Rantings of the Faithful

Coveting

2011-03-22T17:35:00.000-04:00

Over the weekend, a friend sent me an email saying that she and her family coveted my prayers. That phrase has been repeating in my head. I like it. I like what it days. I like how it feels. And it's true. I covet your prayers.

Right now, I sit in an airport to depart for a faraway place where I will interview to be their pastor. I had no sound reason to say no when they invited me to come visit. I was too scared to close that door. So now, I sit here wondering what the he'll I'm doing getting on this plane when I don't think this is where I am called. I know that already. Or I think I do.

No. I don't. That's a big lie. I feel so separated from God that I'm not sure how to discern where God is or where I might be lead in God's love. I've never been in this desert. I don't know how to leave. Most of all, I don't know how to be faithful to myself and the church as I try to find my hidden God. It's not that I've stopped praying. I'm praying now as I sit here waiting to board. I'm pleading prayers in a way I don't think I have in years. If ever. Still, I covet those prayers. I need to be buoyed by the faith of others because I can't find my own faith. I so wish that weren't so. I wish I felt that presence that I have known to be good and strange before. But she's not there. Not like she was. So I feel I need the prayers of others. In these next few days, while i interview with a church that seems to have more faith than I do but know less about who they are, I ask for your prayers. I covet them as I try to hear God's voice beckon "Here I am."

Pissed Off

2011-01-26T13:48:00.001-05:00

When I was scanning for materials for the upcoming interview, I read this article on The Fake Search. I didn't really understand it because I honestly couldn't understand how and why you wouldn't know that this was happening. Well, maybe it did. Maybe it didn't.

They called yesterday to tell me that they asked another candidate to come and candidate in the end of February. In the UCC, this is the last step. It's extremely rare that a church doesn't vote in wild affirmation of the candidate that has just come to preach on the recommendation of the Search Committee. I'm not sure why they were moving so fast with me, or why they waited until yesterday to cancel the interview. I didn't think to ask those questions on the phone. I can only tell you that I'm back in the saddle and feeling a mixture of grief and heartbreak. Of course, that's to be expected at this time of year. Next week is my mom's anniversary. Alas.

Creative Questions

2011-01-23T20:15:00.000-05:00

On Wednesday, I will have my second interview with my dream church. Yes. That means the first interview went really well. There are no red flags -- which in itself is a red flag for the state of chaos that is most familiar to me in the call process. Nevertheless, I have a a second interview on Wednesday. This interview is once again on Skype, but this isn't a normal interview. My preparation is not only on those basic reminders about interviewing. This time, I get to lead the interview. In the words of the search committee chair, "do whatever you want."

I feel I must be creative. It can't be your average series of questions and conversation. That would be ordinary. That wouldn't set me apart. More accurately, that wouldn't be me. I like to do things outside the box and this is a perfect opportunity to make that apparent to the search committee.

So, there are some obvious limitations. It's on Skype. They sit in a room where they are far away from the camera. They didn't move around in the last meeting. They are obviously healthy enough to do so -- but I'm not sure how to use that space when I'm not physically in it too. There's a time limit which I would expect. I'm not sure that I could do much more than a 90-minute interview myself.

With these things in mind, I'm pondering how I might be creative in my interviewing. They've just emerged from a visioning process and are really excited about their new vision. I'm considering what it might look like to do some visioning together with some of the things that I dreamed of doing with the church I currently serve. That sounds like it's rushing ahead to the end of the first year of my settled call there, right? Yeah. That's why I'm not so sure. It would have to strike the perfect balance so that the focus is on learning how we innovate, how we might work together and how the congregation does planning. I need to look through my visioning materials some more.

I'm also considering asking each of the 8 committee members to bring an object that represents change in their church. (It could represent something else but I'm leaning toward change as I'm really interested in where it is that they want to go in the next 10 years.) Of course, I would also bring an object too. With these objects, we'd make our journey together asking what these objects mean, how they relate and how we might use these objects to work toward the change that we imagine. I can tell you what my object would be. I will bring the stole that was given to me by a friend in seminary that chose not to be ordained. He's gay. He's Presbyterian. Those are not the only reasons -- but he wasn't ready for the fight. He didn't feel called to prove his worth. So, he gave me his stole to wear in protest (as I had done many times in seminary) for the very things he dreams of in the church. This exercise would really be about making connections to see where our ministry would go together. My fear in this is that it would totally flop. And then, do I default to a list of questions? Arg.

I need your help. Brainstorm with me. Please.

The Search Goes On

2011-01-19T15:37:00.000-05:00

I've been blessed with two rejections. As you may know, I'm in the search process. I'm discerning my next call. I am so ready. Still, it seems that I get more rejections than anything else. So it is.

Tonight, if you find the space to do so, I would love your prayers. I will have my first interview with the church that is (quite honestly) my dream church. It feels rushed and overwhelming. I really wanted to have another interview out of the way before I met with this committee. But that's not the way it happened. They will be my first interview on this new technological frontier. I am so nervous. And so excited. I humbly ask for your prayers.

Behold

2010-11-30T23:24:00.002-05:00

behold
behold
an ancient voice
is calling us
behold
behold
all over the sky
an ancient voice
is calling us
behold
behold

I have this song by Trish and Richard Bruxvoort where these lyrics from Black Elk repeat over and over again. I'm waiting for them to summon me into that deeper place that so often happens with Taize. I'm not singing though. I've listened it to a enough that I could know it by hear but I'd rather muse on the words that have been offered in this online adventure I'm making during Advent. Each day, an email arrives in my inbox. I read these words even before I get up to get my coffee. And each day it's the same question. Over and over again, I'm being asked where and how I've fallen asleep. I'm asked what it is that needs to be awoken.

And I have no clue. I was excited about this journey because I thought it might be a way to deepen my creativity. It would be another way to explore that inner artist that seems to want to awake -- but that's not it. That's not what's really asleep for me. There must be something else because all I really know is that I'm totally uncomfortable. (I receive daily affirmations from a friend's Advent journey which is truly helping to calm my nerves, but I'm still uncomfortable.) My back is tense. My body feels tired. I've been writing about this journey (a little) on my more public blog that church members read. But, I know there's something else. Something I need to say aloud so that someone else will hear it. I'm just not totally sure what that is. And then, tonight, I read this quote from Phil Cousineau's The Art of Pilgrimage. I haven't read it but I want to simply because he says this about pilgrimage:

Ancient wisdom suggests if you aren't trembling as you approach the sacred, it isn't the real thing. The sacred, in its various guises as holy ground, art, or knowledge, evokes emotion and commotion.

I am that emotion. In worship on Sunday, I couldn't stop trembling. I couldn't overcome my nerves -- which I found strange and confusing. I've served this church for 4 years. I've started taking some serious risks in worship. No one has died. On Sunday, I didn't do anything unique but I was scared. My body told me so even though my mind assured it didn't need to be frightened. "Do not be afraid," my mind said. My body rebelled. It was caught up in the terror and tremble that something was coming. Something big. Something that would change everything. Something that will make me move across the whole country. My paperwork was released today. I'm officially beginning a search for the next thing -- whatever God may bring. I knew that over the weekend. I knew that on Sunday. But, my head and my body weren't really on the same page on this matter. Now, I know it's that my relationship is changing with this community. I'm preparing to no longer be their pastor and I'm trying to understand who I am apart from this community. I'm trying to differentiate what is my ministry and what is their ministry. I'm trying to unravel myself from the work that I do to prepare for what is coming next. I'm trying to wake up to the fact that God is doing a new thing in me. It's strange that that is so uncomfortable. It seems impossible. But, there it is. I'm trying to awaken to myself this Advent. It wasn't in the music. It wasn't even in the words. It's in me.

Ahem.

2010-11-18T23:32:00.000-05:00

I'm getting a massage tomorrow. I feel like that says a lot about how I am emotionally, spiritually and physically. I really need this massage. My entire back is a knot. Thank you colleague on medical leave and ungrateful congregation who is driving me insane.

I went on a rant in my kitchen this week. Not to myself. I wouldn't tell you that here. This was to a friend who was over for dinner. She asked me about something else -- something related to the work we do (though she's not clergy) and I went off the deep end. I said lots of things about why I feel so disconnected from this ministry.

Thanks be to God. There is movement. Paperwork went to the Big Cheese (in our non-hierarchical tradition where the cheese just stinks) today. With God's abundant grace, we should be live soon. Like next week soon. And then, I can fantasize even more about leaving these people in the dust. I mean, I love them. They're just driving me nuts. We need some distance. Big time.

What I Didn't Say

2010-10-24T20:42:00.001-04:00

There are some things that I want to say. I'm not sure how to say them -- and I'm quite sure that I'm not going to say them all that well. I don't like that I'm saying them here. But, in at least one of the circumstances, I want it to arrive sooner rather than later. And you are reading. I know you are.

We didn't talk about it. You're right. I'm not sure when that would have happened though I wish that it had. Maybe the words don't need to said. After all, we both know that there's nothing that either one of us can say or do that will make this particular moment in time hurt any less. And yet, I'm in the habit of writing letters. It's what I do every year and it's rare to find a friend to know the depth of the grief I feel so well. So, dear friend, I'm writing you a letter because it's what I do. It happens that it appears on my blog. Technology. Bleh.

I wish I could wave a magic wand for you and make all of the pain and hurt disappear. I wish that your last memory didn't interfere with your celebration on other days. Still, I know what that's like. The last time I saw my mom I fed her chocolate ice cream. She was the color of the hospital sheets. She was too tired to eat -- but I was just a kid and didn't understand why she wasn't eating the ice cream. (The fact that she wasn't even eating lunch might have been a clue.) I thought she should eat that chocolate ice cream. So, I fed it to her. You already know that I don't eat chocolate ice cream now. It stands in for some memory so that it's impossible to enjoy. Plus, I don't think you should ruin good chocolate by putting it in ice cream but that's another matter. I know how much those last moments sting. I know that there aren't enough words to take those moments away because -- as awful as it is -- it's all we have left. We only have the memories. We don't have the stories of who she will be in the future. I don't think that ever gets easier.

I don't think you ever really figure out how to move on. I don't think you ever stop wanting to pick up the phone to tell her what just happened. I don't think that ever goes away. That's what makes it sweet though. That's what makes that relationship powerful. There's something about it that carries on. Beyond all assumptions. Beyond our imaginations. It's still there. Damn anyone that says otherwise. You and I, dear friend, know differently.

In our shared faith, we don't do a good job with the concept of missing someone. Jesus comes back when the tears are barely dry. Paul insists that this life is just a stopover. Both bug me. I flip back to the Torah and read about the Promised Land. I don't know what that is but I know it's a place where your tears and mine are wiped away, where we're held and loved through the things we don't dare understand. (Yes, I know I flipped back to the New Testament. I am a Christian. It happens.) I don't think that these visions make the pain disappear. They just make it possible to survive -- and that's all we're trying to do. We're trying to survive. Oh yes. I know. You want more than that. You want to live joyfully. You want to praise with the limbs formed in her womb. You want to reach beyond this pain and find her mysteriously, wonderfully still there. I know. She is.

I can see her in you. I won't go all e. e. cummings on you. I'll just reference it and remind you that I'm here. Holding you. Knowing it hurts. Trying to understand the things that neither one of us do. And then, having more wine. And cheese. Love you.

Honoring My Need to Cocoon

2010-09-23T12:37:00.001-04:00

This is the word that I fell off my lips today.

My therapist picked up on it. What is it about honor that you need? What is it about honor that you want? What is it that you understand in that word? she asked.

The snapshot I offered was one from the Church and Ministry meeting yesterday. Our conversation explored the differences between Commissioned, Licensed and Ordained Ministry. In the end, when all of the various aspects of each were named, we tripped over the problem of prestige in our non-hierarchical tradition. None of these ways to ministry are better than the other. One is not more loved by God. One is not more valued by the church. Instead, they each articulate the different ways that we seek to serve God in the various ways that we explore our service. When I offered this in therapy, I clarified that I'm not interested in prestige. I don't want my honor to be determined by others. Instead, I want it to be my own. I want my honor to come from within me.

This photo was taken by Madhu B Nair.

In this moment in time, I'm aware that something big is changing within me. My therapist says that I might be in a cocoon. It might be that something big is happening and I'm feeling that need to pull myself tightly together before something new emerges. I like that. It fits me -- even though I really don't feel comfortable blogging about it publicly. (I might go to a password protected blog very soon. I have another blog though so you can read about me there.) And yet, in these past few weeks, I've been holding my cards very close to my chest. I've been aware of a change that is happening within me but I've wanted to solve it. I've wanted to make it better without living out all of the questions that are so deeply embedded in my core.

These are things I would tell church people not to do -- but life would be far too simple if I were able to take my own advice. I need someone else to play my pastor. I need someone else to reflect that part that I'm not able to see as I'm wrapped up in this cocoon. So, I'm trying. I'm trying to be in this cocoon. I'm trying to be aware of that space that I need to change and to grow. I'm trying to be gentle enough with myself too feel all of the things that I'm feeling. I'm trying to honor myself enough to be in this time and this space so that I can experience resurrection.

I need to honor myself.

What Do You Need?

2010-09-22T14:26:00.000-04:00

This is the question that I'm asking myself. Over and over again.

What do I need?

It's a question that has emerged from my shiny new therapist. She's pushing me on this question -- as apparently I fall into that dreadful category of clergy who think of others before themselves. (This is news to me.) There are lots of things that are pushing up against this question. Lots of things. Too many things. It's why I haven't blogged. I'm just not sure what to say about myself. I'm not sure how to answer this question about what I need.

This afternoon, a friend called. She told me dramatic news that makes my heart break into too many pieces. It's not my story to tell, so I will only ask for prayers upon this friend. She needs them. Of course, I didn't say I'd pray for her. (I will but I believe she knows that. Or she better.) Instead, I asked her, "What do you need?"

Like me, she tripped over the answer. She offered the things that she had to cross off a list -- those things that I can't really do anything about. So, I interrupted her train of thought. "The list must be long," I said. "I know you'll do those things, but I want you to know that I'm here to hold your hand if you need it."

And I will.

In my own words, I heard that reminder that there are others that will do that for me. I'm trying so hard to find the words to talk about the things that I'm feeling about my call to ministry and the new expression of grief on my heart, but I need to remember that others are asking me that question too. (There's a reason that this post isn't making sense. I'm struggling with words. It's a big problem.) But, even when I can't find the words, someone somewhere is holding me in prayer -- and that's something I really need.

Saying Goodbye

2010-08-18T14:58:00.000-04:00

I've always thought that I know how to say goodbye. After all, it's part of grief and I know quite a lot about grief -- but as I search for wisdom on how to say goodbye to a congregation you've loved, I find that I don't have a clue. This goodbye is on my terms. I'm more than aware of how God is calling me toward the next thing. I don't know what that next thing is. Not exactly. That's the hard part. I know where I want to go. I know that there is a change that needs to happen, but it's a change that only I feel.

The congregation I serve still makes those biting comments about my staying forever. They don't hear my reminder that nothing is forever. They've embraced me. They love me. It's hard to leave that comfort. And yet, I know that there's something else happening. In grief, when someone is dying, everyone knows. It doesn't matter how thick the denial is. Every party involved knows that the relationship that has been is coming to a determined end. Not here. In this transition, it's my secret. It's my truth to share. Carefully.

So, I'm searching the internet for that wisdom about how to leave. I'm wondering how on God's green earth a clergy person asks for recommendations in a discreet way that doesn't explode with the parking lot conversations of which my congregation is rather famous. I'm wondering how you tell that story of God calling you to the next thing without hurting feelings and betraying the trust that will need to endure through the months of a search. I know that I have to get clear on those things that I am called to next. I'm doing that. I'm reading. I'm painting. I'm praying. I'm journaling. I'm finding those things to be clearer. And yet, the last time I discerned where God was calling me, it wasn't a call against anything else. It wasn't a rejection but a possibility. I'm trying to find that same space now as I affirm God's possibility while leaving behind this chapter of my first call. Honestly, it's not really working.

I've told friends that I'm uncomfortable in my own skin. They've misunderstood. I'm not rejecting my life in this beautiful seaside town. I love it here -- but I know that I can't stay here and live the life that God is calling me toward. Trust me. If I could do both, I would stay in my beautiful condo with the comfort my fabulous friends. But, the truth is: my call to live as a follower of Christ needs more. So much more. It's hard not to feel uncomfortable. That's what I feel like when I'm wrestling with my own angels. It's painful. It's frustrating. It feels endless but it's important work to know where God is calling me next. I just wish She'd speak a little plainer. That'd be really sweet.

Life Line

2010-08-05T14:31:00.000-04:00

On Tuesday, in the midst of a pastoral visit, this favorite church member announced that she might be done with this town. She came home from a vacation to discover that this is not where she wants to be. I perked up. Too much. If you know me well, as it turns out she does, you know that I have no poker face. None. What. So. Ever.

As with every other pastoral visit we've shared over the years, she asked how I was. It happens the same way every time. She asks once in the beginning. She asks once in the middle of our conversation when she realizes she's "monopolized all the air time." And once more when our conversation is nearly over. I always dodge the question. She knows I'm doing it. I offer small bits of information but my walls are so high that I don't share all that much.

This image first appeared here.

Not this time. This time I spilled. "Well," I said. "It's interesting. I'm compelled by part of your story as it relates to my own." And then, it just came out. Choppy. Awkward. Honest. I'm discerning a move. I'm wondering if its time to do the next thing.

She said what I would have expected her to say. She referenced her concern about me from the beginning. She was always nervous I wouldn't stay. She didn't think I had a prayer to last here. She knew the track-record of my colleague. There's a pattern that she noticed. She wasn't going to trust me, but she did.

Rather quickly.

She started to refer to me as her life line -- which obviously made me uncomfortable. And yet, I was. I was the only safe space that she could talk about her mother's illness, her divorce, her children and her shattered relationship with her church (the same one that I serve and try to invite her into). She let me listen to things that she wouldn't let anyone else hear. She trusted me. And, in this choppy, awkward and honest moment, I realized how much this trust meant to me. I realized the indelible mark it has left upon my own hands that I could now trust her as she as trusted me. Yes, it's tricky and far from simple -- but to read these words in her email just now reminded me how important this beloved community is to me:

We’ll not be done with one and the other when geography or polity might suggest otherwise. I’ll be insisting on that.

Wander Lust Again

2010-08-02T08:59:00.000-04:00

I went to France. I got the blissful opportunity to return to London -- where I lived for 4 months after college. I am so freakin' lucky. I have wonderful parents who want to give me their miles to satisfy my wanderlust. For some reason, when I blogged about this long ago, I thought wanderlust was two words. It's not. I was wrong. I'm also in a very different place than I was.

While on my journey through Europe -- seeing friends marry, seeing old friends and bastardizing the French language -- I was thinking a lot about my wandering. The fact is: I did buy a house. I did settle in. I did decide to call this place home. And now, it seems that God has something else in mind. I'm feeling that pull. It hasn't gone away. If anything, it's gotten worse.

While I wandered on planes and trains through Europe, I tried a little bibliotherapy by reading The Geography of Bliss. In this book, the author wanders around the world in search of happiness. It's unclear if he's looking for his own happiness or whether he's more interested in being surprised by other's happiness. It seems he doesn't believe in the possibility of happiness -- as when he comes close to it, he tries to talk around it. He also fails to understand the place of religion in that would-be happiness. However, what surprised me most is the assumption that happiness is always somewhere else. You have to travel to find it. You have to be in another place where you'll find happiness.

That's not where I am. I love this city. I love this state. I love that I can drive 20 minutes to a beautiful beach. I love that fantastic culinary wonders are around the corner. I love that I can drive 20 minutes in the other direction and hike a mountain. I love this place. It is indeed home. I don't really want to leave it -- and so, I'm a little annoyed at God. Still. It hasn't gone away. I wish I could find a way to talk myself into loving the ministry I'm doing, but I'm bored. I love these people. I love them so much that it hurts to think about leaving them, but it seems that it's getting closer to that time when I have to answer God assertively by saying, Here I am Lord. Here I am. Send me. But, I'm not really ready for that. Not yet.

Too Much

2010-07-18T21:01:00.001-04:00

It is. It's too much. I'm not sure where to put any of it. It's just too much.

It started when I attended The Young Clergy Women Project Conference 2010. It wasn't what I was expecting. I'm not even sure if it's what I wanted -- but God is a freakin' riot. The conference focused on leadership -- specifically about our leadership. And so, there were many moments for personal reflection. (That is, after I was able to adequately download the information I'd been offered into the crevices of my brain.) There were also moments for lots of conversation. I reconnected with old friends -- including a friend from seminary who has called Atlanta home since our days in New York City. I met new friends. I ate. I drank. It turns out I didn't eat as much as I drank. Oops.

It was the small group conversations that shifted my question. I had come to understand my role as a leader and young clergy woman. I had thought that this question lingered in my eternal dance of staff dynamics with the beloved Senior Pastor. (He's so, so, so much better than he used to be, but still.) That's not what I heard myself saying. That's not what I heard in my peers. I heard an affirmation. (I firmly believe this was only in my head.) I heard the resonating truth that I am called to serve the church. I'm called to serve her until I'm old and gray -- but more than that, I'm ready for the next thing.

My ministry in the past year has been all about trying to create a new thing. They need change. I've offered some of it, but what I've really felt is the push to do something new in my ministry. In my current context, I feel stale. I feel bored. Ew. I hate that. I really don't want to be bored, but I am. I'm really bored. I'm ready for the next thing. I'm just terrified to do it. Totally freakin' terrified. In that circle, in that small group in Atlanta, I heard the divine affirmation I needed and didn't want to hear.

And so, like any good child of discernment, I ignored it. I ignored it until the end of the week of vacation that followed when I walked on a foggy beach alone. The tears came pouring out of me. I shook my fist at the heavens. Damn it. I'm not ready. I just bought a home. I just began to feel settled. I thought I was here longer. Really, God? Really?

This is all too much.

Being Heard

2010-06-23T23:23:00.000-04:00

Tonight I went to our city's local art museum. The new exhibit was opening. I drooled. Literally. There were Hoppers and an O'Keefe. There were two whole rooms of Homer. It was inspiring. Each brush stroke. Each splash of color. It made me want to paint. Oh, how I want to paint. Of course, ironies of ironies, I'm not painting. I'm blogging.

I went with a new friend to this exhibit. She's a member so she gets to be there for these fabulous openings before the rest of the city gets to see this work. I was honored to be her guest. In general, I'm honored to be in her presence -- but the relationship is a little complicated. We met when I hosted a dinner party and invited friends to bring friends because I wanted new friends. She was one of those guests. And yet, when she walked through the door, we both recognized each other. I knew her. I had done her grandmother's funeral only a few months prior. It was one of those moments where the reality of the small city I call home loomed true.

And yet, we're friends. We're in that wonderful dance of getting to know each other as friends. We both share a passion for the arts and a curiosity about life. It's a boundary violation maybe but I want to be her friend. It doesn't mean it's not complicated. Our conversation often returns to the moment we met when I sat holding tissues for her family and listened to their stories. It did again tonight when she asked me about my family -- but it didn't feel weird. It didn't feel strange. It didn't feel like that creepy feeling you get from church members that really want to be your friend and know all your inner-most thoughts. (It's not just me that has those church members, right?)

She listened to me. She heard me. I listen all of the time in my ministry. It's why I do what I do. I love stories. I love how stories form people. I love the sacred space of allowing someone to tell their story in its full truth -- but I have to say, it's been a long time since that space was made for me. Tonight, I found that space. She asked me questions and she let me speak. She let me tell my story in a way that others have let me do for them so many times. Maybe it's because I don't really have a pastor now that I'm a pastor. I have wonderful friends who listen to me -- but it's been some time since I've told this part of my story and had it be truly heard. It just felt so good. And so, tonight, I go to sleep grateful for strange things I don't understand and the wonderful sacred space in so many places in my life.

Heavy Hearted

2010-06-15T14:48:00.001-04:00

Today, I've been working on my book proposal for The Young Clergy Women Project Book Series. I asked for intentional time this summer to work on this project from the Church Council. Their response was a concern for pastoral coverage -- which slapped me in the face as my colleague almost always fields the calls for direct need. I'm the one that actually visits but they all reach out to him because he's the Senior Pastor. Double standards aside, they "allowed" me to use this time over the slower summer.

As I sit here writing, I'm aware how my heart is racing. It's not only that I'm excited about what I'm writing -- and terrifically nervous about how it will be received having just sent it off to a series of friends and editors to read. It's also that I ran into Musicman on Sunday. I didn't actually talk to him. I ran away when I saw that he was holding the hand of another girl. Months ago, I had seen something on Facebook that indicated he might be dating someone. I knew her name. They were friends. The comment on Facebook inferred more than friendship. I tried to dismiss it though I promptly defriended him. On Sunday, I saw him holding her hand. He didn't see me. He didn't see my reaction. He didn't see how much I wanted to vomit. And yet, two days later, my heart is still racing. I'm angry. I'm really fucking angry. At him. At myself. At the whole world. Let me have my drama. I know it's over the top.

I just don't feel like my ground is all that firm right now. My home has been in various states of disrepair. My first blip with homeownership exploded a few months ago and it just seems to be constant in its affects. That's another reason why I'm home writing today. There's been a rotating door of repair people. Lots of checks written. I'm overwhelmed.

In a few moments, I have to pry myself away from the computer to drive to have my annual mammogram. This is didn't go well last year. Let's be honest there. I fall apart a little bit every year. I have flashbacks of my mother's hospital visits. I try to grit my teeth and even smile when the radiologist interrogates me about why someone so young should be having a mammogram at all. My heart is on my sleeve on these visits so I usually start crying somewhere in the middle of the ordeal. Today, it might happen earlier. I sent a text to my stepmother this morning to ask for her update. She's off to see a surgeon and an oncologist today. Seriously, this thing seems to be coming at all angles. So, my heart is heavy --really, really heavy.

Silver Linings

2010-06-07T19:00:00.001-04:00

Last night, I had picked up on a Twitter conversation about this article. I hadn't read it myself. Not yet. Still, I knew that I wanted to read it as so many preachers seemed to have been working these pearls of wisdom in their sermons. I would still like to read these sermons -- though I really couldn't finish the article.

I still have a wee bit of insomnia. Last week, after I'd heard that my stepmother had made it out of surgery just fine, my best friend told me I should acquire a good prescription for sleeping pills but that still seems too severe to me. I had the news about the pathology report. I knew that they had "gotten it" and that the damn cancer hadn't oozed its way into the lymph nodes. (I'm saying damn a lot lately. Sorry about that.) We also found out that it's one of the most aggressive forms of cancer there is. They gave a name with letters and numbers. I don't recall and I'm not the type that goes to the internet to find every little bit of information out. Well, at least, I'm not about this. So, there will be radiation. There may be chemotherapy. There will definitely be a third and fourth opinion from what I can only gather to be the best oncologists my stepmother can find. Still, I'm unsettled.

I don't really believe it. Tell me about science. Tell me all you want. There's something about this particular disease that makes me shut down. I knew this in CPE. In fact, it was sung to me over and over again so that I had to deal with the fact. The first issue I had in CPE was not having a panic attack every time I stepped into the hospital. (Um, yes, it was that bad.) Then, I had to deal with the supervisor (whom I didn't enjoy at all) insisting that I deal with the reality that not everyone dies when they come to the hospital. Yes, I got over that so that I can know walk in and out of the hospital with ease. I can stay there at the bedside. I can be the non-anxious presence I was told was the pastoral ideal.

Still, I don't believe this. The word cancer halts all reality. It whips me back into some place where logic never really existed. Not for me. That word sucks me into place where I assume it -- the damn cancer -- will win. Eventually. It always wins. There are hands that I have held that haven't shattered this place. There are tears that I've shed while driving to the burial to say prayers for those that heard this diagnosis too. There people even now in our church that struggle with the reality that the damn cancer keeps coming back. For those people, there is no silver lining. Or at least, it's really not that easy to find.

I know that my stepmother would strongly resonate with the words that appeared in this Sunday column. I'm grateful. I hope she always finds that silver lining but there is part of me that is too broken to find a silver lining in this. Definitely not in this. Except that this is exactly what I pushed the confirmands on yesterday.

They were planning worship centered around Psalm 5 for the day of their Confirmation. (The Lectionary left with them with some crappy texts, but that's not the irony here.) One of the girls planning the children's sermon wanted to ask the children about their fears. She wanted to point to those things that scare us -- like thunderstorms -- and remind the children that God's presence comes when the sun shines again. It's the silver lining that makes God visible, she seemed to say. Of course, I wouldn't let that slide. I pushed her. I asked her if God could also be in the thunderstorm too. She was shy about her answer, but ultimately told me that God wasn't in the bad stuff. God was waiting for you when it was over. Though I tried really, really, really, really hard not to roll my eyes at her horribly trite theology, I wish I had that kind of faith right now. I wish I could simply be content with the silver linings.

Insomnia

2010-06-02T01:55:00.000-04:00

The New York Times Well Blog has recently found a lot of fodder in the topic of insomnia. I've noticed these posts appear on the homepage -- but I've never actually read them. I didn't think it applied to me. I sleep like a baby. Usually, that is. Except tonight. Tonight, I can't sleep. I've been tossing and turning until I decided to do the only sensible thing that I could think to do: pull my computer into bed with me. Logical, right? (I did think to read first but I'm find this Stieg Larsson book to be a lot more work that the hype.) I would rather blog.

Last week, I learned some news that I don't know how to process. It's the sort of news that requires the big girl pastor pants -- where I don't dare share too much for fear that I'll totally fall apart. Indeed, ministry goes in circles but I'm a freakin' mess. Last week, while sitting in a meeting on ordination expectations, I got an email from my father that my step-mother has breast cancer. That's right. Breast cancer. The whole story unraveled over the weekend when she had surgery -- along with my ability to have any logical perspective. The surgery was fine. They didn't need to remove much of the lymph nodes. Good sign. They discovered that it's one of the more rare, aggressive cancers. Bad sign.

Now, it's probably obvious to you that this is my worst fear. Actually, in my worst fear, I have breast cancer. I die the same death that my mother died. Painfully. Awfully. Tragically. While I know that my step-mother is not dying, my heart is totally broken. How could this happen? Why isn't there a cure yet? Dear God, in all that is holy, how could you let this happen? I mean, I know you're rather busy with the oil spill on the Gulf Coast and the forest fires in Canada. I know that you're pretty pissed about the sins we've committed to this natural world -- but really? How could this happen too?

Of course, I'm not really praying right now. I'm not really talking to God at all. I'm mad at her. I know it's not her fault. I know she didn't cause these things to happen -- but I don't feel her tender caress. Instead, I feel the hard lump in my stomach that is so familiar to my grief. I feel the brimming of tears. All of this scares me. It scares me that my step-mother is going through this awful ordeal that may or may not result in chemotherapy, radiation or even a mastectomy. It scares me because I'll have my own mammogram next week. It scares me because my prayers have started to look like breasts -- which has given me pause to wonder if this image could be a symbol of my own salvation. And then, the lump aches again. The tears brim and I can't sleep.

It's hard to know how to deal with one horrible reality -- like the diagnosis of an aggressive cancer -- when it keeps bumping into the other horrible realities that have made life challenging for so long. My prayer has always been that this disease never, ever, ever strike someone I love again. My prayer has been that there would be a cure. I've walked, donated and lobbied for that cure. It's not so simple that I can be angry because there is so much sadness too. Elizabeth Kubler-Ross doesn't have a stage for that. She doesn't offer an adequate explanation for my confused grief characterized by insomnia, sadness, anger and tears. It wouldn't matter if she did. I would reject it. I don't want it explained. I just wish it wasn't happening. Obviously. Who wouldn't wish that?

And so, I'm trying to figure out how to get out of bed in the morning. I'm hoping that I actually get some sleep before getting out of bed -- but as that damn psalmist insists, joy always comes in the morning. Bullshit. I'm attempting to brave the pastoral life of loving people when I can't let them know how much I'm hurting. I'm trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do -- and how I can possibly begin to speak to God again without yelling and shaking my fist.

The Presence of Clouds

2010-05-17T10:03:00.002-04:00

I can't seem to allow my creativity to be my prayer today -- at least, I can't find that creativity in images. The text from Exodus 40:16-38 just doesn't inspire me. It's too precise in its description. It reminds me too much of math. I don't want to draw the tabernacle even if it does have a mercy seat. (I find this a strange term since the mercy seat is really the covering and no one is going to sit there at all except perhaps God. Somehow I can't quite get my head around God needing mercy -- but I suppose if I need it, then so does God.)

Instead, I'm wishing I had a different kind of faith. I'm wishing that it were possible for me to see clouds and fire and claps of thunder and even the birds of the sky as God. I'm too rational for that. I can explain it away. As in, it's a bird. It may have been created by God but just because it landed there doesn't mean that there is any purpose for you. It's just a bird doing its thing. And yes, it's just a cloud. It doesn't matter how low it is or if it feels like it's covering you. It's just a cloud. Everyone else sees it too. It doesn't mean that God wants you to stay. It's just a cloud. Of course, the Israelites didn't think this. The cloud was their protection. It let them know when to travel and when to stay. They didn't send a bird out like Noah had. They had something more immediate. They had a cloud that stayed with them, that covered them, that let them know when it was safe to continue the journey.

I would like something like that. I would like to be able to believe in the presence of clouds in this way, but I can't quite grasp it. There's a metaphor there, I think. Certainly, there are things that let us know when it is time to do and when it is time to stay. There are things that protect us and allow us to feel the safety that the Israelites knew in the presence of that cloud. I just don't think it's a cloud for me. It would be nice if it was. If I could just look out my window and see the cloud and know that it's time to stay, I think life would be pretty simple. Obviously, it's not. It's more complicated than that. And so, I have to look for metaphors in other places -- or I have to decide if the freakin' "cloud" is there at all.

See, I think this story could be about call. It could be about the times when we know it's time to go and do a new thing and when we know that we're in the right place. My faith is simple enough that I trust this concept. I just don't know what the damn cloud is that will clue me in to when those particular times are. Right now, I'm feeling like the cloud has lifted. I'm feeling like there is something nudging me toward going on the journey. I'm not really sure what that means though. There are the practical aspects -- like who the hell wants to move to a new place and make a whole new batch of friends, the fact that I bought a home here less than a year ago, the fact that I'm still trying to write this book that I don't seem to find enough time for and the fact that there are things that I've said I would do with this congregation that I haven't done yet. But, there are other thoughts that pop in my head too. There's the fear that I don't know what it is that I would want to do differently than the ministry I have right now. (Not being an Associate Pastor is obvious but I know it's more than that.) There's the reality that every time I look at the Employment Opportunities, there's nothing that grabs my eye. (There are far too many churches that identify as traditional and I want progressive and socially active.) So, I'm left to wonder if the cloud really has lifted or if I just need to allow myself a wee little bit of grace. Maybe I should just plop myself on that mercy seat. Hopefully, God will sit down beside me.

If you come to me in friendship...

2010-05-12T16:47:00.003-04:00

Can I confess something to you? I didn't pray this morning. I opted for a trip to the farmer's market instead. Oh. I love the farmer's market -- especially when there are yummy veggies starting to appear like fiddleheads and asparagus. Yum. It so beats all the plants all over the place. As if I know what to do with those. Ha! Despite the fact that I didn't pray, I'm still thinking about this line from Monday.

If you come to me in friendship...

It's an invitation, but there is caution. There is hesitation in these words. There is trepidation like someone that's afraid of being wounded, someone who has perhaps been hurt before, someone who (just shooting in the dark here) had her heart broken recently. There's a desire for relationship, to be connected but it's not clear if it's worth the risk. It's not clear if this invitation will be held as tenderly as this person (ahem) needs to be held.

If you come to me in friendship...

It's a line that should be familiar to me. Over the years, I've made decisions about what friendships I want to go into. I've been fairly clear about where I'm willing to put in the work and where I'm not. Recently, I've been a little sad that my college friendships have eroded. The women that I was dear friends with in college are scattered across the country. We haven't seen each other in a long time. I'm not a phone person. They don't email. They're all in relationships. I'm single. It's not for lack of care. Our friendship has just faded.

And then, well, something weird happened. First, I got a Facebook message from a woman I knew in college. I'd like to believe there was a kindredness between us -- but we were never really close. It doesn't really matter. Somehow, through Facebook or life or God, we've been pulled back together.

If you come to me in friendship...

She's studying to be a therapist now and wrote in the interest of understanding how faith informs the human construct. She's never had faith. She has a longing for it but it's never been something she's claimed. So, who better to ask then a college friend that posts on Facebook about her ministry in the Christian Church?

If you come to me in friendship...

She came to ask me what I thought. I'd totally forgotten the similarities in our stories -- the loss we'd both experienced at a young age, the ways we coped and the ways we didn't. She came to understand -- or in the language of David -- she came to help me. Sure, she was asking out of her own wonder but she came to me in friendship. She wanted to know what I thought. She wanted to know how I felt.

And so, though she might never know it, she helped me. She gave me peace -- and so my heart is indeed knit to her. (I like knit better than bound.) Perhaps it already was. Perhaps it was always there. I just didn't notice. I hadn't paid attention to the similarities -- but felt the distance as I had with so many relationships in my very, very secular college -- in the differences I felt as a person of faith. Perhaps I've used this as an excuse too often. Ok. I definitely have. I've allowed this thing about my faith separate me from those that don't get it. I've ignored the fact that at some point in our past, these wonderful people that I knew in college came to me in friendship. They've been knit to me. They will always be part of my heart. Always... even when I shudder at the photos of us.

The emails continue. Other relationships have reformed. I just forgot that they are indeed still there. They will always be knit in my heart. I just needed a reminder.

Hell Yes!

2010-05-10T11:14:00.002-04:00

After the weird retreat last week that did nothing to rejuvenate my prayer life, I finally sat down to pray again this morning. I took out my Daily Lectionary book to discover that the reading for today came from the chronicles of war-loving David. Awesome. Just what I need after Mother's Day. I'd much rather read the Mother's Day Proclamation but instead I'm stuck with David. Kill me now.

However, David surprised me. I like that about the Bible. I like that I can find rare treats that I never would have expected. I like that I can find words that I really need to hear from people that I don't really get. David may have written lovely poetic songs, but the dude had issues. I'm not over it. Anyhow, it was only the second verse of my reading. It's this one.

‘If you have come to me in friendship, to help me, then my heart will be bound to you; but if you have come to betray me to my adversaries, though my hands have done no wrong, then may the God of our ancestors see and give judgement.’

1 Chronicles 12:17 NRSV

Yes, I know there's terrible war imagery there. I prefer to think of it as a wounded soul here. You know, it's the injured person that really wants to be open and welcoming and gets squashed. Fine. My God will take care of you. So there. But, that first line. Wow. That first line. I needed that. Amen.

Am I Bitter?

2010-05-09T19:32:00.001-04:00

Last night, before I tucked myself into bed after a really lovely night of excellent food and bluegrass, I read Anne Lamott's article Why I Hate Mother's Day. I appreciated these words so much that I tweeted them. My tweets end up on my Facebook page which means that my grandmother read the article. Her comment was that Lamott seems "really bitter" and hopes that I'm not turning into a bitter woman too.

Sigh.

I realize that these words might come out of the same hurt place that so many others feel when I scorn at Mother's Day. I'm fully aware that my rejection of the holiday seems like I'm rejecting the whole idea. I'm not. I've been blessed with two amazing women that I've affectionately and lovingly called "Mom." One of them was the woman that gave me life. She was the woman that taught me about God and reoriented my life forever with her death. The other "Mom" in my life was the woman that my father married only two years after my first "Mom" died. I was so thrilled to have a mother in my life that my eight year old self gave this wonderful woman a "New Mom" ribbon. My stepmother has healed more wounds than she knows. She allowed me to write late night emails to her in college to process all of the hurt that I didn't understand. She didn't reject me. She wrote long, thoughtful emails back. In every sense, she's been my mother -- and I'm so lucky to have her in my life.

I don't intend on removing that honor on this day to either of these women -- nor do I seek to devalue the fabulous mothering relationships I've found in grandparents, cousins, great aunts that stare at the ocean with me, friends that are like family and too many others that have formed me to be the person I am today. All of these people deserve my love and respect each and every day. Instead, I struggle with this one day. It's complicated. I want to insist that I honor all of these loved ones every day. I want to believe that I tell my stepmother I love her and appreciate her on other days than this one -- but it's not really true. I fall short. Still, I hope she knows that she means the world to me. I hope she knows it as much as my great aunt, my best friend who I talked to for an hour on the phone today when we could have just gone for a walk and my little sister. I probably don't say it enough -- but I hope they know. Of course, on this day, it's more complicated than that. It's not just about all of those wonderfully affirming relationships that are present in my life. It's also about the one that's missing.

I suppose this is what makes me sound bitter. I prefer the language of today's Gospel Lesson. I'd rather identify with those that are blind, lame and paralyzed by the pool under five porticos -- because I can really relate to that man who Jesus asks, "Do you want to be made well?" Yes. Obviously. What a stupid question, but don't we always ask stupid questions about things that we don't understand? That's what today is like for me. I listen to all of the wonderful demonstrations of love among my church members. I'm happy for them. I don't want to take that away from them, but still my stomach turns. I don't really know how to explain it, except to point to all of those moments where you really want to call your mom. That never goes away.

There are certain moments in life that you'll always want to pick up the phone and call your mom. There are big moments like graduations and when you realize you're falling in love, but then there are smaller moments. There are the silly trivial things that you just want to tell her that you kicked ass in that interview or that he broke your heart. (My stepmother fielded both of those calls.) There's the moment where you just start thinking about her and you wonder how she is so you grab your phone from your purse and start dialing. That never goes away -- even if she's been dead for over 20 years.

That's what I feel today. I want to call my mom and make her breakfast and thank her for giving me life, but I can't. That might mean I'm bitter. It might but I tend to think that this is the reality of my grief. It's the part of me that's blind, lame and paralyzed to Mother's Day. I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry if my grief ruins your day but it's not really cheering me up either. I'm trying as hard as I can to pick up my mat and walk, but I need your help just as much as you need mine. I might be blind to what this day means to you. I may be so paralyzed in my own grief that I can't see through it. I may be lame right now. Ok, I'm definitely lame right now but I'll try again tomorrow. So will you. But, right now, I'm just trying so hard to be made well. I wish that for you too.

I'm Young, Damn It

2010-05-07T12:25:00.000-04:00

This week, I went on the Spring Clergy Retreat hosted annually by my denomination. I was interested in this particular program because it was about art and I'm hitting a wall in my prayer life where I needed and wanted some new energy in my drawn prayers.

I have never been to one of these retreats before. I have not gone for a very specific reason. I'm at least 30 years younger than all of my colleagues -- and though I don't feel this is a barrier when those that I call peers are often older than I am, it's the first remark that graces my colleagues lips. This time was no different. I was singled out for my age. I was told that I was younger than their children. I was told that I could be their grandchild. I am not graceful or gentle when these comments are made. For me, there's nothing gentle about wanting colleagues.

Of course, it so happened that this was the theme of the retreat for me. It wasn't at all about art. It wasn't about my prayer life. It was about my youth. Damn it.

The context of my ministry is in an area of our country where there aren't many young people. There is a seminary in the area. In fact, there are two that aren't far from me -- but most of the graduates from these institutions that serve the churches in my context are second career women and men. And so, I don't fit the mold. I constantly enter into the conversation that there is a trend in seminaries now that reveals the opposite that we see here. There are more young people in seminary. They are just not here. Of course, these eager elders want to know what will draw young people to our churches here in the snowy North.

The answer in my eyes is obvious. I want to look them narrowly in the eyes and proclaim, "Well... You want young clergy to act like you. Stop it. Really. Stop. We're not you. Don't call us for what we represent. Call us for who we are." In the four years that I've been ordained, serving the same church, I've struggle with these assumptions of who I am as a young person. I constantly force the reminder that I'm not the same age as their college-aged kids. I'm not even a millenial. Really. I took the quiz. I'm so not a millenial. I'm Gen-X if anything but I really don't want to be placed in an age bracket. I want to be who God called me to be without having to fit neatly into a box. I don't want to be seen for my age.

In the church, we honor everything that is old. If it has been around for a long time, we think it's good. The old chalice connects us with the founders of the church. The old Bible connects us with the language that some of our members heard as kids. The old preacher obviously has more experience and knowledge. His gray hair proves it. He's been around the block a couple of times and can relate to the vastness of human experience. There is no point of entry for me. I'm young. I push for new language, chalices that connect us to a global community and highlight my hair to celebrate my youth. (I miss being a towhead.) I celebrate older women (and even men) and the validation that they need for their own calls in the wisdom of their age -- but that pushes me out. It gives me no place. Plus, in my worst self, I can't help but think that the church is going to die with these old crones. I don't really believe that. I want to think that there is another way where we can celebrate a new thing -- even a young thing. After all, isn't that in the Bible?

Needed Distractions

2010-04-30T15:44:00.000-04:00

Today, I've been thinking about a Radiolab podcast I listened to a week or to ago. In this particular episode, a nurse relays her own story of working with dementia patients. She worked for this particular facility where someone had the grand idea of putting a bus stop at the entrance. The logic being that this bus stop would act as a momentary blockade for those patients that were trying to "escape" back into their old lives. Not only is it brilliant. It's sweet and loving.

When I first listened to this episode, I thought it had tremendous analogies for the life of faith simply because we're all so determined to get where we're supposed to be. We rarely stop and just wait. This has crept into my prayer life. I'm trying to wait more. I'm trying to leave more space instead of just trudging ahead with the images, thoughts and ideas on my own heart. I'm trying to listen -- like these patients at a bus stop that goes nowhere, I'm trying to let those little moments surprise me with unexpected stories that needed to be told.

Mostly, I just feel distracted. I feel like I'm not paying attention when the entire point is that I'm supposed to be present to the distractions. Yes, well, I didn't say it would make sense. My prayer life rarely does -- but today, it's not just my prayer life. (Yes, I realize I can't really separate my prayers from the rest of my life.) However, this whole break up thing seems to have reappeared.

It may be because I went on a date on Sunday night. I liked him. I wanted the connection to be there -- but he hasn't called and I feel rejected. I feel unlovable. I didn't realize that point until I heard it voiced by a friend yesterday. She's discovered she can be loved. Love can be unconditional for her -- not just for the love that she gives out. In her words, I heard myself. Minus the clarity. I'm not sure it's just this particular boy that hasn't called. I'm aware of something else that's pulling at me. I'm afraid to name it, but I know it's there. It's been there even though I'm trying to distract myself from it.

Honestly, it's the only way I know how to survive. I need distractions. I'm hunting for them. I need something that will pull me back into life and way from this broken, hurt, unlovable feeling that I can't seem to shake today. I refuse to think that this is a bad thing. No matter how stubborn my insistence on distractions may be, I can only pray that they are what keep me safe. Like the men and women that wander back into the nursing facility having totally forgotten what was so urgent, I'm trying to allow myself to be so distracted that I find the embrace I need.

Bless Our Hearts

2010-04-17T17:20:00.001-04:00

Bless her heart. My stepmother called twice today. She's eager to book my would-be trip to France this summer in which I'll watch a dear friend say her vows in wine country. I appreciate her generosity and attentiveness without any allusions to Southern snideness. It's actually her mother that taught me this phrase. Bless her heart, she says with all sincerity and love. Bless her heart, she says through spits of laughter. She means it and so do I. Bless her heart.

While I managed to rush her off the phone in the first phone call, she didn't let me hang up the phone this time without asking how I am. She's worried about me. I can hear it in the way that she asks -- tentatively, eagerly, lovingly. She really wants to know that I'm going to be OK.

My reply isn't what she wants to hear. Although, I'm not really sure what anyone wants to hear from me right now. On Thursday, I had coffee with a dear church member whom I invited to "talk" after the two year anniversary of his wife's suicide. To all outward appearances, he seems like he's doing just fine. I know that grief is private. Trust me. I know what it's like to put on a brave face and pretend like everything is peachy keen. I know what it's like to present that facade in order to avoid the frustrating comments from people that have never experienced grief of their own -- and certainly have never met my own particular form of grief. I know all of these things, but I was not certain that he would want talk to me. He did. Over half a cup of coffee, he poured his heart out. He told me all of the things that he's been holding in his heart that he doesn't know how to tell a soul. And then, he sighed. "This must be hard on you," he said. I looked perplexed. "It must cause you to relive your own grief."

He would never let me touch him but I wanted to hold his hand. I told him not to worry. My own story of grief has pulled me into this work. I told him that I know what it's like to not be able to really say how much it hurts. I told him that it's my deep honor to sip coffee with him and hear these stories. "Bless your heart," he said. He can hear it in the way that I ask -- tentatively, eagerly, lovingly. I really want to know that he's going to be OK.

Of course, the truth is that we're both broken. We're both hurting. There will be things that happen in both of our lives from now on that will heighten that sense of loss -- silly things like wondering if we can ever love again. His story is different than mine. I'm a young lady, in his words. He'll start receiving social security on Monday. And yet, the story is familiar. Another church member asked this debonair widower on a date. They're going to dinner, but it's not just a casual meal. It's loaded. It's filled with emotion that she can't possibly understand. Only he can know that array of emotion that explode with a simple dinner invitation. (I want to rip her to shreds, but that's another matter.) He cried into his coffee when he said this. He wiped away tears that a veteran of his age doesn't ever get to show and turned to his "young lady" pastor to ask if this meal was a betrayal to the woman that he couldn't save. Bless his heart.

This is what always surprises me about ministry because I heard my own story in this story. I heard that story of lost love. The story that reeks of rejection. The one that insists that you didn't love that person enough in the way that they needed to be loved -- even though there never would have been enough. I heard it. Clearly. And yet, even though I heard myself in his story, I told him something I wouldn't ever tell myself. I told him about the love of God. (Simple enough concept, right?) I told him that if we really believe that our knowledge of God is revealed in love, shouldn't we always seek more love in our lives? Isn't that what God would want for us? The monologue was longer than that, but you get the gist. When I was done, and finally caught my breath, he avoided my eye contact. "I guess," he muttered.

Damn it. I don't want to hear it either. God may be love but I don't feel very loved. Theology doesn't matter when the heart insists upon its own wisdom. Well, maybe the heart isn't wise but it certainly is stubborn. It doesn't want to be happy as I'm grateful to read in others words. It just wants to figure out a way to heal. Or at least, that's the best that I can really figure out about my broken heart.

Change Agent

2010-04-14T16:21:00.000-04:00

I seem to have lost the notes that I took at the meeting on Thursday night when my least favorite committee (and ironically the one that is supposed to be my advocate) sat down with me to review the goals that I'd set six months ago. Perhaps it's the hand of God that they are missing -- but I'm going to dinner tonight with the committee chair. He couldn't make the meeting so I offered to reach out to him. I'm super nice like that. I believe it's what that dove did after the flood. Going where no one should ever go to find the impossible.

So, I'm trying to wrap my head around what happened at that meeting. There were a couple things that were really frustrating. Essentially, this is a group of people that can't reflect with me in my problems. They want to solve it. I explained that I'm worried about the youth program and the various reasons that I'm worried about it. I wanted them to tell me that it'll all be well. (I do like Julian of Norwich.) Instead, they wanted to solve the problem. There are other committees for that purpose. There are other people working on that very problem -- but these are members of the church that don't really know how to do anything but solve problems. I don't want them to do that. I just want them to listen. They did the same thing when I tried to articulate my frustration in the shift that we've made in our governance. I feel like I'm carrying a burden that this congregation started before I even arrived -- but I can't solve this problem for them. I can only be the prophet that points to the problem. (I'm a United Church of Christ pastor after all. I'm not running the show.) They may not know enough about Scripture to understand this. They might not even really want the church to be any different than the places of business that employ them. I don't really know. I wanted them to listen and tell them it wasn't for me to hold. Not alone anyway. They didn't. Instead, they swept in and tried to solve the problem.

Then, the meeting ended before this particular church member offered the wisdom that I'm a change agent. "Pastor Peters," she said. "You should see yourself that way. That's why we called you. We expect you to make change." (She was on the search committee but this is a broad statement that I don't think she fully understands.) I joked back. "I'm going to be remembered as the pastor that came in and changed everything." She insisted that wasn't a bad thing, but I just read the series of responses from the survey that will eventually lead to our vision. We are a congregation struggling with change. For many church members, I represent that change. It's my youth. I hate that fact but it's true. I live and breathe change because I'm a young person. Oddly, I'm fairly traditional. I don't read the Bible literally and I certainly don't believe in substitutionary atonement, but I like older forms of worship. I'm really an old lady trapped in the body of a 31 year old. I don't really know what I'm going to share with this committee chair tonight. Maybe I'll just tell him about the change thing and let it be at that. Sigh.

Seeing Blue

2010-04-12T12:26:00.002-04:00

I did it. I added color to my prayers this morning. It was the weirdest reading ever. I mean, I don't really know what to do with passages where the lesson is embedded in whether or not to fight. I suppose I could relate to that if it weren't that the word army appeared. Somehow, when I see that word, my mind checks out. That's exactly what happened when I read I Samuel 17:1-23 this morning.

I read it again because certainly I must be able to find something to relate to in this passage. After all, I was the one that asked the snarky question to the author at my friend's stage reading last night. This particular author wrote a book that's loosely based on the Book of Esther. The inspiration came when she had tried to introduce faith to her son. They were going to attend a Purim party, so this author did her homework. I wanted to know how this retelling had helped her claim her faith. Her answer? I don't have any. I don't want be that chick that's so insistent upon not being able to find something holy in strange words. So, I read this strange narrative with David again. That's when I tripped over this phrase: "And David heard him" (I Samuel 17:23).

God's a freakin' riot. I get it. I'm listening. So, I drew an ear. I drew wavy lines. I drew another ear and another. Just the ear. That's what I needed to focus on. Don't be bothered that there's no body attached. I'm not. I kept drawing. I drew curved lines arching from the lobes. My pen stopped. What am I listening for? Not a clue. I drew more wavy lines. They got more intense. I decided these lines were the God speak that I needed to hear. I wrote words that I needed to remember from God. Ya know, the average stuff like love, justice and peace. And then, I turned my attention back to those arcs. I thought of those church members that didn't really hear my Easter sermon. I thought of the "helpful" email I had just received from a church member that weekend. I thought of myself and I colored those lines blue. So, today when I see the color blue, I thinking about my stubborn insistence that I don't need to listen. I'm thinking about how I rely on my own knowledge and how I put information out there in little spurts without really listening to what I'm saying to myself. Today, I'm seeing blue.

Dressed for Success

2010-04-10T11:56:00.000-04:00

Tonight, I will be spending the night on a hard concrete floor of the church with two other chaperones and ten confirmands. Scratch that. Nine confirmands. One just dropped out of the entire program by email. Sweet. The mere thought of this exhausts me. I know it's important to these teenagers. I know it's an important part of their journey but... ugh.

It's things like this that further articulate to me that I'm not called to youth ministry. I fully respect the people that are called to youth ministry -- some of whom are good friends. I think you're amazing people to push these bratty, snotty teenagers in their faith and their personhood. But, I'm not one of you. I feel like a bad person every time I say this. I firmly believe that people look nervously at me when I saw that I don't like teenagers, but so be it. It's true.

I'm not sure I ever really was a teenager. But, really, the problem is that I still look like one. People always think I'm 12. I'm not sure why I can't seem to mature past 12 but I try really damn hard. It's symptomatic of so many of my young female clergy friends chopping their hair short. It makes us appear older. I'm that girl. Now, as I'm trying to anticipate how I want to present myself tonight, I'm looking at my attire and thinking about how little I want these teens to see me in pajamas. It feels so raw. So vulnerable. So personal. I'll bring my ratty hoodie sweatshirt from college, but I'm still squirming in my own discomfort. It's silly, but it's what's racing through my head right now.

Coloring in the Lines

2010-04-09T12:20:00.004-04:00

Over a year ago, I started to really consider what my own spiritual practice would look like. Did I have a clue? No. No, I did not. Thankfully, something changed. Amazingly, this happened while I was on the Women's Retreat with the church. This is one of those weekend work commitments that I actually detest as it halts every feminist inclination as I have. These blessed women that I love and minister to just want to talk about being Martha when they feel like they should be Mary. It kills me. I don't think of the world as that narrow so the fact that I have to choose between Martha or Mary is only the beginning.

Anyhow, somewhere in the midst of this retreat, we were asked to make a collage in response to something. I don't remember what it was. I only recall that I didn't want to make a collage. I wanted to draw. So, I took a big felt tip pen and started to draw. Lo and behold, a spiritual practice was born. Praise be to God.

It emerged from that point. Of course, it required supplies so that now I own several prayer pens. I purchased a copy of Between Sundays: Daily Bible Readings Based on the Revised Common Lectionary because I like love the Bible. It was part of what needed to happen for me. I needed to find a way to relate to the text that made sense for me. So, now, I read, I sit and I draw. It's working so well that I want to share. This particular image was going to be my Christmas card as I thought that something was literally coming together in my life. I thought I was pregnant with possibility. No. I was not with child. Christ Jesus, have mercy. Let's hope that doesn't happen. But, then, the break up happened and I felt like I had miscarried. I don't actually know what that's like but it's the closest thing that I can imagine to how I felt. Um. Still feel.

Well, maybe not. I'm gazing at this image this morning and thinking it might be speaking to me again. Again. Not. Pregnant. But, I feel ready for something new particularly after picking up a copy of Praying in Color: Drawing a New Path to God (Active Prayer Series). Now, I feel ready for color. I love color. I love the idea that is posited in this book that every time I see purple during my day, I'll be reminded of that particular prayer that I colored purple that morning. I love this idea so much but I'm nervous. I can't bring myself to do it. Not yet. I still feel a little bit like Harold (obviously from the fame of The Adventures of Harold and the Purple Crayon). I still want to be able to draw that world that is inspired by the Scripture I'm reading, so maybe my prayer pen should just change but that seems so boring. It seems to limit my prayers and now that I'm finally getting a spiritual practice, I don't wanna limit myself. But, I think I might be ready to color in the lines. Like anything, it just takes courage. I've got that, right? Right.

Confession

2010-04-07T23:08:00.004-04:00

A few weeks ago, I got a series of emails from an anonymous person that decided to rip apart one of my old posts. This one, if you're curious. (I know. What a jackass! Of all things!) Anyway, this particular individual thinks I'm crazy for believing in God. I have nothing to say to this person. Forgive me. I have nothing nice to say to this particular person.

However, as I rejected these particular comments, I realized that I missed blogging here. Mostly, I missed the connection that it has offered to my beloved sisters in The Young Clergy Women Project. I know that lots of us have become less frequent bloggers, but it was through blogging that I found this connection to this group of women. By reading your stories, I found a connection that just doesn't seem quite as intimate as reading the wonderful articles on Fidelia's Sisters. And so, I'm back. Maybe. For now. Um. I'm not committing. Not totally.

I haven't stopped blogging actually. I've just been blogging publicly as a church pastor of a particular church focusing on the particular ministries we offer. It's been a good medium of communication with the church -- but it hasn't allowed for the confessions that were allowed in this space. And so, I miss being here. I miss this space where I can be me in a way that my public ministry doesn't fully allow. I can talk up and down about theology. I can blog about justice and trends in the church -- but I haven't had a space to write about my broken heart. I gotta say. It's sucked. Oh yeah, remember Musicman? Yeah. He was nice until he broke up with me. It's been three months now -- quickly approaching four months -- but I'm still picking up the pieces. Let's face it. I thought he was it. I really thought I wasn't going to have to ever date again. And now, I am. Fuck.

See? I can't say that to my church members -- but I can say that to you. You won't shun me. You even know the back story. Well, maybe you do. Maybe you don't. It doesn't really matter. I stopped blogging here because I didn't want to have a secret life anymore. I wanted to be more integrated so that my public life was more integrated with my personal life. Yeah, I know. Who was I kidding? I don't know what I was thinking. Damn it. I maintain two Facebook accounts. I can have a blog that's just for me. That's not too much to ask at all. Sigh. I missed you.

A Spiritual Practice

2009-05-26T22:21:00.003-04:00

A few weeks ago, I had a midday glass of wine with a colleague. (Um. Why not?) She's concerned about my sanity while SP is on sabbatical. At that point, I was really at wits end about all the freaking dead people. Seriously. I see them everywhere. I'm burying another one tomorrow. Not that I know him. He's just being randomly buried in Maine. Today I didn't get a call about dead people. Instead, I have a church member in hospice. Musicman joked that this is a step up and soon they'll just be calling to say that they're sick or even later that the sun is shining. I digress.

This colleague asked a tough question. She asked me about my spiritual practice. Uh. I don't have one. My prayer life is not as active as it could be. I don't sit still well. My communication with God hasn't been all that powerful -- which is odd since I'm making some big decisions. This decision affects my call and my vocational understanding but I didn't pray. I went with my gut. I feel good but there is this gnawing question: what is your spiritual practice?

This weekend, I picked up BBT's new book. I expected to hate it because her last book infuriated me. Bad boundaries lady. No wonder you crashed and burned. Me? I'm all about the boundaries so I erect them with my relationships inside and outside of church -- including my relationship with the Divine. Now, I'm trying to figure out how to move around that boundary and realizing that maybe (just maybe) I don't have to do anything to have a spiritual practice. I can just do what I already do. I can marvel at the world. I can cherish how God is working in my life. I can say thank you. And when I need it, ask for help. I'm so grateful that there are other faithful witnesses to God's grace that can open my eyes to what's already obvious.

Creating Home

2009-05-09T22:55:00.004-04:00

On Friday, I went to look at condos. I saw four -- two of which were charming, one which was a dump and another that I'm literally dreaming about. It's charming. It's adorable. I would love to live there. I would love to make it my home.

That's what scares me. My dad just booked a flight to come see me this weekend. He's going to see this place and one other. He's going to be here with me so that I can make this huge decision. Will this be my home? Am I ready to settle here? Yes. I'm terrified to say that, but yes. I love this place. It has everything that I need and want. I shudder at the very thought of leaving.

The problem? Right. It's this career path. I'm an Associate Pastor at a big steeple church in the area. They love me. We're doing good things. Things are looking good. I see some challenges and some areas for growth. I see what they can teach me and what I can offer them -- but I never saw myself as a lifetime Associate. I cringe at the thought. I never really saw myself in this call for that long. And yet, here I am thinking about buying property which means that I would be here for much longer. It means that I would actually create my first real mortgaged home here. Yikes. So, is this realistic? Am I insane? Of course I am but don't great things come from great (expensive) risks?

Roll Away the Stone

2009-04-12T08:33:00.002-04:00

After our last Good Friday service, I stood in the chancel moving chairs when a woman approached me with some news. She and I have had a close pastoral relationship. She knows me well and I know a good chunk of her story. A few weeks ago, I had visited with her son in crisis. He has PTSD. He was a Marine. My heart breaks for him -- even as he told me I was "bad ass." On Good Friday, his mom approached to tell me that he was in jail. He got in a bar fight and the cops followed him home. He's been in jail for three days and there is no certainty that he'll be released soon. Apparently, there was a charge hanging over his head that he had tried to avoid.

This morning, while testing mics, I listened to my colleague assure this same woman that there is Christ is risen and there is no pain or darkness. I understand the pastoral assurance that he's trying to offer -- but these are weak words even on Easter morning. The Resurrection reminds us that there can be hope -- not that there is always hope. Her son is still in jail. It's still a crap day no matter what the Gospel might be. For her, it's only a possibility. One day, there might be Resurrection. Maybe. That's the hope.

Resurrection always seems to come too soon for me. Maybe that's why I'm typing away 20 minutes before worship. I need to take my time. The stone in my stomach doesn't just roll away. It's still there. There is still hurt. There is hope. Indeed, but maybe not today.

Not Alone

2009-04-10T17:22:00.002-04:00

Today is one of those days that makes the long winters of the North tolerable. It's sunny and crisp. There are little hints of spring all over the place. It's a perfect 10, honestly. So, I did what I do on nice days. I went for a run around the bay. Ok, fine! I went for a run around half the bay and walked the rest. Damn winter weight.

On my way home, I couldn't help but smile at the beauty of the day. I wanted to drink it in. And as I did, I remembered that it's Good Friday. Of course, I knew. I was still trying to enjoy the bit that was my day off before heading to church for what a friend laments to be "substitionary atonement day." Case and point why I hate today. In this twisted irony of enjoying the world's beauty, I felt actual guilt. The kind you feel when you are grieving. It seems that each counseling session I do before a funeral/memorial service shares this same wisdom. On the day that their loved one died, the weather was perfect. People were outside in their yards. People were smiling. And the grief-striken bystander wonders when they might know that kind of happiness again. That's what I felt today. That's what I feel today mingled with a few tears.

I found a companion today in the words of these two theologians. I'm only halfway through but today I read about beauty and remembered my own truth. I remembered what God has taught me over the years of grief. Still, I sigh but it's so nice to know that I'm not alone.

Good Friday Prayer Edited

2009-04-08T14:49:00.000-04:00

My God, My God, why have you forsaken us?
My God, My God, why did it have to happen this way?
My God, My God, why does it have to hurt this much?
Tonight, O God, we wonder as we try to keep awake.
Tonight, we are deeply grieved, even to death.

Tonight, we grieve. Tonight, we mourn.
Tonight we remember all of those lives that ended too soon.
Tonight we recall those that died without glory and honor.
Tonight we shed light upon all the names heavy on our hearts.
Tonight we grant them rest eternal as we mourn Christ upon the cross.

Our God, Our God, we wish this hour would pass.
We wish that the questions will end. We wish that the crowds will stop shouting.
Our God, Our God, let the alabaster jar break, but don’t let our hope shatter.
Our God, Our God, let the betrayer insult, but don’t let our grief overwhelm.
Our God, Our God, let others scatter without understanding, but don’t leave us.

Tonight, Our God, stay awake with us.
Tonight, Our God, keep vigil with our troubled hearts.
Tonight, Our God, wait with us for day to break again.
Wait with us, O God, in the darkness of this night.
Amen.

Crisis in the Church

2009-04-08T14:06:00.003-04:00

Last Thursday, we had an incident in the church office. It's left us all a little shaken. It required a staff meeting yesterday to talk about how we create a safe environment. The conversation turned toward how we need to be more vigilant in locking the doors and keeping people out. Sigh.

A man moved into our neighborhood two weeks ago. He's HIV positive and must be suffering from other ailments that have not been named to us. He doesn't have any resources, including food and decent health care. He showed up in worship two weeks ago and then again on the following Monday. I was at a meeting all morning. I missed this first office visit, where my colleague toured him around our city to acquire a bus pass. It seems his social worker has abadoned him at a location that promised a bus route. Our church is off the bus route. He lives across the street. This doesn't add up. As far as I can tell, it's a phantom bus. Alas.

Last Thursday, he missed the bus. He came into our offices wanting a ride. He'd been given one before. He assumed we would provide one again. The secretary didn't understand his request. She asked if he wanted to wait for our Outreach Coordinator who was in a meeting. He decided to wait. Forty five minutes later, he was still waiting and visibily angry. The Outreach Coordinator finally appeared but not before this man escalated into rage. It was scary. Perhaps we should just lock the doors, and yet...

My heart breaks for this man. His anger comes from so many doors being slammed in his face over the years. And yet, that doesn't mean that we risk the individual safety of anyone in our building -- including the preschool kids downstairs. How do we create a safe church that is open to all? How do we address needs while making it clear what it is that we are able to do during times of crisis?

Right now, I need wisdom. It seems like every safe church resource that exists is to protect our children by screening staff and volunteers with bakcground checks. I'm not scared that someone is going to wander into the church with a gun -- though this has made the news in other churches. I'm more fearful that our staff will find themselves feeling compromised or worse. That's not justice either. And so, I sigh.

A Good Friday Prayer

2009-04-07T17:00:00.001-04:00

I hate this day -- but I've been asked to write the Pastoral Prayer so here's my very first attempt. It may end up in a crumbled heap in the recycling bin.

O God, what a waste.
An alabaster jar might break, but must you?
Must you also break open in this way on this day that we dare to call good?
“Let her alone,” you asked.
You didn’t want the woman with the jar to be troubled,
But we are. We’re troubled by this day where we remember your death.
She did all she could, but did we?
Could we have changed this outcome?
Could we have betrayed less?
Could we have understood better?
Could we have dared to dream another ending to this story?
Or must the story end this way – with this kind of death upon a cross?

Tonight, O God, we wonder as we try to keep awake.
We are deeply grieved, even to death.
O God, we wish this hour would pass so that hope might come again.
We hope that the questions will end.
We hope that the crowds will stop shouting.
We hope that the darkness will be broken by light.
My God, My God, why have you forsaken us?
Why did it have to happen this way?
Why does it have to hurt this much?
O God, what a waste.

Let the alabaster jar break, but don’t let our hope shatter.
Let the betrayer insult, but don’t let our grief overwhelm.
Let others scatter without understanding, but don’t leave us alone.
Tonight, O God, we are troubled by this death that seems like a waste.
Another young life lost.
Another life with possibility ends.
Another beginning ends.
O God, what a waste.
Tonight, we grieve.
Tonight, we mourn.
Tonight, we wait for day to break again.
Wait with us, O God, in the darkness of this night.
Amen.

A Party in My Honor

2009-03-19T23:09:00.003-04:00

An invitation just arrived by email that has been in the works for a little while. It started a month ago when I was cross country skiing just outside of my city at a farm. Soaked in sweat and clad in spandex, I called Musicman and announced that we were coming to his town for nachos. We swung by his place to pick him up. I know it's been 8 months of our dating -- but lemme just say that you know you like a boy when you don't care that he sees you sweaty and in spandex. Sadly, the nacho place was closed but we went elsewhere for food. It was horrible, but a plan was hatched there.

The conversation had begun about how to celebrate one's birthday. Musicman happens to love to cook. For the record, this is incredibly sexy. He wanted to host. He offered. I wasn't sure -- but it was clear that he wanted to do this for me. It would be part of his gift. I'm still insisting it's all of his gift. I want to cry just from reading the invitation where he calls me a special woman. It's just dinner and music with a small group of friends -- but I'm incredibly touched. It's wondrous to think that I'll be beginning my 30th birthday with love.

Sigh.

This I Believe

2009-03-13T16:49:00.000-04:00

I believe in the church. I guess that sounds trite, but I do. I believe in people getting together to do radical acts of love. That’s what church is and I believe in it with my whole heart. It happens that it’s also my vocation. I get to serve the church every day of my life. And yet, there are days when I wonder what the hell God was thinking when putting me here in the church. It seems that justice could come so much faster if we were not bogged down by the slow, parliamentary procedures of committees. However, in this particular moment, I can’t help but feel that we might actually be able to get over procedure and do what Jesus calls us to do: love one another. Or at least, this is my hope.

Lent for Me

2009-03-13T11:38:00.002-04:00

Last night, I cuddled into bed with my laptop. I play on my laptop tons. I'm not sure what the connection is but the flirtation works for me. It's a little unhealthy that I cuddle into bed with it, but so be it. I wasn't as tired as I thought. So I was chatting on Facebook with my old Association Minister. He is one of the things I miss most. I had great support when I was ordained from the conference-level staff. Now? I don't even want to talk about it. Anyhow, this particular man will always have a soft spot in my heart. He watched me grow up in the church and was always supportive. He accepted a couple frustrated phone calls on my way to ordination. He was always willing to be my pastor. This is what I miss.

Last night, he wanted to know what I was doing next. This has been his question for a while now. He thinks it's time for me to move. I admitted that I had been looking at our national listings but nothing caught my eye. So he named individual congregations. I went to their websites. I became curious and a little excited before I asserted that other thing that gets in the way of advancing in my career. "So, the real problem is that I feel in love." And he got it. He didn't push anymore. He just hoped it worked out, which is what I hope too.

Of course, I woke up thinking about it. Should I stay? Should I go? Do I really want to go and create a new community again? There are still challenges here at the church I'm serving now. There's still tons to do but I might be ready. I might be ready. Arg. I don't know. It's not just about the advancement on my career. It's about my whole self which makes me wish that I was better about my Lenten project. I'm supposed to be calling old friends and building upon friendships. Haven't done it. I hate the phone. Maybe today. I also wish that I had that push to work on those other things that gnaw at me: my writing and my art. Instead, I'm doing laundry. Sigh. So, I'm a tad whiny but that's what Lent is for me -- whining about what's missing in the sheer hope that I might get to discover some possible resurrection. Oh, I plan on that. Never you fear. I'm going for a romantic Canadian getaway right after Easter with Musicman. There will be resurrection hope. Oh yes there will. And please, don't you dare ask about an engagement. I may be dreaming about it, but we're not there yet.

Divine Irony

2009-02-24T09:19:00.001-05:00

Yesterday, I dropped my phone in the snow. I just saw on CNN that our unexpected snowfall yesterday is national news. It was quite a bit and not expected to be. So, we were all a bit surprised. I was tootling about in the morning on my way home from Musicman's. Somehow, this meant dropping my phone in a snow bank. The cover came off. The battery got wet. However, it still worked.

That is, it still worked for about 30 minutes. Then, it crapped out. Nothing. I was told to put the battery in rice and allow it to absorb the moisture. Yeah, that didn't work. I panicked.

It wasn't until later that I realized why I was panicking. I had already decided what my Lenten practice is. I'm going to use the phone more. I'm terrible about keeping in touch with friends that are far away. I want to be better. I use Lent as a time to resurrect relationships -- and this year, I intend to do that by picking up the phone and calling people I love. The fantastic irony is that my battery is stuck in rice and won't work for me. God truly does have a sense of humor, doesn't She?

The problem was solved when I finally went to the Verizon store. (I love their customer service. It will be hard to leave them ever, even if I want one of those fancy phones that I covet so.) They took my phone and stuck a new battery in. Presto. It works. God tells me to chill out. It's not pancakes exactly, but there was a bit of a dash as I flipped out. And with this, Lent will begin.

Where Is Your Joy?

2009-02-10T08:31:00.002-05:00

This is the question that my colleague asked me yesterday at the end of our time together yesterday. We chat every Monday. He was aware that I was not so excited about my ministry yesterday. I wasn't convinced that my sermon was a good thing. I was struggling with whether or not I told my story in a way that allowed others in. I wasn't convinced it had worked.

You know why, right? There was that one jerk who asked me after worship, "So, I don't understand why you can't get over your mother's death." He then told me about a friend he'd lost in his 20s and how the death haunts him. I smiled knowingly and told him we all have stories that haunt us. This is mine. Really, I wanted to hit him for saying the one thing that I never want to hear again. Then, I went to talk for 90 minutes with a group of parents about our teens interest and involvement in Confirmation. We're going to make some changes (though church people define change differently than clergy do). It was exhausting. I walked away feeling like hired help. I was deflated. I still felt like that when my colleague asked this question about joy.

I wanted to think that there was joy in my ministry -- but I couldn't think of anything that was really exciting me. So, I turned the question back on him. He talked about his family. That's nice. I'm not going to tell you about my relationship. It's not particularly joyous right now. Arg. I walked away annoyed that I couldn't name any joy right now in my life. So, I got back to work. I sent an email about the next steps in the Confirmation conversation, and that's where things changed.

I got a phone call and then an email. Then, there was another email. Each celebrated how good the conversation was yesterday and how hopeful these parents are about the work that the church is doing with their kids. And then, the emails started about my sermon. The best one didn't come until much later that night -- but all of the sudden I felt assured. I felt actual joy. It's the people that matter to me. I want to feel like our covenant is working. And then, the comforting assurance came. Yes, we're ok. There is joy. We're doing good things. All will be well.

Let Your Demons Speak

2009-02-02T13:53:00.004-05:00

I'm preaching on Sunday. I can't wrap my head around Simon's mother-in-law, but demons? I can sure talk about demons. Of course, this is a huge, huge risk. One that is bigger than this risk. I posted the first draft on Monday, but this is the sermon that I actually preached on Sunday.

He would not permit the demons to speak, because they knew him. They knew him. The demons knew Jesus – and still we’re not sure what they are. Part of me can’t resist seeing gremlins being silenced by a cool and collected Jesus. Gremlins, like in that movie from the 80’s. Little things that you think you can handle until they get wet and mutate into something terrifying. Gremlins was the scariest movie of my childhood so perhaps that’s why part of me defaults to seeing demons as gremlins.

But, I don’t really believe that. Not really. I don’t think that’s what a demon is at all. Demons aren’t creatures outside of us that take on a physical presence, like a gremlin or a monster. Demons are far scarier than that. They hide within us. We incorrectly name them – as our ancestors did – as illness or disease. But, that’s not right. Diseases have a cure. Not demons. Not in the Gospels. They are cast out. They are banished. They are sent away. And yet, they never seem to really disappear. They keep popping up. They keep talking – as they do for Jesus here. The demons try to speak to him, but he won’t permit it. Jesus silences them because the demons knew him. They know who he is. They know what he is. But, Jesus won’t have it. Jesus wants who he is and what he is to be a secret. But, the demons know.

Demons always know who we really are, don’t they? That’s what a demon is: our deepest wound, our most painful story, our greatest truth. Demons are the very things that we keep silent because if anyone found out who we really are without seeing what we can do and the wonderful words we can offer… well, (sigh) we just hope that doesn’t happen. Ever.

Still, demons have power. The Gospel’s audience would know that demons are higher in the cosmic order. They had power. Real power, but don’t tell me that’s not just as true now. Your demons have power over you, don’t they? They possess you. They know you well. Still, you try to silence them as Jesus does. I can’t think of anything worse. This isn’t something I’m just saying. It’s something I know. I’ve tried to keep my demons silent. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work. It’ll break your heart. It’ll break your soul. It’ll separate you from God. And I know, there’s nothing worse. So, we must let our demons speak.

I’ll start. I’ll break the silence by telling you the story that hurts me most. I’ll tell you this story not so you will console me or comfort me. That’s not why I’m telling you this story. I’m telling you this story so that you will let your demon speak. Give it a voice. Give it a name. Don’t let it separate you from God anymore. Today, in this pulpit, I’m telling you my demon so that you won’t silence yours anymore.

My demon is my grief because my grief knows me. It shows up like clockwork every year on Groundhog Day. Twenty-two years ago, I knew my winter would be longer – not because of a creature that saw his shadow but because my father kneeled down beside me and told me that my mother died. Today, I’m going to let this demon speak. I’m going to tell you the whole story about that Groundhog Day when I was in second grade. We made cookies in school. I don’t remember why, but we made cookies that day. They had nuts in them. I was distracted because I was going to see my mom in the hospital after school. It seemed like it had been forever since I had seen her, but I was 7 so it could have been a mere 3 days. She’d been in and of the hospital for a long time. I didn’t really understand what was happening. I don’t think anyone said the word cancer, but even if they did it wouldn’t have meant anything to me.

I was more concerned about cookies and ice cream. That’s what distracted me that day in school. Last time I had seen my mom, I fed her ice cream. Chocolate ice cream. Her lunch came during our visit and I thought that she should eat – not the vegetables on the tray, but the ice cream. This time, I was going to bring her cookies. Don’t be fooled. It wasn’t that sweet. I would have eaten the cookies myself but I don’t like nuts. So, my teacher helped me wrap up the cookies and some stale marshmallows leftover from my lunch in pink tissue paper with a nice bow. I held that package carefully in my lap the whole bus ride home. I refused to put it in my backpack because the cookies would break, so there I was holding this pretty pink tissue paper when the bus slowed down in front of my stop. My father was there. I could see him through the window. It was then that I knew something was wrong. He was supposed to meet my brother and I at home. He wasn’t supposed to be there. Something was really, really, really wrong. His face was splotchy and his eyes were red. He looked terrible, but I had never seen him cry before so I didn’t know what these signs meant. I didn’t know that he’d been crying and I certainly didn’t know why he would be so sad.

He hugged my brother and I without saying a word. He just took our hands and walked us down the hill toward home ignoring my brother’s questions – of which there were many. He was just quiet until we got to the bottom of the hill away from the other kids and parents. He kneeled down beside us so that I could see the tears running down his cheeks and there he told us that mom had died that afternoon. My brother wanted to know if we could see her tomorrow. I wanted to know if my dad liked cookies with nuts in them.

This was the Groundhog Day that started my long winter of grief. This is what hides within me. This is the story that keeps talking: my deepest wound, my most painful story and my greatest truth. It possesses me. It claims me in a way that I’m often not sure how to explain. It knows me, just as the demons knew who and what Jesus was. This demon knows who I am. It knows what I am. It know that I’m a motherless daughter and when Groundhog Day comes again, I permit myself to be that 7-year old girl and cry the tears that I didn’t know to cry that day.

The truth is that I can’t cast it out. Not entirely. It will never really disappear. It will always pop up again. It will always be talking to me – but I won’t silence it. Not any more. I’ll permit my demon to speak so that I can be healed. I don’t know if it’ll work. I can’t tell you if it will make it easier. I can only tell you how much it hurts to have silenced my demon for so long. So, instead, I’m going to let it speak. I’m going to try to put myself out there like the sick and the possessed that went to Jesus after he healed Simon’s mother-in-law. They didn’t know about her. They didn’t know what happened. They didn’t even know who Jesus was – but they went. No matter how scared they were; the sick and those possessed permitted their demons to speak to this stranger. And he healed them. He healed them all.

I’m not healed yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be fully healed just as I don’t know how the sick and possessed felt after Jesus touched them. I don’t think my grief will ever disappear. So, I will cast it out by admitting it – admitting that it hurts and that’s it still there 22 years later. This is how I’ll permit my demon to speak in the most publicly terrifying way that might allow me to heal – and this is all I hope for you. No matter what your deepest wound, your painful story, your greatest truth may be, I hope you won’t silence it anymore. I hope you’ll let someone hear it. I hope you’ll let God meet you there. I hope that you’ll permit the demons to speak.

With Authority

2009-02-01T14:18:00.003-05:00

I listened to a sermon today about Jesus -- the one with authority. Not the one with power, but the one with authority. Perhaps the distinction is important but it was lost on me today. I didn't get it. I may not have been paying attention, but I didn't get it. I was totally lost.

Instead, I was thinking about my mom. It was the preacher's fault actually. He started worship by commenting on Groundhog Day being the exact center between winter and spring. I hate Groundhog Day. Not because it's random or because it was a movie but because this is the day my mother died. Everyone else is looking forward. They are thinking about spring and less darkness while I just want to shrink into that darkness. The sermon wasn't about darkness though. It was about authority and the authority we stake in God even when our lives are complicated. We (as Christians) claim God to be our Savior so somehow the rest doesn't matter. That's what I heard from the pulpit. I wanted to throw my shoe at the preacher. It's not that this stuff -- this human stuff -- doesn't matter! It's the possibility that God gives us in the midst of that darkness. Of course, I wouldn't call that authority. Maybe that's the problem. I would probably just call it love -- but no matter what we call it, it wasn't the sermon I needed to hear today. It wasn't the hope I needed to find. So, I'm taking a personal day tomorrow and I'm going to try to find it somewhere in my grief.

The Week

2009-01-25T16:13:00.003-05:00

It hit today. It's a week before the anniversary and I thought it might not happen. Maybe I brought it on myself, but it doesn't matter. It came anyway -- that sadness that I feel this time of year. I can't explain it. I'm never sure how to share it. I don't know what to do with it but acknowledge that it's here. It's here and I miss my mom. That's what this week holds for me.

How did it happen? I picked up a recommended book by APBS. She said it had some great, honest insight on loss and grief. I'm always interested in how people write about this topic because it's rarely either of these things. I'm almost done with the book and it hadn't hit yet. I hadn't caught this insight quite yet. That is, until I tried to read this afternoon. Until the author started to talk about the word widower. I remember learning this word. I remember how it stung and how the other kids didn't know what this word was -- but it's what my dad was. And then, the author started to talk about how nice everyone was to him. I put the book down because I remember that. I hated it. I wanted them to leave me alone and instead my classmates showered me with presents like it was my birthday. It wasn't. My mother had died.

I didn't think about reading this book right now -- and how that might be hard. I was just curious. I mean, I'm dating a musician. Love should be a freakin' mix tape. I didn't think about the mix that I made years ago about my mother. Love actually has been a mix tape for me. I need a conversation partner and a few friends. Thank God that order will be filled in only 30 minutes.

30

2009-01-19T18:29:00.003-05:00

More often than not, I feel like some version of a thirteen year old impersonating a soon-to-be 30 year old woman. That's right. I will turn 30 this year. It won't happen for a few months and I can't say that I'm that anxious about it. In fact, I'm not anxious.

That is, I wasn't anxious. A conversation started recently among the Young Clergy Women Project about turning 30. I commented in the online forum with confidence. I said that I accepted the challenge and was ready to live into this new chapter in my life.

Somewhere over the arc of my afternoon, that confidence started to erode when I realized that 30 meant I was that much closer to 33. Tradition has it that Jesus died at 33. That's not what scares me. I'm scared that 33 will be the end of my days. You may have heard me say this before. And before you rush to concern, I know it's irrational. It's totally irrational. It's ridiculous. That doesn't mean that it doesn't scare me. My mom died at 33. She suffered a fate that no one should suffer then or now. She fell victim to cancer and her life was taken by disease. She was too young. And I'm just going to say it, I'm too young. There is still too much that I want to do. That's the challenge. I'm ready to be 30 and do all of those things that I've dreamed about -- like publishing a book or singing karaoke (that would be Musicman's idea) or writing a sermon I'm still proud of on Monday or getting married or even having children (my step-mother got all upset today when I said I might not be interested in having children. I think I may have dashed her hopes of grandchildren. Oops.) I want all of these things and yet my silly fear is that I won't get to because ... it's all over when I turn 33. Again, I know it's ridiculous. Fears are like that though.

Clarity of Call

2009-01-19T11:10:00.004-05:00

The NAACP turns 100 this year. Our local chapter hosts a celebration on the Sunday night of MLK weekend every year. Last night, Sweet Honey in the Rock graced us with songs of hope. I've seen them perform in New York before. Twice, I think. I sat in majestic Carnegie Hall before I was risen to my feet in a call to sing for justice. Last night was no different. I was moved to sing. I was empowered by their words -- the songs they sang and the stories they told. And yet, it's not just that. It's how they create community in a concert hall. Suddenly, you feel wrapped up in something. You feel like you belong and that you have a purpose.

That's when I started thinking. They're just singers. They get on stage and sing. That's what they do. They sing. They just sing.

Of course, it's more than that. They give us a song to sing, like the Freedom Singers did during the civil rights movements in the 1960s. Sweet Honey continues that tradition. These are songs for justice. These are the songs that give us meaning and give us hope. They are songs for now because justice hasn't yet rolled down like water.

This is what makes me think about my call -- because most of the time I don't feel like I'm doing anything that will transform our world into one of justice and peace. Instead, it feels like most of the work that I do is unrelated to the world that I hope to see. Seated beside me at the concert was a friend who's a teacher. She teaches ESL. Last night, she told me that teaching is social justice. This stuck. This is rattling around in my head as I realize that I'm called to teach. This is what I enjoy most about my work -- even though I never, ever, ever thought that this is what mattered most to me.

This is the clarity that came in that concert last night. It made sense. I not only had a song. I understood more about who I'm supposed to be in the world. I'm supposed to teach -- as I did last Sunday night. I sat with a group of parents and talked about how to share your faith with their kids. It was the last of three conversations where we got to push each other in thinking about our story and why faith matters. I push. That's one of the things that I do in my ministry. I ask hard questions about faith -- because these questions were asked of me. I learned more about myself and my God through these questions. That's what I want for all of God's people. That's why I do what I do. I teach. I remind them that they already have the answers. I give a vocabulary for things that they may never have expressed. And that's the thing that really strikes me. I realized that I have spent lots of time thinking about my understanding of faith and how it relates to who I am. That's why I went to seminary. Now, I'm figuring out how to share that. I'm giving others a song that I was taught to sing -- but in every beat, I'm working to make sure that they lyrics are their own. This is how I work for social justice. This is how I will work for peace.

Every day, this is how I celebrate and remember the legacy of Martin Luther King Jr.

The Chance to Be Blessed

2009-01-14T09:03:00.003-05:00

"The distresses of choice are our chance to be blessed."
W.H. Auden

This quote is hanging on fridge on a 8.5 x 11 inch sheet of paper. It caught my eye this morning when I was getting my coffee. It made me stop and read it again and again -- and then smile. This particular paper was tucked safely in the folder of materials that the congregation I now serve offered when I was interviewing. It was a subtle message from the man that is now my colleague. It struck me then and it continues to echo in my heart because I feel so blessed.

This was what I explored in spiritual direction yesterday. I talked about this earlier post and my frustrations around it. However, I wasn't focused on my frustrations. I was talking about my call. My call to be myself -- not just the call that I answered to this particular congregation. This is my struggle. I want everything to be integrated but I'm still in that new pastor phase (which lasts longer for some). I still put the role on when I could just be me. I think about what a minister would do rather than being myself. Not all of the time but enough that I haven't felt genuine. That's all I want.

So, I told my spiritual director about my call and how I understand it now. It helps that I just filled out an application yesterday that made me realize that this is where I'm heading. I'm writing a lot about what my call is and how it's shaping. I'm realizing that I am blessed. I love the ministry I'm doing. I feel badly because when I'm not doing my ministry I don't want to go to church. That's what that earlier post is about. I am comfortable with friends and with Musicman so that I don't feel like leaving that comfort for the role. And yet, I have so much to celebrate in my ministry. My spiritual director let me celebrate those things. She wanted more details and heaped praise on me. It was just lovely.

Today, as I see this quote on my fridge, I realize that each choice I make has led me to blessing. Lots of blessing. I thank God for all of those blessings today.

Respect My Authority

2009-01-13T12:46:00.003-05:00

I don't do accents. Get over it.

I'm staring at a list of goals that I created after the dreaded review. For those that don't remember, it was awful. I got triangulated. My clergy group told me that I should duck and cover. I probably didn't blog about that because I was so freaked out that I might run for the hills and leave ministry forever. I'm dramatic. It's not going to happen. I'm here staring at these goals, or as the document is titled "what some might call goals" and wondering what it is that I want in my ministry.

When the clergy group told me to duck and cover, they were listening carefully to the fact that I wasn't ready to leave this congregation. I wasn't ready to go. I knew I'm here and need to be here even if I peek at the possiblities out there in minsitry right now. This group of women encouraged me to find something that would invigorate my minsitry and give me life. They thought I should take a class outside of my ministry. I thought about taking an art class, but didn't really like the possibilities at the local art school. Instead, I'm thinking about writing a book.

Truth be told, I've wanted to do this for a long time. I thought it would be a work of fiction -- but that was before the Young Clergy Women Project came up with a book deal. I have an idea so I started to write a proposal. I didn't get far at all. One of the first questions that they ask is about where you've been pusblished before. The only place I've been published is Fidelia's Sisters. And so, I'm not respecting my own authority. I closed the document and sighed wondering if I have enough experience and wisdom to write a book at all.

I am my own worst critic.

Wholeness

2009-01-12T16:11:00.002-05:00

I've been thinking about my blog and where it's going. It's grown a wee bit stale in recent months. It couldn't even be charged with my competitive edge in the Reading Challenge which I finished meekly. I'm still reading -- but if you want to know what I'm reading, you'll have to find out on Goodreads. I've been wondering where I want this to go and if I even want to cotinue with my blogging. It seems that it's time for another direction -- though I don't know what that is.

Today, I'm thinking about my call to ministry. I'm thinking about why it matters to me and where it connects with all of the areas in my life. Actually, this question arose a little while ago. I got to thinking about what the church is supposed to be. We used to talk about this in seminary. It may be that I'm mentoring a seminary student now. He has ideas that seem so idealistic that I have been known to laugh at his grand thoughts. I used to have some of those same thoughts -- and then I became a professional. I was ordained. I was set apart.

Once, this made me feel special. It made me feel like I had joined some really cool club where there was lots of job satisfaction. Now, I'm not so sure. I get those comments about how church people are jealous that I get to live my faith all of the time. I never understand those comments (and never respond well to them) because I feel like my life is separated from my ministry. I don't feel like I'm living intentionally into my spirituality. I'm trying to get others to do that but I don't really feel like I'm doing that work myself. It all feels a little ingenuine.

In my life, which doesn't come into work, I'm dating a boy. Alex seems to think that we'll be engaged by Easter. I think she's crazy. Then, there's my family where my brother isn't speaking to me and I don't seem to have enough time to see all of the people that matter to me. Four weeks of vacation doesn't mean I'm eager to spend that time at home. I have wonderful friends that I've found nearby. We go on adventures outdoors, eat excellent food and talk about stuff that matters to us. I'm trying to cook more and use more local vegetables. I'm trying to read. I'm trying to be present in the ways that I can.

However, none of this is related to my ministry. That is when I feel like I'm clocking in to the work that God called me to do. More often than not, I sit at a desk and plug away at something related to educating the congregation or formatting something that really isn't part of my professional call. I'm not tired. I'm not bored. I know that I'm in the right place. I know I'm doing good work. I know that there are great things happening in my work.

I just want to be whole. I don't want to feel separated. I want to feel like it all fits together even with the boundaries that I erect for my own safety and those that I serve. I just want to be whole. I don't want to feel like I should be doing anything. You're wondering what that should is, aren't you? I was told that I should share with Pastor Parish Relations about Musicman. The other pastor wants me to save my relationship with them. He thinks it's a good idea. Actually, he thinks that we should talk about the breakdown in communication. I told him that wouldn't work. We're dealing with personality conflict. What I need to do is trust them with something. That's what will work for me. The problem is that I'm not ready to trust them. I'm not ready to trust them about this part of my life. I want to keep it as my own. And so, I feel terribly separated when I just want to feel whole.

New Year

2009-01-04T00:23:00.003-05:00

On New Year's Eve, I had a few too many martinis. I was that girlfriend meeting the parents. Luckily, they had already fallen in love with me. His mother wants us married. Tomorrow. She wasn't so discrete about this fact -- which I found kinda cute. A little scary as well but it was a great few days and so here we are all happy before I started dancing my little heart out.

Happy 2009 to one and all!

Saying "I love you"

2008-12-29T21:27:00.002-05:00

These words have been on the tip of my tongue recently. Perhaps it's because I'm thinking about the birth of Love. Only a few days ago, we welcomed this mystery into the world. It's not that we didn't know Love before this birth -- but for those of us who place our faith in Jesus -- love starts here (or somewhere near here). That may be way these words are on the tip of my tongue. Or it could be that the holidays welcome thoughts of those that we love and how we choose family. It could be that I'm thinking about the family that I'm not with this holiday season. Or it could be that I'm thinking about the family that I've chosen.

Tonight, I went to the airport to pick up one of my favorite people. He was returning from the holidays visiting his boyfriend's parents. I was excited to hear their stories (rather than just seeing the pictures on Facebook). We went to dinner and caught up and it just felt so good. I've missed him. I've really missed him and he only lives around the corner from me. I said good night by wrapping my arms around him and telling him that I love him. I've said it to him several 100 times over the two years that we've known each other -- but tonight I actually heard these words come out of the mouth. They felt thick. Each word sounded heavy like it rattled in my mouth. Not in an uncertain way but in a wonderful way. I meant it. There were no truer words in that moment. I love him. And even though the words surprised me tonight, he responded as he always does by echoing my words: "I love you too." And I knew. I was loved.

I got in my car and drove away and knew that I was loved. It was simple as that. And yet, these words hang on my lips. They're rattling there waiting to come out every time I hang up the phone with Musicman. We haven't said these words yet. Not out loud. Not to each other. They are not words that we always say. They are not words sent between two friends. They are words that articulate something other than platonic love or sisterly love or something reserved for the body of Christ. This is something else. And yet, these are the words that are there hanging on my lips as I prepare to make my way to visit him in his hometown tomorrow. I'll meet his parents. I'll learn more about him. He'll see more of me. And though all of these things are significant, I wonder if I will say these words. I wonder if these will be the words that begin my New Year.

Text Messages on Christmas

2008-12-24T11:02:00.003-05:00

I was home sick yesterday. I am clogged with snot and dripping with fluids that don't appear until you hit the cheer of this season's illness. Truth be told, it's my fault. I pushed myself too hard. I was too interested in having fun and so I brought this upon myself. Alas, woe is me. This doesn't mean that I won't complain about it.

I posted my Facebook status to reflect this yesterday morning. And within 2 minutes, Musicman had sent me a text message expressing his dismay that I was sick and wanting to know what he could do. He was supposed to be on his way to see family, but he was eager to do anything he could for me. I resisted. When another three friends asked the same question, I finally admitted that I wanted orange juice. He sent me another text message at about that time asking if I was feeling better. Sadly, I wasn't.

A similar message awoke me this morning. It's simple. It may seem insignificant or a tad ridiculous that it comes through a text message rather than a phone call (trust me, I've had that frustration). However, as I greet the celebration of Christmas today, I find myself celebrating those connections. Those wonderfully simple connections of friends that become so dear that you wonder how you ever managed without them. They are the same friends that make you look differently at the world. They challenge you to look differently at yourself. And somehow, I can't resist to sing with the angels, "ALLELUIA!"

Reading Challenge XXV

2008-12-17T22:59:00.003-05:00

I just finished this book and wrote this review about it over on Good Reads:

Winner is on a different spiritual path than I am. We share a faith in Jesus Christ but how I get there is not the same as how she gets there. I knew this from reading Girl Meets God, which I read in seminary. I enjoy her candor in both books. She admits honestly that spirituality isn't automatic but takes work. In her words, I was reminded (which I needed to be) about how I claim my own spiritual practice. I'm not a Jewish convert. I'm not a Christian like Winner, but I do appreciate listening in on how other people attempt to explore their faith. It's not earth shattering, but it was what I needed.

Now, I'm in search of a new book. Nothing on my book shelf is tempting. I hate that.

Good News

2008-12-16T22:15:00.003-05:00

That's what we'll be celebrating in just a few days. The bulletins are already done for the Christmas Eve service. They're not printed, but they're done. It seems to be coming fast. Too fast, I might say except that Advent has provided the pause that I needed. I have remembered how to pray. I've found new vocabulary for God. I've slowed down.

And yet, the possibility of Christmas makes my heart race. It makes me panic, not because of the stress of being a pastor at Christmas but because it means that I'll be alone. It means that I have to figure out how I will celebrate this fabulous event after the candles are blown out and the church is locked. I've been invited to celebrate with families -- but there is nothing more depressing for me. The truth is: I want to be with my family. I miss Christmas Eve with my family and I don't know if I'll ever get that back or if it will remain a fond memory. For now, I can't go home so every year, I get to this point in the Advent season and begin to stress about how to celebrate the most depressing time of year for a single woman.

This isn't about depression though. This is good news because tonight I had dinner with a friend whose children and grandchildren will be far away on Christmas. They invited her along, of course, but she's like me. We're single women who don't really want to be the invited guest who had no where else to go. Again, that's depressing and doesn't really seem to embrace how I experience the Christ child. The incarnation of Christ is about worshipping and celebrating with those that you call family -- those that you choose to be part of your life. And so, tonight we hatched a plan to have dinner together on Christmas. Maybe we'll cook. Maybe we'll sip wine and munch. Either way, we'll be together and this is good news.

Image: Christmas Gifts: Daylight, and Christmas Gifts: Dawn by Eric Gill (1882-1940)

The Angry Email

2008-12-15T21:52:00.005-05:00

I just got an angry email from a church member whose wedding I performed this summer. She's been an active member since she and her fiance joined last winter. Their lesbians. They both grew up in a very conservative Christian traditions that taught them about the saving blood and their damnation. Enter United Church of Christ. Turn left and meet new pastor who is young and somewhat hip. This young, angry church member has always wanted me to be her friend. She's never really caught on to the fact that I never offer something about myself. I've never felt comfortable with her to do so.

And then, a month ago or so ago, I was at a show that Musicman was playing. Angry church member's best friend was there. She's also a musician. She played at the wedding. She's like nails on a chalkboard to me. Somehow, it came out that I'm dating Musicman. I flipped. I wasn't ready for anyone to know -- especially not church people. I asked her not to say anything to angry church member. Well, it shouldn't be a surprise that she did. (This, by the way, doesn't help that I think she's nails on a chalkboard.)

Now, the lesbian is angry. She wants to know why she can't just avoid church politics and have a beer with me. That would be how Theology on Tap slapped me in the face. I don't want to tell her. I'm not ready to tell her. It's my story to tell -- and I really don't want her to know. She starts this email by saying that I don't need to write back because there isn't much to talk about anyway. I think there is -- but I'm angry. I think there's lots to talk about but really I want to tell her that she gets to make choices about what she shares with me, and I want the same right. Of course, I can't say that. She won't understand. She won't understand that she's not my friend. She won't understand that I never wanted her to be. I'm her pastor -- and that's all I want. I want to rant about this because it makes me so furious, but I also want wisdom. What do you do when the people you serve find out about your personal life and then are angry about it? How can you be pastoral to them when you're furious yourself? Help. Please.

Reading Challenge XXIV

2008-12-13T21:18:00.003-05:00

We had an ice storm. We lost power. It was really cold in my electrically heated apartment -- so before going to find warmth a friend's home, I read Holidays on Ice. It was an earlier copy without the new additions -- though it was a little dark for this girl that loves the sappy Christmas movies. I like a little dark humor but the last story made me sick.

I also don't know how to use roman numerals. I thought I was close to 30. Wrong. Only 24. Sigh.

The Sound of Your Greeting

2008-12-09T14:18:00.003-05:00

Last night, I had dinner with Musicman. It was the first time (in what seems like a long, long time) where it was just the two of us -- so we talked about the month's plans (there are lots of parties and I get to meet his parents over New Years). And then, we talked about big things that matter. We talked about our concerns for the world in the news we heard that day.

On Wednesday, he's reconnecting with some folks with whom he used to make music. They were a Christian rock band. Um. Anyway, this lead to a conversation about how you put your heart into something and when it connects with others. This band was the last time that he felt that heart connection in his music. They broke up 15 years ago. His emotions are all over the place at the possibility of reconnecting with these old friends who shared such a romance with him. He's overwhelmed by this possibility of being that raw again. I remarked that that's how I feel about a good sermon when I'm so honest that it hurts.

And lo and behold, I seem to be writing that sermon this week. I'm writing about the visitation between Mary and Elizabeth and trying to make sense of it in light of this study that was released this week about happiness. What does this say about church and the things that we share together? Doesn't this mean that all of our emotions are welcome? Isn't that the risk that Mary takes in talking about her womb (which was reserved for the private circle) in the public realm? Shouldn't we be that bold? Won't that pull us closer together?

And most importantly, why is this so hard to write?

Gulp!

2008-12-08T17:28:00.001-05:00

The Budget Meeting is happening across the hall. I'm the only other person in the building. And the door just slammed shut. Doors tend to slam around here. It's something in the hinge.

I know this is going to be a tough year (as with every other church across our country), but it doesn't make me feel at all confident about my job security to hear that door slam. What was it Isaiah said on Sunday? Comfort! Comfort my people!

Sigh.

Usefulness

2008-12-08T11:29:00.003-05:00

My Advent Meditations from Iona want me to think about how useful we are together -- as God's people. Is it heretical to laugh at your meditations when they challenge you like this?

Among the things that make me feel so far from useful: meetings, meetings, meetings, crappy staff dynamics, each and every appeal I recieve in the mail from non-profits, our church budget, the mental illnes of various church members that goes undiagnosed, the mental illness in my own family that no one wants to talk about, how I'm scared of this one church member after crappy staff dynamic exploded in my face, finding more faults in others than myself (this has become apparent in my mentoring relationship) and feeling like being a pastor requires you to be fat (or at least, that's how I explain my recent weight gain to myself).

And then, there's that rare moment where heaven is torn open. A family volunteered at the Soup Kitchen on Saturday night for the first time. They have two kids, 11 and 8. The 8-year old served milk. She operated the station flawlessly while asking her parents why there were so many people in the Soup Kitchen. She wanted them to be warm and loved. She wanted to invite all of them over for Christmas Dinner. The next morning, I asked her how she was feeling. She giggled. Not five minutes later, her father asked if she could come in and talk to me this week. She wants to "do more" and I said, "Of course, we can even go out for ice cream." (That's where the pastor gets fat, by the way.) Righ there, I felt useful. I felt God break through my frustrations. Right there, I got a little taste of the incarnation.

Reading Challenge XXIII

2008-12-07T15:14:00.006-05:00

I might hit 30 books by the end of the year. Maybe. So much for 100.

It doesn't help that I keep starting books and putting them back down. Oh well.

Yesterday, I finished I Was Told There'd Be Cake, which is an awful lot like a straight female version of David Sedaris. Not quite as roll on the floor funny, but almost. She happens to have grown up in the same area as I did. I found that hysterical.

Living Water

2008-12-05T15:46:00.003-05:00

As a proudly ordained member of the United Church of Christ, I've heard the jokes about my denomination. I've heard that we are "Unitarians Considering Christ," which I find offensive both on behalf of the UCC and the UUA. I've heard other cheeky comments along the way at which I usually sneer in disgust. And yet, I'm aware that my understanding of Jesus is different than my fellow Christians. I'm very, very aware of this.

At times, I find this very difficult. There's a organization in our city that serves the disempowered and oppressed of our city with meals, job training, after school programs and other such good things. Of course, I want to know the whole story about what it means when the Volunteer Coordinator uses the word Christian. I admit it. I judged. I assumed that we have a huge difference of opinion on who Jesus is. Unfortunately, I was right. I read the Statement of Faith (which in itself should have been a red flag) and became instantly repulsed. This inspired the classic red-blue Christian question: how do we be in service of Jesus Christ together if we don't believe the same things about what it means to serve our Lord and Savior? Sure. I've done this. I did it in Appalachia and Nicaragua. I've done it in soup kitchens and even in the church that I serve now. However, it doesn't feel good. Something doesn't feel right because I can't talk about my faith without it being wrong.

This came soaring back to me when I went to the Advent Conspiracy page to buy some water for Christmas. I went to site that this organization celebrates and mistakenly read their Statement of Faith. And now, I have no interest in buying water through their best efforts. I know it will do good things. I know their hearts are in the right place, but I can't escape the fact the risk that someone might use Jesus with malice. I've seen it happen before. I've heard that the poor will actually always be with us. It always makes me furious. It's not what I understand about the living water that Jesus offers each of us. And so now, I feel awful. Sigh.

To top it all off, I can't find a dreidel on any of my favorite fair trade sites (or any other) for my Jewish goddaughter. This makes me suspicious of the Christian presence in the fair trade movement. And see, I feel awful for that too. Ugh!

100 Things

2008-12-01T17:09:00.003-05:00

Mags posted this and I thought it was fun for someone that doesn't want to find a game for the youth to play when they come for her Christmas Party on Sunday. (Yes, I welcome ideas.) Instead, here's some fun fact about me. Those things I have done are highlighted in bold.

1. Started my own blog
2. Slept under the stars
3. Played in a band
4. Visited Hawaii(for a good friend's wedding, which was a great excuse)
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than I can afford to charity
7. Been to Disneyland/world
8. Climbed a mountain
9. Held a praying mantis (ew. why?)
10. Sung a solo (assuming this counts in a sermon, where I didn't sing the whole song but just the refrain)
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris
13. Watched lightning at sea
14. Taught myself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty (I'm a New Yorker.)
18. Grown my own vegetables
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight
22. Hitchhiked
23. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill
24. Built a snow fort
25. Held a lamb
26. Gone skinny dipping
27. Run a Marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run (very funny)
32. Been on a cruise
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person (from both sides)
34. Visited the birthplace of my ancestors
35. Seen an Amish community
36. Taught myself a new language (in Italy, where I took classes during the day and flirted the Italian men at night in only Italian and then dated the most beautiful man named Massimiliano who didn't speak any English. Hot.)
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
40. Seen Michelangelo’s David
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had my portrait painted (I went to art school.)
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Seen the Sistine Chapel in person
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in theater
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Visited Russia
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies
62. Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets or plasma
65. Gone sky diving
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp
67. Bounced a check
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten Caviar
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square (And then, ran away. Again, I'm a New Yorker.)
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job
76. Seen the Changing of the Guards in London
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book (one day!)
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car
83. Walked in Jerusalem (one day!)
84. Had my picture in the newspaper
85. Read the entire Bible (Uh. No... hee hee.)
86. Visited the White House
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone’s life
90. Sat on a jury (I always get let go for some reason, perhaps because I'm really good at crying about not believing the death penalty.)
91. Met someone famous
92. Joined a book club
93. Lost a loved one
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee
100. Ridden an elephant

Of course, I want to know these things about you so go ahead...

All That I Have Heard

2008-12-01T14:27:00.005-05:00

Friends, that is what my Advent reading this morning called me to think about. I'm supposed to think about my friends -- but it didn't just say to think about my friends. My devotional guide encouraged me to think about my friends through the Scripture:

I have called you friends,
because I have shared with you
all that I have heard from God.
John 15:15

It's a nice translation, isn't it? All that I have heard from God. Sigh. Have I heard anything? Aren't I supposed to be waiting for that to happen? Or is it really true that I have on the inner circle and have an instant connection? If so, I think the connnection sucks. Then again, there is all of you -- my friends. Today, I'm thinking about my friends. I'm thinking about each of you and how I share what I have heard from God -- if I'm so brave to share these thoughts. It's hard to talk about God, for some reason. Even though it's my vocational call, I shy away from talking about God with my friends. It creeps in and I can't avoid it sometimes, but it's not where I go in conversation naturally. Like every church member I serve, I'm afraid that someone will be offended. And really, we wouldn't want that. No.

And yet, I blog. I'm not a blogger that highlights every detail of my life because, well frankly, that's a bit too much. However, I can tell you what I'm hoping to hear from God. I'm waiting for God to allow me to trust myself in small ways. I want to trust that I have enough inner strength to believe that I've got what it takes, like when a boy asks me to meet his family and I try to talk him out of it. Really? What the hell are you doing? This is why I need friends to interrupt the inner voice. I need friends to remind me of what they hear from God and support me in the wonderful bonds of relationship. That's what I need.

How To Play

2008-11-25T22:58:00.009-05:00

Many of you asked about how I ended up creating my very own version of Advent Candyland. Truthfully, I don't know if there is another version out there. But, this is the one that I imagined. If you love it and choose to use it, please leave a comment and let me know.

The Symbols.
I'm using this as a teaching tool to explain the symbols of the season of Advent so that our kids can look for signs of God coming into their world. I'll start this conversation by talking about road signs which remind drivers to pay attention to certain things while they drive. The symbols of the Advent season are the same idea. They alert us to stay awake to God being revealed to us. Using the insight from Symbols of Faith, I am using symbols that include a manger, a star, an angel and a candle. I will use these symbols in my Children's Sermons during the season. I already wrote one for the candle reflecting this week's Gospel Lesson.

The Game Board.
Using brightly colored paper, I used the road signs symbols and the Advent symbols to create a laminated game board connected by yarn (which simply makes it easy to set up and easy to store). I am grateful for the magic of the xerox machine that made this an easy process. As you can see, it's a flexible game board.

I plan on purchasing gingerbread cookies to use as game pieces (you know, like the game). If I was really good, I would bake cookies but that might poison the children. We will share some sweets though. Rest assured.

The various symbols are interspersed with colorful question marks (the same colors as the brightly colored paper). These are for the trivia aspect of the game, which you can read about below. The bulk of these questions came from the Joy Game in Burlap and Butterflies, which is sadly out of print. I do however recommend it.

How To Play.
As with the game of our childhood, the children will draw cards with one or two colored squares. If there is one blue square, they move on the game board to the first blue square. If there are two blue squares on the card, they move to the first blue square and then continue to the next blue square. It is the end of their turn and the next team plays. (This is planned for a full room of kids, so we will play in teams.)

If the child lands on a question mark, they get a trivia question. If the team answers correctly, they stay where they are (because they have to wait) but if they get the question wrong, the move backward to the color in the question mark. So, if they land on a purple question mark and answer incorrectly, they would move backwards to the first purple square behind the purple question mark. In addition, there are four colorful Advent symbols. At these points, we will stop together and read the prophetic readings from the Revised Common Lectionary. Game play continues after we hear these prophetic words.

The game is over when the first team reaches the end of the board. Everyone will celebrate. It will be great fun.

Hope is Coming.

2008-11-22T23:18:00.003-05:00

I make my Christmas cards. Let me clarify. I draw a picture that I xerox multiple copies of so that I can paste them to pre-made cards. I've learned that the pre-made cards are important, because as much as I want to recycle, I don't want to be making that many envelopes. I have better things to do with my time. Really. I do. Anyhow, I make these cards.

Last year, it was an image of three wise women processing with gifts. I happen to love the image. As one of my good friends (and seminary buds) said, it says everything that needs to be said about my faith. This year, there is a lone shepherd. I took the image from a Tibetan shepherd photographed by another source. He had a great smile. I thought he was sweet. Now, the drawing is almost done and I'm relieved that I chose the wording "Hope is Coming" rather than "Yes We Can" because this shepherd looks an awful lot like a certain President Elect. This was not intentional and I don't want to be misunderstood.

So now, I'm worried that I'm going to have to scrap this and draw another image. Sigh. I like it though. I don't want to draw another one. Grr. Maybe I can just add of a pregnant woman in the background on a donkey so it doesn't look like I'm worshipping the Empire. I mean, I'm really happy he's going to be president. I'm counting down the days, but he's not the Savior. Shoot. What a silly thing to stress about...

Advent Candyland

2008-11-20T18:24:00.004-05:00

When I asked our kids what they wanted to do in our large room Sunday School event this year, one of the things they wanted to do was play Candyland. No, I'm not kidding. They want to play a board game that has nothing to do with Christianity.

Or at least, that's what they thought. I'm thinking about how I could make this a gmae about Christmas -- or more specifically -- Advent. Istead of colors, I'm thinking about using symbols (or warning signs including road signs, a candle, an angel, a manger and a star). I'm not quite sure how to make this interactive so it's not simply moving an object around a board. I'm thinking about throwing some trivia on a couple of the spots so that they learn something about the Christmas story. I'm not sure how to create the sense of waiting and journey that (for me) is so important during the season. So, now, I ask of your wisdom for my crazy idea. What would you add?

A Bad Sign

2008-11-18T12:03:00.003-05:00

Tonight, I'm meeting with the committee that is supposed to be my support in the life of the church. They are supposed to be the group of people that is able to process with me what is happening in our ministry together in this community. However, after their direction of my recent review and the fallout afterward, I feel less than safe with them. I got triangulated and I let it happen. I got stuck between trying to have a better relationship with my colleague and trying to respond to the committee's desire to fix it, rather than just listen. I really needed them to listen. I don't want an answer. I want to be heard, perhaps not even understood but just heard.

However, that's not what happened. I was yelled at by a church member yesterday because I made a mistake. I've allowed the phrase "early in my ministry" to be used against me. I let it happen again yesterday. I got swallowed by this.

And so, this morning I woke up and opened the employment listings. I scanned the document and found nothing that really jumped out at me. I'm having that gnawing question about whether or not I should be in parish ministry at all. (Yes, I said it. It scares me, but I said it.) I thought I had calmed myself down enough to finally come into the office and halfway to work, I started crying. I rushed into the building to hide in the bathroom crying. This is a bad sign. It's not only that I know my cycle is about to begin and I'm all hopped up on hormones. It's just not a good sign when you don't want to go to work. And so, I feel awful.

Totally awful -- especially when I get an email from my collague telling me that he decided to do something on Sunday's worship after all. It didn't matter that he asked me and I said I didn't think it was time. He talked to a church member and she said she would do the crafty work to make this Children's Sermon happen. So, he called me grumpy and he's right. I'm very grumpy today.

Winter Blahs

2008-11-17T17:08:00.003-05:00

Could it be that that is what hit me this morning? Or is it the lingering affects of this church committee that is mad at me because they don't think I'm honest (which is really because I don't feel safe with them)? Or is it that I'm just having a case of the Mondays and have nothing to do with snow coming later this week? No matter really. I'm feeling it -- and I think I just need to call it a day and admit that I'm not going to get anything done at church if I attempt to stay.

Yesterday, my parents met Musicman. It was wonderful. They got along. Conversation was great. Musicman is ever perfect. It's freaking me out a little, but it's all very good. He wanted to know the review. I told him my father cried after he left(which is true). And yet, that's kinda how I feel. I need a good cry for no apparent reason.

Hair

2008-11-14T11:38:00.003-05:00

Several years ago while I was a missionary-of-sorts in Kentucky, I met a little girl. She had bright red hair. It was beautiful. She had made the trip with several other young kids from her home church to do mission work. She was all of 8 and she couldn't stop by with her hair. Of course, I thought she was adorable and we got to talking about her hair. She had just donated 13 inches of her long, beautiful, red hair to Locks of Love. This is why she was constantly playing with her hair. This is why her hair was so short. I was inspired.

On that day, I started to grow my hair out. It was already long but it got longer... and longer... and longer. And then, one day, I asked my dear friend Rev. Ez to go with me so that I could chop off my own 13 inches of hair to be donated to Locks of Love. I needed someone to hold my hand because hair is important to me. My mom lost all of her hair to the dreaded cancer. I remember her losing it. I remember how her coarse head felt beneath my hand when it grew in. In a very bizarre twist, this gesture of chopping of my hair was relating to that loss of my mother's.

Ever since, I have had short hair. It's been nearly four years now that I have had short hair. I've justified that it makes me look older. I don't look quite so young with short hair. You know, like how old women suddenly have curly, short hair when they go fully grey (or as I'm hoping mine will go, white). Now, my hair is getting longer and for the first time in a long time, I'm thinking about growing it out again. I can't help but think that this has something to do with my own comfort in myself -- in a good way. And ya know, that's just a really fun realization. I wonder if I'll actually grow it out.

Shameless Promotion for a Friend

2008-11-14T11:14:00.002-05:00

My dear friend John from seminary has been hard at work launching this site with the Methodists in Tennessee a the Church Health Center. I'm very proud of him and all of his hard work and looking forward to using this resource for my ministry. I hope that it supports you too.

The press release announces:

Faith and health are intimately linked. The mission of HopeandHealing.org is to illuminate this connection - that your body and spirit are one. Whether you are a lay person, a pastor, a caregiver, a medical professional or any combination, you will find a way here to put your faith into action. We provide the most effective resources and tools on faith and health.

Just What I Needed

2008-11-13T17:30:00.003-05:00

I'm sitting in a coffee shop trying to write my sermon when it's already dark outside. It's been dark for an hour already. I hate this time change stuff. My sermon isn't flowing, so I'm reading blogs. Of course, I turned to Fidelia's Sisters and read this. And friends, this is why I love this organization and believe in our mission. I'm on the brink of tears having just read these words because I can relate.

The seminary student I'm mentoring (the poor thing) asked me last week about why I was ordained. He asked this question after I pushed him about what it means for him to be ordained. I was brazen enough to push him on what ministry is and who gets to do it. Keep in mind, I'm UCC. I'm not even sure you need to be ordained to officiate at Sacraments. I know. Hypocrite! Ah well. So, I'm asking this question of myself because I still haven't given him an answer. Frankly, I don't know. I never thought I would doubt my vocation -- but this week I am. And this article over at Fidelia's Sisters, well, it's a saving grace. God bless all YCW. God bless.

Book Challenge XXI

2008-11-12T18:01:00.002-05:00

I picked up this book at one of those discount tables at a big bookstore thinking that the title sounded familiar. I read it as I made my way back home for a little visit with my family. I was going to take my sister on a college visit (which I'm still digesting for another post). It was the first time I have seen my brother since June. He doesn't return calls. He doesn't respond in any way. I think that's why I really picked up this book.

I want him to have a rose garden, but it's not that simple. As this author records her account of mental illness (which is formed by her own story), the worlds between sanity and insanity are complicated by blurry lines. This is one of those books that I wish I could read with others in ministry because I still want to know how we respond. I want to know how we care for those that we don't always understand. I want to be there in a way that I can't be there for my brother. It's too close. I want him to have the damn rose garden, even if it's impossible. Even if he won't take meds or go to therapy. I want him to have the damn garden that I can't give him because I no longer know how to talk to him. And this, dear friends, is why I worry about our ministry to the mentally ill. I worry that we get too close and suddenly give up because we don't know what else to do. It's just not fair. I want us all to have a rose garden. It's all I want. Sigh. It's a good book though.

Reading Challenge XX

2008-11-05T17:11:00.002-05:00

So, I accept that I'm a slow reader. I'm only on book twenty and it's November. Oh well. But, I did just finish Mystic River which I now I have to write a reflection on for my writing class. It's a page turner, but falls into the popular thriller category that doesn't really interest me. Now, I have to talk about how it differs from my writing style...

Art for the Day

2008-10-27T18:07:00.003-04:00

I just found this image (or rather one similar to it) in Imaging the Word. It is entitled All Saints I by Wassily Kandinsky, which not only makes me long for color bulletins but makes me marvel at all of the saints that radiate out of this image and into my heart and mind.

The Least Servant

2008-10-27T12:53:00.002-04:00

"The greatest among you will be the least servant" reminds this week's Gospel Lesson. I'm re-reading this verse again and again this morning and trying to figure out what that means for my ministry.

Yesterday, at our regional minsitry meeting, a colleague in ministry lead us through a meditation on our vitality . She asked a question that we were to discuss in small groups. The question was simply: when did church change you? I could only think of stories from my youth. I certainly have those stories, but there haven't been any new stories. I had some of those moments in seminary. I had lots of them actually -- but it scares me that church isn't changing me now. I read this week's lesson and shudder at the thought that my leadership role assumes I'm somehow elevated above it. By Jesus' rationale in the text, this would make me the least. I'm not so sure.

This morning, I curled on Musicman's couch with a cup of coffee to watch the news. A report appeared about making your job recession proof. I've had this fear recently. I fear my job will be the first to go if the church has to do some restructuring of their budget. I admit. I'm scared. I don't know where that puts me in being least, greatest, exalted or humbled. I'm just anxious.

Wander Lust

2008-10-25T21:41:00.003-04:00

Last night, I had dinner with three women. One of these women I met nearly a year ago. Another of these women I met through the first woman. The third woman I just met last night. She's our age. She's been in this town as long as we have. Each of us have all been in this small city for nearly two years. As dinner arrived and conversation unfolded, we got to talking about how our time in this city and how we all became friends. And then, we learned that this third woman is looking at houses.

You could have heard a pin drop.

Now, I know that it's a really good time to buy a house (if you happen to be financially capable). It's a buyer's market. Blah blah blah. Musicman's roommates just bought a house. They just moved back to town and were not eager to live with Musicman long term -- which makes sense to me. They're a newly wed couple. Who wants to be shacking up with an old friend? (No matter how wonderful that friend is.) They asked me this same question: "Aren't you thinking about buying?" Actually, I think the question was: "When are you going to buy a house?"

Gulp. I'm not ready. It's as simple as that. One of these dinner companions continued this conversation today when she remarked that she wasn't sure that she was here for that long. I agree. I'm not sure how long I am staying in this town. I'm feeling more confident in my call and falling in love has definitely changed my story -- but I don't know if I'm here long enough to buy real estate. I suspect that I think I'm here longer than this friend of mine, but I'm not sure it would be a wise investment for me to suddenly purchase property. So, I wonder if my wander lust is over. That seems far too final. I can't really believe that. I still have this idea that I'll be in several different congregations all across the country, not only in the snowy north. I even wonder about being a missionary. I can't really grasp that my wandering days are over -- but I guess I wonder. Is this something that's common for our generation? Or is it just me?

Monsters & Beasts

2008-10-25T21:15:00.004-04:00

You know that story in Revelation 13 about that thing that comes from the sea? You know, it's read to be the antichrist and misinterpreted as various political figures. There's even an awful book series based upon this misreading. I don't like it. I think it's wrong. For many, many years, I thought this particular text should be hacked out of the canon. Now, I don't think so -- it only took one class in seminary. I had a professor who completely changed my reading of this particular text. That was almost five years ago though. Now, I'm trying to write a story about how I see this particular creature. So, I wonder if you have thoughts. What do you think of this beast?

The Lover

2008-10-19T12:40:00.002-04:00

I've always resonated with God as Parent -- like the woman that sprang from the seat next to me in worship this morning to answer the cry of her child in the next room. She has been Mother. She has answered my call and prayers. She has been there even when I don't recognize Her presence, simply because she has taught me to live in Her way.

However, today, as I sat in the silence of Quaker worship, I was urged to consider relationship. Through the rebellious communal silence, I wondered with others about what it means to be together. Not only to gather. Not only to worship. To be together in that way that pushes us to love. To love both the good and the bad. To love when it seems impossible and unexpected. To love because this is truly a gift from God.

It was in this silent pause that I embraced God as Lover. This does a number on my inclusive understanding of God as Feminine, because the Lover goes deep. There is penetration and ecstasy. This is something saints have offered. I always thought it was a little strange. I don't want Jesus to be my boyfriend. I don't want to sing songs of syrupy sweet loving adoration. Or at least, I don't only want that. I want the Lover to go deep inside of me. I want to feel things with the Lover that I have never felt before. I want the Lover to open me to wonders that I have never imagined. Of course, I would be wrong if I narrowed the Lover merely to erotic love. That's not what enough.

To experience the Lover is to experience a passion that cannot be only sexual or drug-induced euphoria (I just saw that movie that denounces religion and openly admit that I don't know what to do with the pot-smoking church in Amsterdam). It's to carve out a space. That's what I noticed about the place I sat. There was an open space in the center of our room. It reminded me of sitting in circles in my seminary chapel. I forgot how much I missed carving out that central space for God. I forgot how much I loved looking up not to see a pulpit or altar -- but to see another person. To see that person across that space and to love her. That's the experience of the Lover. There is a space there. It may not have a clear shape but it is a space where we can see each other clearly and celebrate the divine connection between us. That's what I want to remember today. I want to create that space in all my relationships. I want to recognize the divine presence in each of them.

And in doing this, I want to celebrate the Lover who I see revealed in those that teach me about love. I want to carve out that space as it has been carved out for me. Because somehow, I have been loved. Someone took my hand last night and asked, "What can I do for you?" Not because I needed anything. Not because he could do anything to make me happier. He asked this question because he cared. It's his favorite question. He asks it constantly. I have been annoyed by it. I have turned it back to him to ask what he needs. However, it wasn't until I sat in silence this morning and saw that space that was given to me that I saw that this is what the Lover is. I can't do it alone, no matter how I might think I am the Lover. I am not just the Lover. I need that depth that feels like it could rip me apart. I need that awareness that it can be done for me. I need to trust that love and let it be. This is what I'm going to think about God today. As I do so, this song calls to me as it did to the community I treasured this morning. At the close of worship, we sang these words:

Dear Friends, Dear Friends,
Let me tell you how I feel.
You have given me your treasure.
I love you so.

Dear friends, I love you so. That's what I hear from God today. I will treasure this as I treasure all of the relationships I share. I'm going to look for that space and recognize what God is doing for me.

Opportunity Knocks

2008-10-14T16:02:00.003-04:00

This Sunday is Consecration Sunday. The Stewardship gang will be leading every aspect of worship. I have volunteers that will run Sunday School. Everything will go off without a hitch without me. So, my colleague pops the question to me this morning, do I want to take Sunday off?

I opted to sleep on it but how many times is the Associate Pastor going to be given the opportunity to sleep in on a Sunday because she does her job that well? Am I missing something here? What do you think?

A Small Rebellion

2008-10-12T12:42:00.002-04:00

So, I kinda kicked ass this morning -- not that I think I did it alone -- but I did kick ass. I said what needed to be said in a horrifying economy in a community where heat is really, really important (already). I claimed that message of rejoicing, which is a small rebellion. When the rest of the world says fear, we gathered this morning to rejoice. It was kinda fantastic, actually.

Yes, Musicman was there. He buried his head in his bulletin or the Bible or somewhere staring toward hid feet during the sermon, so I don't know what he thought. He came through the line of people after worship and introduced himself, "Reverend, my name's Musicman. Thank you for your sermon." I think I fumbled but asked him to join us for coffee hour. That's where I found him after I had hugged and rejoiced with those exiting worship. I'm still not sure what he thought of seeing me in action -- but he invited me to a party this afternoon to which I didn't think I was invited. So, I'm going home to change and head there... rejoicing in the Lord always!

Inviting the Boy to Church

2008-10-10T13:21:00.002-04:00

Last night, after calling in sick and spending the whole day on my couch (cough cough), I went over to Musicman's house for dinner. Um, make your own spring rolls? This boy is amazing. Anyhow, one of his old friends is in town visiting. I met her back at his birthday party. I'm still nervous about his friends. I don't know what they think of me or what they think of us. Hell, I'm not even sure that I have answers to either of those questions. However, she was there and she cracks me up. Like spring roll falling back on the plate cracking up. She greets me with this huge hug and welcome. It was wonderful. I felt oddly affirmed... which I only really found amusing when I read this by my friend Father Stacy. See, this friend asked 153 questions when she found out that I was a pastor. Last night, I found out that she's been talking me up because church would be more interesting if people my age knew that there was leadership that (ya know) got it. Again, I'm amused.

Anyhow, this was when Musicman piped up and said he was coming to church on Sunday. I had just asked him if he would be willing -- even though he's gigging all weekend. Yes, gigging is a word for him. However, the next time I'm preaching my parents will be in town and (as I told him) that would just be too much for me. So I asked him to come to church. I swear to God. The boy lit up. He was elated that I had asked him to church. He didn't say anything but he's clearly pleased. And well, I think my sermon needs to be kick ass. It's done and I rather like it but I'm praying for the Holy Spirit to rock the Sanctuary on Sunday. It's selfish prayer, I know. I don't care.

Reading Challenge XVIII & XIX

2008-10-07T14:33:00.002-04:00

Oh, right, I forgot that I read too.

I finished two books somewhat recently. The first is the more popular fiction entiled Memoirs of a Geisha. I didn't like the character. I was annoyed by the happy ending. This also taught me that I don't have to continue writing my novel about the rapist character that I hate. I can trash him and start with a more lovable character.

The other book I finished is one that I'm using for an adult version of Confirmation as it seems our parents don't know how to talk about their faith (who can blame them, I had to go to seminary to do it). It's not the most fantastic resource out there but I got lots of inspiration from it -- if that's the kind of thing that you are looking for.

Rejoice!

2008-10-07T14:22:00.002-04:00

Paul urges this really strange counter-cultural mandate: Rejoice in the Lord always. And again, I say, Rejoice! (Philippians 4:4). I find it darn near impossible not to think about Empire when I think about rejoicing right now. Who would rejoice in the power of the Emperor? And why do Americans seem inclined to believe that everything is going to be fine once the election is over? Or is that my own failure to rejoice?

Well, I just don't know -- but the one thing that strikes me this week is that we Christians don't know how to rejoice. We talk a good game. We claim its important but none of our liturgical elements (outside of Easter) talk about rejoicing with joy. This is a profound mystery to me. And that's not just because I'm a giddy girl (did you see how cute he is picking apples on Facebook?).

Joy is something I believe should be there. It's something that I hope we find. All the time. That's right. I said ALL OF THE TIME! Because, you know, God is good. All of the time!

Homesick

2008-10-02T09:35:00.002-04:00

Last night, I went to hear a certain songwriter from my hometown. Yes, she and I grew up in the same place. I've always wondered who she's singing about in this song because chances are I know the family (if not the actual person). Of course, she still lives in New York and sang about it. As I listened from the second row surrounded by friends from my new home, I couldn't quite escape this feeling of homesickness.

This is not something that happens often to me. I am the wandering soul. I have travel lust. I rarely want to be stuck at home. I want to explore as much as possible. This feeling of homesickness is not familiar. However, there it was.

As she sang about the Hudson, I got to thinking about my conversation earlier in the day. I was rather pleased with how the conversation went. I was able to model conflict management while speak honestly that I don't do this with my own parents (mostly because I don't need to do so). What hit me while listening to sweet lyrics was that familiar nagging that I don't get to have that mother-daughter relationship. I know. This is old news. No surprise to you. However, it was one of those strange moments where I grieved the fact that my baby sister is getting ready to go to college. My step-mother has that special relationship with her -- but I don't get it. We have a great relationship. Don't get me wrong. I love her dearly -- more than she knows probably. And yet, I can't help but wonder if I'm missing out on something because of a technicality. My mom isn't home. She's not somewhere that I can call her and say I miss her. I related to this woman in my office yesterday by talking about how it is to parent a child when your mother isn't around. I know this territory. I don't know (or not as well) how to be a daughter. I guess that's what I'm missing today (at least a little).

But, really, only a little. As you know, there is this boy in my life. There is a boy who's friends invited me over to watch the debate tonight. I consider this a big deal since I've met them twice. And really, I can't be all homesick and whiny because there is this boy in my life that makes me smile radiantly. That's right. Radiantly. It took me until last week to tell him my family story and he keeps asking questions. He's really close to his family and my story just isn't the same. The way I relate to my family just isn't the same. However, there is something unique about sharing this with him. He makes it safe. And really, who can complain about being homesick when you feel that safe? Right. I'll shut up then.

Feeling Awkward & Young

2008-10-01T13:32:00.003-04:00

In less than 30 minutes, a member of my church is coming to my office to talk about her daughter. She's struggling with her college-age daughter's decisions. She's eager to improve their relationship. And in seeking support to make these improvements, she's turning to me.

It was important for her to emphasize yesterday that it was a compliment. She wasn't trying to belittle me. She wanted me to know. And yet, she's looking to me as someone that understands her daughter's actions simply because of my age. I want to believe her. I want to feel affirmed by this thought -- and yet I'm 10 years older than her daughter. I made decisions differently and continue to do so. I feel incredibly awkward about this counsel. I want to be able to offer the presence of God in the midst of this broken relationship. And yet, I'm not sure I've got enough authority to do so. It seems that this woman is turning toward me as a daughter rather than a pastor. I understand that -- but I don't know what to do with it.

What's Cooking?

2008-09-22T21:29:00.003-04:00

This friend told me last week on the phone that he only reads my blog every month. He then told me that he scans my blog for what he deems the "good posts." In my sporadic blogging of late, I'm wondering what constitutes a "good post" for me -- and whoever might stumble upon these pages. I have no answer, by the way.

I'm stealing internet outside in the cold (yes, it's cold here) in order to scour the internet for recipes to cook dinner for Musicman tomorrow night. I steal my internet. I really need to get my own. I know. It's awful. Anyhow, did I mention that on top of all of the wonderful things there are about this boy, he's also a wonderful cook? Yes. I'm no whiz in the kitchen but I like to think I can do more than boil water. He intimidates me. I haven't cooked yet. I've flexed my credit card muscle instead. I have been to meek and shy. But, tomorrow, I cook. I don't really know what yet -- but I shall cook. I shall create romance in my kitchen and enjoy the fruits of my labor (no matter what).

To all of the domestic god(desse)s (and those that aspire to be), I ask for your prayers.

Possible Hope

2008-09-18T09:28:00.004-04:00

Somehow, over a series of gatherings this summer, this amazing group of church members have given me hope. Tribal Church blogged about another vision of hope this morning. My organizing friend talked about still another version of hope last night on the treadmill last night. Hope is something we are all looking for. It's something we are searching for around every corner. And for me, it has come in the simple realization that these 12 people that have studied the Book of Ruth together over the summer have discovered what church can be. This is new for most of them. I don't know why but in this Big Church, they haven't experienced the possible hope of breaking down all those pretenses and opening the Bible.

When Labor Day arrived, they didn't want to stop. They liked this hope. We decided to continue to study the first three chapters of Genesis. That's what we did last week. We opened to Genesis 1 and talked it through. Day by day. The laughter was truly "carbonated holiness." I love this line from Anne Lamott. We moved from talking about God as Parent in Ruth to talking about God as Artist in Genesis. We talked about the nearness of breath and God being that close to the waters and to us. So close that God hovers.

I've always liked this about Genesis. It's truly one of my favorite images -- but today it seems real. It's not a metaphor but something almost tangible. I don't know if hope ever can be tangible but that's how it feels. After reading my review earlier this week, I'm reminded that even though I'm young in my ministry and lack maturity in some areas (I admit that but don't you dare agree), I know this congregation. I can see what they need. I saw it when I felt God first breathe into our covenant together. I knew that these small moments of what church could be was what this group of people needed to feel. And the strangest thing is that is happening. It's happening in me and around me. It's happening because God is that close and so hope is more than possible. Hope is tangible.

The Biological Clock

2008-09-08T09:27:00.003-04:00

Last night, after barely scooping myself off the couch from Sunday morning events, my dear friend came over for dinner. We pulled things together with a few ingredients and sat down to talk -- which we haven't really done all summer. He has been swept up into his love affair. I have had my own drama. Our lives have just not intersected in the same way. He is one of my favorite people so this has been sad for me. However, that all changed last night when we got to linger over wine and food.

The last topic of our conversation turned to babies. He's 31. I'm 29. Our friends are all having babies. In fact, I have had several children pop out of my girlfriends in the past few weeks. My other girlfriends (the single ones) are beginning to talk about this internal clock. I think mine is broken. Or maybe I never had it. I'm not really sure what I think about it. However, my 31-year old friend is resolved on this issue. No kids. No babies. No ridiculous adoption feats. No proving he's a good gay dad. EVER. I'm not so sure. I'm straight and I'm assuming everything works just fine so that the option is out there. It's possible -- if I wanted it.

Of course, I can't help but think about the children that gathered at my feet yesterday morning. I can't help but think about how loved they are and how much they have going for them. Some part of me wants to be there for that journey. I want to be able to nurture them as they grow and in the same breath I wonder if this is enough. It is enough to just do this. To just be a good mentor. Will this offer me the satisfaction I need? Or, as my dear friend waxed poetic last night, do we need to let go of our self absorption and really make some sacrifices for someone else? I know I'm not there yet. I just wonder if that's ever something I will want -- because I think you should be called to have kids. I have no idea where the Biblical paradigm for that emerges with Sarah's laughter and Mary's illegitimacy. Was it that their biological clocks were ticking? Or is it bigger than that? Is this what God called them to be? And is that a call for me?

The End of Summer

2008-09-06T11:22:00.004-04:00

Tomorrow is Homecoming Sunday. After being away for the summer, we welcome everyone back to church with a big fair and celebration of our life together. In my church life, this marks the beginning of fall. I thought that we might be able to sneak in a few more days of summer here and there. I tried yesterday to go to the beach and pretend that there would be sunbathing and swimming. Alas, we were huddled under towels against the rocks trying to stay warm. And so, it's official: Fall is here.

And though I do indeed love the change of seasons, there is something about this shift. I'm not sure what the emotion is. It's not sadness. It's not joy. It's somewhere in between, I think. Perhaps I'm not sure what the fall brings (and I'm a planner). I have changed my job description at church to have a new focus on the faith formation of the entire community, rather than only the youth and adults. I'm leaving behind a summer with a fantastic Scottish experience and the intention to read several more books than I did. And, then, there is this boy who presents something new, uncertain and wonderful.

Indeed, it is the beginning of something new which means that I have to let go of what was. Isn't that the mystery of faith? We are filled with endings and beginnings that are uncertain and fluid. It is the wisdom of Ecclesiastes that I love so much but have no idea how to process. To everything there is a season. I wonder what this one will hold.

Musicman's Birthday

2008-09-03T09:31:00.005-04:00

Yesterday was Musicman's birthday. There was a lot of celebrating over this weekend which may be evidenced in the glaze in my eyes here. The photo was taken by his new roommate and old, old childhood friend who has decided that she likes me and I needed a picture of us. Hence, this was the only photo snapped during Monday's party. I think that I may have given up after this photo and his expression. Um, Ok, so we're not ready for the photo shoot. I get it. I'm not going to explain the outfit though. I don't think that I can. So, go with it. There he is.

The celebration seems to only continue as there were leftover goodness last night with laughter and birthday wishes. I gave him a present which he loved. I'm enjoying him so much.

When this was originally published, I said something else that I have deleted. It's still true. It's just too much for me to know that it's out there on the internet. Sigh.

Vanity of Vanities

2008-08-31T07:33:00.005-04:00

For several days now, I have been meaning to highlight my hair. My stylist told me it was time. He was horrified by my roots. I wasn't so much -- but I believed his wisdom. So I went and bought a box of highlights (as I have done several times in the past). This time, I thought I would try a new product similar to the product I had used before -- but new nonetheless. And cheaper. I think that matters with the end result.

After rehearsing with a bride and groom for their wedding, I came home last night and opened the box. Twenty minutes later I became a bottle blonde. Oh shit. I'm sorry for the profanity -- but not only will I be in the pulpit today, I will officiate a wedding and tomorrow I will meet Musicman's friends. And I am a bottle blonde. This is offensive because I was a blonde. I've gotten darker and darker into my 20s and I started to fight back. I never wanted to fight this hard.

Luckily, I am also terrible at this so I can flip my hair to create another part (an unnatural part) that shows my more natural color. Yes, I am Cruella Deville. I look almost as menacing as she does in her sports car. Almost as angry with myself.

I'm so horrified by my own vanity and must admit that I'm really not sure what to do about this. Do I suffer with this until my hair grows out even though I just got a haircut? Do I go back to my sylist and cry after the long weekend? Or do I just laugh at my own stupidity and get over it?

That's It! I QUIT!

2008-08-28T17:08:00.003-04:00

If you were to tell a story about your ministry (in its current or a past setting) and choose an ending, what would happen?

I was recently told a story (of which I don't have all the details) about a colleague in ministry that was serving as a solo pastor in Rural America. Some members of the church called a meeting behind her back. Sigh. This is sad enough, but the reason that they called this meeting was to discuss the fact that she listened to too much secular music. They thought that this should change. She didn't leave, but if she did. This would have been it.

I'm looking for stories like this one. I'm wondering about those moments when you almost threw in the towel because of something that happened during your ministry. Did you want to leave the church? Did it force you into thinking about leaving the ministry altogether? Do you have some strange fantasy about eating, praying and loving all over the world? If you were to tell a story, how would it all end?

Reading Challenge XVII

2008-08-26T22:29:00.003-04:00

I'm so sad that I just finished the last sentence of Barbara Kingsolver's Animal Vegetable Miracle. It was just wonderful. As I've already says, she inspires me. Her words make me want to write more. They challenge me to be a better person and live more faithfully in tune with Creation. And now, I'm just sad that it's over.

She has inspired me to actually order a CSA box over the winter months. She got me to make a summery potato salad for my dinner party on Sunday night. Um. Yum. That same meal was created with all local foods and gluten free. I love bread -- but one of my guests is very allergic. And now, I feel compelled to read that book sitting on my shelf that will make me feel badly about eating everything -- but I think it's time for a real novel. Summer isn't over yet, after all.

From the Mouths of Babes

2008-08-26T09:26:00.003-04:00

Little Mary and I had a wonderful phone chat about our Children's Sermons for this past Sunday. We decided what we would say and how it would sound. As always, I rely on the children to lead me. I changed my direction slightly from what Little Mary and I had discussed. I asked that question from the text, "Who do you say that I am?" and invited the children to respond with their names.

Then, I talked about Peter. He was given a special name that signified his relationship with Jesus and the ministry to which he was called. So, I asked them about nicknames -- special names that are given to us by people that love us. I got some cute responses until I turned back to Nicholas. Nicholas is coming into his own comedic timing, at 4 years old. Nicholas replied,

"Well, sometimes my mom and dad call me crackpot."

I have no idea how I recovered from this -- perhaps I just started the prayer. However, I think that this might be the one and only time that "crackpot" is said during any of my sermons.

When Crazy People Come to Church

2008-08-26T09:14:00.002-04:00

How wide do we open the door?
Do we dare to let these children of God in?

Yesterday, my colleague received an email from a marginal member who every so often lashes out for something desperate. She needs grocery money or her car is broken. She calls the SP and begs. This has happened twice now. He makes a phone call on her behalf and apologizes that he can't do anymore. Neither of these phone calls have worked out -- but both times she has sent an email to announce joyously that God is protecting her and sent her angels that took care of her. This time, it was a whole family of 5 that showed up and played badminton with her in the backyard. For those of you that have children, is this something you do with your three children? Really? I don't think so. I asked the SP if he thought she was making the rounds among the churches. I pegged this family as Baptist from the other side of town. They're nicer than we are.

This is actually what bugs me. It's one thing to invite the "crazy people" into worship and welcome them "no matter where they are on life's journey" -- but it's totally another when these people are calling the pastors at home. It's the pastors that have to decide how to negotiate these relationships so that all parties are safe, healthy and well.

I admit that I have no idea how to do this. This is a little too close to home for me. I don't know how to relate to my brother -- and he's family! How can I possibly know what is fair both for me and these children of God that wander through the church doors? I fear that this will be one of the greater challenges to face the church in the future. And yet, I don't know what to do with it today.

Ethical Eating

2008-08-16T10:23:00.003-04:00

So, I'm reading a book that seems to be all the rage in my community. It seems every time I turn around, someone else is reading it. Unless, of course, they are reading one of those vampire books.

Anyhow, this favorite author of mine is inspiring me -- as she always does. I'm thinking about how I eat, where I eat and how it reflects my commitment to God's created order. I'm soon heading to the Farmer's Market, but this is a gift that is offered to our community only in summer months. We don't get to have it much during the winter -- perhaps because the climate here is a little less than hospitable. So, I just did a little research on Community Supported Agriculture in our area. It turns out that there is one farm that offers winter shares. But, I've never done this before. I'm not sure the questions to ask. Or if there is something I need to know before I slap down a deposit to see three cheers for the farmers and local produce. Is there anything?

An Observation

2008-08-15T18:57:00.003-04:00

Reading and sunning myself on the beach is not only an excellent self care practice -- but invites time for me to reflect. Something about the waves washing over me allows me to reconnect with myself and all of the good stuff that makes me tick.

So, as I was enjoying my new favorite beach today, I realized something about myself. I have a strange ability to overreact. This isn't a horribly terrible thing in most circumstances -- but I do tend to process aloud. This confuses people perhaps even in the blogging community. It also confuses people that I'm rather honest. I say what I feel. I don't hold back often (which is a new skill I'm exploring as a pastor). This is not really about Musicman as much as it is about my current call. I've had lots of questions about whether or not I'm leaving both inside and outside of the church. My reaction has been to overreact.

But, today, as the waves rushed over me today, I allowed them to do just that. Let all of those things to which I'm overreacting just wash over. And let it be. Just let it be. Yeah...

Not Sure What to Say

2008-08-13T13:45:00.004-04:00

I mean, there are lots of things that I could say but it's not something I want to blog about. It's too personal. Too wonderful. Too surreal. And I'm just not sure what to say about it -- but I wanted you to know that things with the Musicman are really rather perfect. Even though he was away all last week, he made me dinner on Monday and may again tonight though our plans are yet to be determined. He's sweet and compassionate. And I'm still ridiculously giddy. Really. It's ridiculous.

Otherwise, I did a funeral today. It was another one of these older members that fell away from being active but wanted the Senior Pastor (who is again on vacation). Remember how well that went last time? I wonder about how these conversations go among family members. I imagine that there must be some sort of pep talk that they give each other. "Yes, she looks young but it'll be OK. Mom wasn't that ____ any way. She would like it." This was essentially the comment that I got from one of her son's today. I apparently led the perfect worship experience. In the same moment, the family was able to laugh and cry. I used their stories in a meaningful way that spoke to who there mother was in God's eyes and who she will always be for them. Aside from being super giddy about a boy, this is the most wonderful feeling. This is exactly why I do this work. I love this. Right here. This feeling of knowing that we can give each other a moment of grace -- even in death.

Another church member died this week. He is much beloved and has been struggling with brain cancer, but on Sunday he finally let go. Tomorrow will be his funeral. Tonight, there will be viewing hours. A church member called me to say that she had tickets to the local minor league baseball game tonight. She wanted to know if I knew anyone. (She knew I wouldn't be interested). Instantly, I thought of a couple who has been really down on their luck with money concerns. Free tickets and their parents can care for their daughter? Lord yes. She nearly cried on the phone. And I'm thinking, today is a really good day.

Preaching Party

2008-08-11T09:12:00.005-04:00

I'm officially jealous of my YCW friends who were in DC last week at Deep Calls to Deep: Embodying the Sermon. It sounds amazing -- and I think I'm missing Teri and Amy a wee bit. Yes, wee. That's a Scottish-ism.

So, the Gospel Lesson this week has me thinking that I want to host a preaching party but I won't compete with the online version tomorrow at Rev Gals. Still, if anyone wants to, I'd be delighted. I've just realized that I can't guilt Songbird as she's not here. Sniff.

Oh well. Enough whining. Back to the Bible. I wonder what others are thinking about this assertive woman. I preached a very pastoral sermon last week. I'm thinking about talking about health care, but wondering what this text really says about health care. Is it too narrow to use the woman's bold claim to assert a Biblical call for universal access? Do I have to get into the economics? Or can I take her lead and simply assert the moral claim that "even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table" (Matthew 15:27)? I'm not sure about this logic, but fascinated that Jesus says that something isn't "fair" (Matthew 15:26). What does it all mean?

Grace is Gone

2008-08-07T23:07:00.003-04:00

Philosophy Over Coffee has been writing lots of cultural reviews recently. I don't tend to do this often -- except for the Book Challenge. Perhaps nothing cultural has sparked my interest lately. That is, until tonight.

The above title is not a theological statement. Never you fear. It's the title of the movie that I watched tonight on what seemed to be my first night of being home on the couch since returning from Scotland. All I wanted to do today was be on my couch watching movies. It's the ideal activity for rainy weather -- of which we are having far too much this week. Anyhow, I found this movie on Netflix. I believe it was a recommendation because I heart John Cusack. Grace is Gone is a story of a father and his daughters after his wife dies in the Iraq war. The movie is the story of how he tells his children this tragedy. Gulp.

I'm grateful for this very realistic and honest depiction of grief. I want my dad to watch it. I turned off the movie and could only mutter through my tears, "I love you Dad." And I do, Dad. I love him so much because I remember this moment and I can't imagine how hard it might have been for him. It's not that I've never thought of this. I have just never watched a 124 minute movie that portrays this situation. The only thing that bugged me was the eldest daughter. No, she was older than I was. She's 12 in the movie. I was 7. The younger daughter is 8 -- and though no story is the same, this is a bright 12 year old girl. She would have figured it out. She knew. Whether or not she fully knew, she would have known that her mom wasn't OK. There is no clue of this. And this is what annoyed me about the movie It's told from the perspective of parents that have no idea that their children actually do know what they are going through before that reality is voiced. Otherwise, fantastic movie. I highly recommend it. I wish I could figure out the appropriate venue to offer it in my ministry -- but I got nothing right now. Perhaps that's because I'm still a little jetlagged.