway.
Serbs don't cry on the bus, but you know how Americans are.
Never forget about the Romas, or the others, wherever you are.
During the Reaganite cold war, Sting sang:
"There is no monopoly in common sense/ On either side of the political fence
We share the same biology/ Regardless of ideology
Believe me when I say to you
I hope the Russians love their children too"
I hope we love the Roma children too. And the Black foster kids. And the Mexican kids. And our own kids.
"Suffer the little children to come to me." Says our wise and sometimes too-distant Savior.
Friday, July 10, 2009
2 thoughts (with more alighting)
1) The national language of Serbia is graffiti.
2) ""The way I see it," he said "You just can't win it... Everybody's in it for their own gain You can't please 'em all There's always somebody calling you down
I do my best And I do good business There's a lot of people asking for my time They're trying to get ahead They're trying to be a good friend of mine
I was a free man in Paris I felt unfettered and alive There was nobody calling me up for favors And no one's future to decide You know I'd go back there tomorrow But for the work I've taken on Stoking the star maker machinery Behind the popular song
I deal in dreamers And telephone screamers Lately I wonder what I do it for If l had my way I'd just walk out those doors And wander Down the Champs Elysees Going cafe to cabaret Thinking how I'll feel when I find That very good friend of mine
I was a free man in Paris I felt unfettered and alive Nobody was calling me up for favors No one's future to decide You know I'd go back there tomorrow But for the work I've taken on Stoking the star maker machinery Behind the popular song.
Thanks to Joni Mitchell.
2) ""The way I see it," he said "You just can't win it... Everybody's in it for their own gain You can't please 'em all There's always somebody calling you down
I do my best And I do good business There's a lot of people asking for my time They're trying to get ahead They're trying to be a good friend of mine
I was a free man in Paris I felt unfettered and alive There was nobody calling me up for favors And no one's future to decide You know I'd go back there tomorrow But for the work I've taken on Stoking the star maker machinery Behind the popular song
I deal in dreamers And telephone screamers Lately I wonder what I do it for If l had my way I'd just walk out those doors And wander Down the Champs Elysees Going cafe to cabaret Thinking how I'll feel when I find That very good friend of mine
I was a free man in Paris I felt unfettered and alive Nobody was calling me up for favors No one's future to decide You know I'd go back there tomorrow But for the work I've taken on Stoking the star maker machinery Behind the popular song.
Thanks to Joni Mitchell.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The dog park KOG
Tanq, our French bulldog, is tumbling with a weimaraner cross and an Aussie cattle dog puppy. In the next run, a boxer and a lab run from one end to the next, leaping and dancing together. Old and young, small and large, shy and bold, they're out there together. When one tires or gets hurt, the others check in then let her rest. When outsiders arrive, the welcoming committee greets, introduces, then incorporates him into the play. If one misbehaves, the others let him know he's out of line, and then invite him back into the fold.
The Kingdom of God isn't fluffy clouds or an endless harp concert, to be sure. But maybe it's a neighborhood dog park, right around the corner from where you live.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Really? More input?
I just got off amazon, having finally ordered the compost bucket and filters that have been on my wish list since my last paycheck. I also purchased a bunch of copies of RF4RL for our basics class attendees. All good. And, I got yet another book on organizing your spiritual life/disciplining/discipling/overcoming acedia/etc. Nora recommended it, and I trust her judgment. Still, I have to wonder whether overcoming acedia is best achieved by reading about other people doing it. After all, genius is 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration. Could following Jesus have an easier ratio?
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
May newsletter column
I've had Pentecost on my mind. Pentecost isn't until May 31st, but two events this past weekend got me thinking about that glorious day, fifty days after Jesus' crucifixion when His church was born.
Not that it seemed much like a church at the time: the apostles had returned to an upper room in Jerusalem, probably a lot like the room where they ate the last supper. In that room were the remaining 11 apostles and the new guy, Matthias. With them were the women followers, Mary His mother, and His brothers. Of the crowds that had acclaimed Jesus' name, there were maybe 120 male believers left, plus women and children. They had spent the last few days in serious and constant prayer, first selecting the new apostle, then attempting to discern the will of God.
Meanwhile, outside the window, Jerusalem was once again teeming with pilgrims who had come for the festival Shavu'ot, which recalls God's giving of the Torah -- the instructions for living righteously. All of a sudden, the Apostles were given a gift for foreign language by the Holy Spirit, as well as an uncharacteristic desire to talk to the crowds. Leaning or stepping out of the room, they spoke to the people in the crowds in their own languages. Then Peter told the crowds the whole story of Jesus the rabbi who had fulfilled all the instructions of God completely, and whom God made both Lord and Messiah. That day, the number of believers swelled from 120 to over 3000, and they began to live in the beloved community that characterized the church. (Check out Acts 2, if you want to read more.)
That day is called Pentecost, and on that day the Holy Spirit gifted and empowered the apostles, others heard and experienced the gospel, and they began to live in a new way. That's church, you know -- the gospel lived out among a community of believers, who have been gifted and empowered by the Holy Spirit.
Pentecost is on my mind because last weekend the Holy Spirit got an early start:
Pastor Elane
Not that it seemed much like a church at the time: the apostles had returned to an upper room in Jerusalem, probably a lot like the room where they ate the last supper. In that room were the remaining 11 apostles and the new guy, Matthias. With them were the women followers, Mary His mother, and His brothers. Of the crowds that had acclaimed Jesus' name, there were maybe 120 male believers left, plus women and children. They had spent the last few days in serious and constant prayer, first selecting the new apostle, then attempting to discern the will of God.
Meanwhile, outside the window, Jerusalem was once again teeming with pilgrims who had come for the festival Shavu'ot, which recalls God's giving of the Torah -- the instructions for living righteously. All of a sudden, the Apostles were given a gift for foreign language by the Holy Spirit, as well as an uncharacteristic desire to talk to the crowds. Leaning or stepping out of the room, they spoke to the people in the crowds in their own languages. Then Peter told the crowds the whole story of Jesus the rabbi who had fulfilled all the instructions of God completely, and whom God made both Lord and Messiah. That day, the number of believers swelled from 120 to over 3000, and they began to live in the beloved community that characterized the church. (Check out Acts 2, if you want to read more.)
That day is called Pentecost, and on that day the Holy Spirit gifted and empowered the apostles, others heard and experienced the gospel, and they began to live in a new way. That's church, you know -- the gospel lived out among a community of believers, who have been gifted and empowered by the Holy Spirit.
Pentecost is on my mind because last weekend the Holy Spirit got an early start:
- Last Saturday, our friend John Rodgers officially began to live a new way. John has been gifted by the Holy Spirit with a desire to talk to the crowds in their own languages -- what we now call "sharing the good news" or "evangelism". On Saturday, you, the Silicon Valley Gay Men's Chorus, our Conference Minister Mary Susan Gast, and other local pastors laid hands on John and asked God's blessing upon him. We celebrated with amazing music (thank you Cheryl, Susan, and the Music Ministry!), inspired preaching, and great food -- just like the first church did. It's a shame if you missed it, because it was a once in a lifetime experience for both John and the rest of us.
- Then on Sunday, our "confirmation class", known as "[insert identity here]" led worship. From hosting to praying to preaching to playing, from planning to agape meals to cleanup, it was their day, and Jesus was in the house! With an uncharacteristic desire to talk to the crowds, the youth of [iih] led us right into the presence of the Holy Spirit. God is at work in our kids.
Pastor Elane
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