Teaching Youth

I'm planning for our next Confirmation class right now -- which will focus on the meaning of the Sacraments. I thought I would start with a little Buechner (whom I adore) and define what these things are. In his words,

A sacrament is when something holy happens. It is transparent time, time which you can see through to something deep inside time.

Generally speaking, Protestants have two official sacraments (the Lord's Supper, Baptism) and Roman Catholics these two plus five others (Confirmation, Penance, Extreme Unction, Ordination, and Matrimony). In other words, at such milestone moments as seeing a baby baptized or being baptized yourself, confessing your sins, getting married, dying, you are apt to catch a glimpse of the almost unbearable preciousness and mystery of life.

Needless to say, church isn't the only place where the holy happens. Sacramental moments can occur at any moment, any place, and to anybody. Watching something get born. Making love.

Wait. Stop. Can I say that to 14 year olds? Making love? Have you heard about what is happening in Portland today? Let me clue you in. My grandmother sent me an email to ask what was wrong with my city. One of the middle schools wants to give out birth control to their students. I'm not kidding. Sometimes I wish I were. Read all about it here.

My confirmands are not middle schoolers. Nor do they attend this particular middle school on the other side of the bridge. But, can I say this? Really? The rest is so good. The whole thing is so good. I just love me some Buechner. See, it continues on page 101 of Wishful Thinking:

A high-school graduation.

See? See? That's relevant to kids -- even if they are freshman. Sorry. I'll stop interrupting. Buechner has the floor:

Somebody coming to see you when you're sick. A meal with people you love. Looking into a stranger's eyes and finding out he's not a stranger.

If we weren't blind as bats, we might see that life itself is sacramental.

Am I being blind as a bat? Is the whole city of Portland? Are our middle schoolers? Tricky territory, I tell you.

More Glee

Several clergy in our association of the United Church of Christ gathered today in the center of the city. Inspired by the monks in Burma, we thought it was important to dress in our vestments and stand vigil for peace. It was a wonderful hour. We'll be there every week for one hour -- until the war ends. There were jokes about LL Bean making down robes for us (you know, because it's cold up here). Laughter in the midst of our fears is a wonderful release, isn't it?

Do you remember that song from Mary Poppins? An innocent tea party with Uncle Albert turns into quite the scene. Mary is obviously peeved (even though she sings a refrain). Bert gets into trouble with his heart's desire because he gets swept in the moment. And everyone sings:

The more I laugh
The more I fill with glee
And the more the glee
The more I'm a merrier me
It's embarrassing!
The more I'm a merrier me!

I want to be the merrier me. In the midst of my conversation about feminism with the New Girls, we talked about this desire. Did you hear this? The Wharton School of UPenn says that men are happier than women. It's because men play more than we do. I'm not so sure. I'm also not sure that I'm willing to accept the definitions of feminism that others claim. I'm not sure that my lack of happiness has to do with overwhelming obligation. Now, my clergy sisters, I know that our work is hard. I know that there is a lot that is demanded of us. I know. And yet, I believe in play. I don't want my work to define me (even though I struggle daily with this). I believe in friends and laughter and merriment. I require these things, don't you? And I'll admit it. Most of my friends, laughter and merriment does not come from church. Some of it. I find my work very, very rewarding -- but it is not what sends me to the ceiling giggling like Bert.

So I'm trying to glee in difficult moments. I'm trying to laugh at injustice -- not because I think it's funny but perhaps because that it part of making peace. I'm trying to be brave and laugh at the things that I don't think are the least bit funny. You know, like war and breast cancer. On Friday, I will try to laugh with Songbird as we make a fairy house on Mackworth Island. I will try to giggle and remember what it was like to be a child without focusing on the pain and loss. I will try to be filled with more glee.

Dancing With God

Look! It turns out that I still have some artistic merit. I received my copy of The Response, a United Methodist Women's Magazine. As you know, I'm not a Methodist woman. But, I did serve a Methodist church briefly in seminary so I have friends among the Methodist women. And somehow, they think I'm an artist (a title that I'm not sure I can accept).

This week, I tried painting again. I tried to actually use the studio/guest room in my home. It was only a few weeks ago that I was in Cape Cod in a painting class. Long before that class, I had been asked to do this artwork for one of the stories in this issue of the Response. It's about evangelism, I think. I read it a long time ago and created some artwork related to the heart and impulse of the article. And I must say, it's strange to see your artwork in print. It's really weird when you struggled to put paint to canvas just this week. Somewhere this part of me is still there. And in all outward appearances, it's an active part of me. Funny though. Sometimes our lives don't mesh that well. Try as we might. There are separate parts. Sometimes prayers flow. Sometimes it's impossible it is to pray. So it is with paint, it seems.

Far Away

This is how I feel today. Far away. In Maine, if you are not from here (meaning that your mother's mother was born in this state), you are from away. I will always be from away. But, today I just feel so far away. It really started yesterday when I was struggling to write my sermon for the funeral that I officiated at today. I didn't realize that my own grief about this day was getting in the way. I didn't realize that what was making this endeavor so diffcult might simply be that I'm far from NYC today.

There were no worship services in my area to memoralize the day. There were no churches open for prayer, including the one in which I serve. But, I wanted this. I desparately wanted an intentional space for this kind of prayer. Instead, I held the hands of four daughters who buried their father today while I tried not to convey my own grief. Instead, I stood in the rain and commended this 90 year old man into the earth. Instead, I read Ecclesiastes 3 and wondered what season this was.

I wasn't there when it happened. I was living in London at the time. At 3 PM, I was urged to turn on the TV to see the destruction of my home city. I spent the next several hours trying to assure the safety of my mother who worked in Midtown. She was with friends uptown. She was fine. But, I was scared. And I just wanted to go home. Instead, I went to Italy. On September 12, I wandered the streets of Florence (another home for me) as the reality of this disaster followed me through the streets. I was with my Italian family there. And for the most part, I felt safe and loved. Perhaps this is what I miss today. Perhaps this is what I miss for all of us -- for the Iraqis, Afghanis, Arabs and others who are mistreated because of our country's racist ignorance. Perhaps this is what grieves me today. It all seems so far away. New York is too far. Peace is too far. Understanding is too far. And though it grieves me to say it, hope seems too far away.

A Little Teaser & A Game

You may have heard of the soon-to-be released publication of Fidelia's Sisters. I've already blogged about it. Perhaps you're already bored with the news. But, I'm a wee bit excited.

There will be all kinds of great columns and insights written and created by, for and in support of young women clergy. I'm writing one these articles on this Sunday night in my sweats before I go pick up a friend from the airport. It's a serial novel. Each month, there will be a new segment in the adventures of someone like us -- a young lady preacher. Her name is Lexi. She's divorced and lives somewhere in rural America. I imagine her to be something like the Simpsons. Only when her movie is released (yes, I dream that a movie will be released that actually debunks the myth of what we do) will we discover what state she actually lives in. Maybe that too will be decided by a game.

But for now, the game is simply to figure out the name of this quaint little town. I automatically go to Biblical names because I'm a big ol' Bible nerd. I lean toward Corinth because it was a racy kinda place. Oh, and it's a town in upstate NY. But, perhaps she does live in Springfield. Or perhaps she lives in Moline or Corpus Christi or... well, you decide. Where should Lexi live? Submit all entries below.

An Obituary

Sometime this afternoon, Rev. Jerry Falwell breathed his last breath and left our world. For all of those that grieve this loss, I hope that the love of God surrounds them. I hope that the peace of Christ uplifts every child that mourns this day.

But, for me, I'm in shock. I wonder how the Holy Spirit will sustain us. What will modern Christianity -- with all of the divisions that have been created -- look forward to? Where will the grace of the Spirit guide us as we bid farewell to this servant? It is my humble prayer that the divisions imposed and upheld by the Moral Majority might dissolve with the passage of time. It is my simple prayer that we seek to find more ways to the church universal -- in the spirit of Pentecost.

I uplift these prayers to God who now cradles the Rev. Jerry Falwell in her arms. May God grant us all peace that surpasses understanding.

The Misuse of Darwin

The New York Times proposes an interesting question today: "Does Darwinian theory undermine conservative notions of religion and morality or does it actually support conservative philosophy?"

The article appears to be a little biased, like here: "For some conservatives, accepting Darwin undercuts religious faith and produces an amoral, materialistic worldview that easily embraces abortion, embryonic stem cell research and other practices they abhor. As an alternative to Darwin, many advocate intelligent design, which holds that life is so intricately organized that only an intelligent power could have created it." But, I'm not so uncomfortable with this bias. I don't really understand the basic understanding of the world that doesn't include science, so this statement makes sense to me. And yet, I still wonder about this initial question posed by my hometown paper.

The fact that the theories of Darwin could be used to support idealogical values doesn't exactly add up for me. Then again, it's been a long time that I've really read up on Darwin. And my limited memory of "survival of the fittest" doesn't fit with what I want to understand about the political divides that currently exist in our country.

I don't know. I think I need more coffee.

Testimony

Eventually, I will become a techie wiz and know how to embed this image into my sidebar. But, I'm still a just clueless one that wants to get the word out so it will have to reside in a post for now.

I am going -- and you should too (if you are under 35)!



See, it took an entire remodeling of my blog for it to happen, and I still can't get the darn thing to actually shrink to fit the box over there. Thanks Songbird!

Father Knows Best

Or men do. Somehow, men seem to get to make the final decisions. There are some women -- of various ages -- that even defer to the wisdom of men. And there are men that assert their own opinions over others. Thank you, Mr. President.

Our men in power seem to be making destructive decisions -- decisions that will alter and perhaps erase history. So it is with the history of Roe v. Wade at least. I offer the words of another Nation article, this editorial penned by Katha Pollitt:

"Beyond all this, it's flatly outrageous that five men--five devout Catholic men, 56 percent of the court--can impose their will on women's bodies, talking about "anatomical landmarks" as if a woman's reproductive system were some kind of national park. None of them will ever be pregnant or want or need an abortion. That should have made them humble. I wonder if anyone reading this will live to see a Supreme Court in which a five-woman majority rules on an issue in which the reproductive lives of men, and only men, are at stake. Right now, Ruth Bader Ginsburg is all alone up there, watching her legacy go up in smoke."

Father might know best, but I've always been listening for Mother. Even when she wasn't around to offer her insight. Even when I could hear her -- because I knew that her legacy mattered as much as my own. What legacy will we leave?

How Can We Mourn?

At my Clergy Support Group today (which is really a support group for one individual where the rest of us appear to have no issues whatsoever), our moderator initiated a conversation about systems. I was so excited. As my congregation is about to go through a dramatic shift in our governance structure, I have been thinking a lot about systems. I thought this might be a wonderful opportunity to vent and discuss. Nope. SPLAT! The conversation fell flat. Needless to say, I was disappointed.

While on the treadmill tonight, I tried to multi-task. I'm not very good at reading and running. But, I have been terrible about reading The Nation and I really wanted to catch up. So, I brought this week's copy along. I actually squealed with delight (to the dismay of my fellow gym goers) when I read Bruce Shapiro's article. He names exactly what I have stuggled to articulate since the Virginia Tech tragedy. Don't worry. I will share. He concludes and I quote,

"The point is not to excoriate an individual university president or police officer or judge but to ask: Why didn't any of you connect the dots? That is an issue of social ethics as much as of specific policies; it is what unites the failure of gun laws and the failure of the mental health system. It reflects an ideology divorced from consequence as surely as the Iraq War or the betrayal of New Orleans. The demand the Virginia Tech massacre places on the school, on Virginia, on all of us, is simple: Only connect."

It's brilliant, isn't it?

It's why I don't think we can really mourn the tragedy in Virginia (or Katrina or 9/11...). Because when we don't understand what happened. We know the results, but we don't really understand what lead to the end results.

It's what I have learned in my own grief. I need to know the gory details of how she died, not only for my own health. But because without those details, I can't grieve. That knowledge was kept from me as a child. I was just told that mommy died. I wasn't offered any information beyond that and it wasn't until later in life when I could put together the peices that I was able to finally begin mourning the loss of my mother.

And this, dear friends, is why we must understand what happened. We must talk about those things that make us uncomfortable in order to heal. We must talk about these systems so that we can figure out how in the world we might change them.

Only then can there be a new heaven and a new earth. Then, we will pave the streets with gold. Oh! I can't wait.