A Spiritual Practice

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.

Generations

I did the unthinkable last Sunday and used the Gospel Lesson to talk about generations. Jesus invited me to do it with that crazy question: "But to what will I compare this generation?" (Matthew 11:16, NRSV). I also happen to be reading Robert Wunthow's After the Baby Boomers. Slowly. But, I'm reading it. So, I couldn't resist. I went for it.

I spoke to the generations older than me in the congregation about the differences of how we define ourselves and whether or not this leads to the "progression of American society" (that line I stole from an essay on This I Believe). Of course, I didn't say anything too direct about this. I'm just not that kind of preacher. I ask questions and hint at what I mean. If you know my real name or where I serve, you can find the sermon with a little help from Google. That is, if you are dying to read it. I'm not assuming you are. Crazy Pastor, you should be writing your own sermons.

Anyhow, I got this email today from a clergy man (an older clergy man) that reads my work blog and my sermons. He said this:

You’ve done it again. I have just read your sermon. As a “Baby of the Boom,” let me say, Well done.
Blah. Blah. Blah. He adds his own sermon illustration for my sermon (which he always does). And then, finally concludes with:
As always, THANK YOU. Don’t stop writing or speaking.

This is a compliement that I'm missing somehow. I know it is. I'm just not comfortable with it for some reason.

God is Good

I sometimes forget this. I forget that it's possible that God is at work in all aspects of our lives -- even when we can't make sense of these things. But, it's true. God is good.

I went to the hospital. Baby and Mommy are doing well. They are both bruised and aching but they are well. They are healthy -- and God is with them. Praise God. God is good. All the time.

It's a nice reminder in the week before vacation. I leave for Scotland on Sunday. I need to remember that God is good. All of the time. And working in my life. I need that to be the good news of my retreat to the land of my ancestors.

Seeking Intimacy

Apparently, Little Mary and I have some of the same goals. She is trying to be more intimate. I refuse to have a roommate -- but I have the same goal. I have been taking risks with what I share with church people and even friends about my own personal life. I've been thinking about this since my colleague often preaches about his family life. Lots of preachers do this. I don't. I don't know why. I'm not sure I'm ready to do that in the pulpit. But, there are certainly small moments I can share things with the people I serve -- like admitting that I'm having a bad day or saying that something bugged me (because it did).

At out Pastor Parish Relations Committee meeting, the committee teased me for how I begin worship. I stole something I really liked from Rev. Ez who invited the community to begin by finding their breath. So, I do this every week. I paused to pray before the meeting began -- and the whole group started exaggerating their breath. I laughed. It was rather wonderful.

This idea of intimacy is particularly interesting given my thoughts about preaching next week on Genesis 12:1-9. To me, this is a story not only about beginnings -- but how we create family. I read this text and instantly thought about what is happening in California and that article that appeared in the New York Times Magazine a few weeks ago. So, I'm thinking about preaching about marriage -- which has become a bad word in my mind.

However, to do this, I have to talk about my own stuff. I will talk about my strange family and how that forms my understanding of marriage. That's not so intimate to me. The part that will be hard not to prevent from creeping into the sermon is my own forlorn anxiety that I will never get to have that family I celebrate in the union of others. This has no business if my sermon. It shouldn't be there. It won't be there. But, it will be hard. I think I will do it anyhow, but it will be hard.

The Grandmother's Bicycle

Over the weekend, I bought a bicycle. I've never owned a bicycle that I didn't acquire after someone else outgrew it or it was discovered a the used bike shop. This is a big deal for me. It's one of those strange moments that I spend a lot of money on sports equipment and feel more like a Mainer (which I will never really be).

I went on a long, long bike ride on Sunday through the neighborhoods I serve. If I actually knew where everyone lived in our 800 member church, I could have waved -- but I still don't know where most people live. I just enjoyed the sights and the grind of my muscles trying to remember how to move again. I felt like a grandmother on a bicycle.

My father used to quip about grandmother's bicycles. He had an uncanny ability to find them for everyone in the family. We never needed it -- but he was pleased as punch that he got it for us. It was around then that he taught us this term -- the grandmother's bicycle. And shortly after, we corrected him and these bad gifts no longer appeared. There was something kinda loving about them. My father has somehow gotten really, really good at gift giving since the days of the grandmother's bicycle. I admit that I miss them.

Yesterday, I greeted one of our more dower grandmothers. She lost her husband only a few weeks ago. He died the same week that my grandfather died. I gave her a huge before worship began and wished her 'Happy Mothers Day.' She embraced me warmly. I don't know what I said then but I remember what she said. She said to me: "We need you here." I was so confused. I didn't know what prompted this comment and I wondered where it came from. It wasn't a grandmother's bicycle. It was just the opposite. And yet, I'm still confused.

Not Focusing on Jesus

I know that I should be thinking about Jesus and approaching the cross and all that. But, let's face it. I've never been very disciplined about this approach. I've never really been the "perfect" Christian that I dream of being who meditates with deep intensity.

Instead, I'm entertained by the email exchange I'm having on Match.com with a man that works in a boatyard on the coast. He's not a lobsterman. But, when I dreamed of dating a Maine man, he was what I had in mind. Will it work? I have no idea. Does it matter? No. His emails are too entertaining.

He asked the fated minister question wanting to know if it would be different to date one. Was I looking for something different than a lover or a special someone? I can't imagine what else I would be looking for. And now, he's whipped out his Bible. He's actually Christian though doesn't go to church. He's also been home sick for several days and is starting to get stir crazy. He read the Passion narrative -- or as he calls it "the Easter bits" -- and wanted some clarification on why Simon was carrying the cross with Jesus. He told me that I could ignore this which I probably shall (except that I'm blogging about it instead of replying to his email right away). The best was the conclusion of his email:

If we stay in contact you might have to take my Bible away.

OK, I have a crush on a boy that I have not met. And it's not Jesus. But, I'll try to think about him now while I go to the gym with my recent copy of the Christian Century (which by the way is about marriage. How cruel is that?!).

Coming Home Again

I travelled north. I found rest. I found true sabbath rest. As I buried myself in Mandate to Difference in a coffee shop today, Walter Brueggemann reminded me that this is what I had needed. It is what we all need. His words in this book reminded me how important it was that I turned off my cell phone and didn't look at a clock for 36 hours. I had no agenda. I just wandered through this town where lobstermen still work on islands off the coast. I try not to romanticize this -- but I really can't help it.

I spent today driving through the snow looking at lighthouses along the coast. I noticed country churches and thought how wonderful it would be. I noticed the lack of my denomination's presence and wondered why. (This is rare here. We are everywhere.) I had passing thoughts about how wonderfully romantic it would be for me and my brawny lobsterman. Of course, this is a delusion. I know this. I knew this.

The day before, I went to this museum to stand in front of this painting and wept.

I saw this painting after seeing several other paintings by various artists related to this artist. And yet, somehow, it was a powerful experience to witness this image. I don't know why exactly. I'm not sure if it was because this particular painting was housed in a renovated church. I'm not sure if it was because this painted sky swept through my heart like a spring breeze. I'm not sure if it's simply because it calls to me from a place of my childhood or if it just evoked the sensitivity of my grandmother's brushstrokes. Whatever it was, I wept with delight and sadness all at once.

It was almost as if the muse called to me through the paint. I knew then what I have known. I knew that there was more for me to learn. I knew that these artists would teach me what I needed to learn from this place. I knew that the crazy idea that I have had about church is still calling me. I can't ignore it. I just have to figure out how to create it. And so, I did what one can only do in that moment, I painted. I sat in the cozy B&B window and painted the harbor. I searched the horizon knowing that there is and will always be more out there for me.

The Power of Naming

We had a guest today! My friend Bryan brought the Good News of outdoor ministries to our community. It was a wonderful sermon with intellectual fervor, relevant imagery and a message that was powerful for campers and those that are no longer able to camp. It was awesome.

Bryan offered the Benediction as we concluded the chapel service this morning. And though it is a paraphrase from the recesses of my foggy sprung ahead brain, I offer his words reflecting upon the imagery of the Gospel Lesson:

Go forth from this place hearing the call of God to "Come out"
Not with Lazarus' name -- but your own name. Come out!
There is work to be done.

I loved the reminder that there is work to do. I really relished in this. I thought that this was what was powerful in these words until I settled in my chair upon the chancel for the next service.

Not with Lazarus' name -- but your own name.

In the chapel service, I had shared the joys and concerns with the gathered. I had listed off the concerns for those in the hospital and raised joy for those that are healing. These are prayers that my colleague collects. He keeps the master prayer list - and I often don't find what they are until Sunday morning. So it was today.

I read the final joy for a new birth. A child that was born to a daughter of a staff member. This is a staff person I adore. She is a church member that I cherish. She is one of my favorites (and yes, I have favorites). But, when I read this joy, I had not yet read to whom this child was related. I only knew her name because she was given my name. She was born on Thursday -- and she was given my name. It took approximately 45 minutes for this to sink in to my sprung ahead brain.

This beloved staff member, church member and new grandmother was not in church today. I couldn't see her face in the congregation to ask how they had decided upon this name. I only knew that this child was given my name. I have never met her parents. It is not a tribute to me -- and yet, I cannot escape the thought that this child will forever be connected to me. This child was given our unique name. This child was given this name because I came into her grandmother's life. I am in complete and total awe at what God calls us out to do.

There is such power in naming. There is such power in the names that we give each other and the names that we give the feelings we have. And yet, I have no idea what to call this emotion. God has called me with my own name. Come out!

A Hidden Blessing

Let go.
Let God.

Though I have no idea who first said these words or why, they have been on my mind these past few days. They were said to me right before I left for my jaunt to the Midwest. I believe I even said them to the Senior Pastor in the midst of his recent struggles. These familiar and appropriate words even appeared on a church sign (because there are a lot of those in the Midwest). That still small voice wants me to hear these words.

Of course, all of this repetition didn't smack me until I zoomed from one airport to the next to try to be home in time for Sunday worship. I was eager if not determined to make it home. I wanted to be in church. I did. I really wanted to be in church. I had taken these few days to unwind with old friends that knew me before I became Pastor Peters. I knew that I needed to embrace this mantra. It's what made me take this little mini-vacation in October. I thought I had slowed down. I thought that I had completely abandoned my inner New Yorker pushing me to overdrive. I thought that she was gone -- until the knots in my back appeared and I found myself staring at the airport monitor.

I did what you are supposed to do in these moments. I called a friend. I told her I was stranded in her city. I wanted to wait and see if I could get on this flight. And of course, the Lord of the Airport laughed and reminded me:

Let go.
Let God.

I won't be in church tomorrow. I won't be at the denominational meeting to follow. I won't be there for the many things that perhaps should demand my attention. Instead, I booked a morning flight and came to have a beer with friend.

The Church is Still Standing

There is no place for them in the inn.

After I guided my small class of 6 students through the use of a Concordance and a Bible Dictionary, these are the words I wrote on the easel. And then, I asked questions. What do we need to know? What is assumed here? What might we want to know more about?

I don't know if The Thoughtful Christian had this in mind when they encouraged subscribers to use Biblical Interpretation 101 in their congregations. But, as conversation continued, I actually said that this journey probably never happened. I said that Luke probably made it up. And the looks of relief were astonishing. I didn't refute the church member that insisted that Mary was a virgin. But, I did say that it was highly unlikely that this lady made it on a donkey that pregnant. They laughed. And then, they asked more questions. Excited questions that you ask when you just want more and more information. Excited questions that can't quite seem to be get enough information. And then, I started talking about non-canonical texts. We talked about how the canon was formed and why these choices were made. There were no blank stares. There were no furrowed brows. There were looks of relief. There were looks of delight as I reminded these church members that there are stories that we believe because of faith, not because of logic. There are stories that we continue to tell that don't make any earthly sense. But, they matter. They really matter.

And the church is still standing. I'm in shock.

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.

Lingering Thoughts

I was all ready to go to bed. But, these thoughts are lingering with me and I can't seem to get away from them -- even in my feeble attempts toward slumber. So, I thought that I would share these thoughts so that they no longer have to be only mine. Both happened today.

The first happened just after church. One of my favorite church ladies held my hand and thanked me for my sermon. She grew up Missouri Synod Lutheran -- and though she loves our church, she struggles with the progressive politics and theology that is often espoused from the pulpit.

"That," she said, "was a great sermon." I said my feeble thank you before she added her next words.

"That was a good fundementalist sermon."

Stunned, I am. I smiled before finding the only words on my heart: "Um, I wouldn't call it fundamentalist."

"Don't argue with me," she said as she patted my hand. "It was a good sermon. I needed to hear it."

This is an interesting moment for me. This is a moment I would have never, ever expected. I went to a seminary for "heretics" and have been called one more than once. I have been vocal in my faith and my politics to the point that it was difficullt for many of the search committees that interviewed me. And now, I have preached a fundamentalist sermon. Huh. I am just stunned. Is this what happens when you are a Biblical preacher? I preach the text with subtle references to other things. Wow. What do I do with this?

And then, there was this other lingering thought from this afternoon. I was lamenting to a possible new friend (though I doubt this person will actually become a friend, or whatever he might hope to come) about the church. I said something about why we don't do something in our church. It was judgmental and perhaps a little harsh. I'll give you that. But, he said: "It doesn't seem like you really enjoy your work." Again, I was stunned as I realized something that has been very difficult for me in the endeavor of making new friends. See, his assumption was wrong. It's not that I don't love the church. I DO! I love it so much I could burst. But, I believe that the church -- as a human institution -- has a long way to go. And I'm going to love it during its arrival to this new place.

And while I'm lovin' the church, I need friends that understand the complex nature of my relationship with the church. I love the church so much that I don't think that I should have to prove it. That's not the stuff that I want to talk about usually. Usually, when I gather with friends in a safe space, I want to vent. Perhaps that's unfair to my friends. But, I want to talk about the stuff that drives me crazy. I can't do that at church. I can only do it with friends. Arg. So, this frustrated me. Thanks for listenning. Now, I'm going to try to sleep.

Interrupted by Grace

Little Mary lamented in her recent post that she made someone cry during a meeting. I had a meeting like that this week -- except that I was the one that felt like crying. The meeting was focused on the area of ministry that I like least. I hate that the "young and hip" minister is the one that gets youth ministry and it is assumed that she will be good at it. So, I felt like crying as I was told what I should be doing according to my job description (a document that mysteriously does not actually exist). This meeting confirms my hatred for meetings. It is the worst part about ministry. There must be clergy that have a wonderful gift for these meetings -- but I detest them.

Instead, I would like to share with you why I am a minister. I had two of these moments today -- one right after the other as if the Holy Spirit herself were breathing little sparks to ignite my heart again. I love that she knows just when I need her. After running particularly late this morning (which happens after bad evening meetings for me), I went to visit with Gertrude in her condo without a view. This was the first thing that she showed me. Now that the trees are out, she can no longer see the bay. She complained that they were particularly big and green this year and then laughed at herself. I love it, especially because Gertrude is slowly going blind.

I had met Gertrude at the 90th birthday party a few weeks ago -- an annual luncheon that honors our oldest members on their collective birthdays. We talked about art. And this is what had brought me to her home this day. Not only because I wanted to get to know her better, but because I was interested in seeing her art. She shared her watercolors and acrylics with me. We relished in the wonder of creativity and the bonds that it offers to other creative types. You see, this was my major in college and I'm still wondering about how to connect my passion with the church (or if it should remain something sacred for me). We talked about how hard it is to be lonely and the struggle to maintain indepedence. And then Gertrude and I started to talk about her loss of sight and how hard it is to be creative. I can't really explain how awesome this moment was. But, wow. This is why I am ministry. I touched the divine in this moment as I shared in her vulnerability and frustration. Wow. It was just awesome.

And then, it happened again. Maryjane wandered into my office. She had been looking for the Senior Minister but it is his day off. Maryjane has a dear friend that is dying -- and it's been understandably difficult for her. I was in the middle of preparing for my sermon for next Sunday. I was reading the gospel lesson and wondering about tears. So, I shared with her my thoughts about the power of having a sacred space upon God's feet to cry. We talked about how there are so few people that we can allow ourselves to be this vulnerable with. And we prayed. We prayed for strength and peace in our own lives and the lives of others.

Oh, it was so freakin' amazing. So, this is why I am in ministry. Now, if only I could find the time and energy to be truly prophetic about marriage equality, abortion rights and speaking truth to power about too many crimes against human rights. But, if I can be interrupted by grace like this everyday, I suppose the time will find me.

Be afraid

So, I found something fun on the internet that may entertain me for hours. Or may provide the perfect comeback to the congregant that is driving me crazy. It's the Bible Curse Generator.

I probably won't get to use this on my congregants -- not soon anyhow. Apparently, a young woman who I had dinner last week ran into some church members and they got to talking about me. Gulp. These church members told said new friend that they were really excited that I am here at this church. They are eager for change and hope that I will bring it. Gulp gulp. This information was relayed to me tonight through another friend.

The problem is: I don't know who these church members were. And my bigger concern is that we are shifting toward a non-pastor centered governance model. So the change can't be me. It will be all of the people in the pews. I will be the cheerleader. Perhaps a pushy, opinionated cheerleader, but a cheerleader nonetheless. Sigh.

What just happened?

I'm not sure what just happened. Really. I mean, I was there. And I know what I thought was going to happen. But, something different. Far different than I expected just happened. I just taught my first class of my Lenten series: Way of Torture, Way of the Cross. I thought that it was going to be a challenge. I thought that it was going to be really difficult.

Instead, the Spirit surprised me. There were about 20 people -- far more than I ever would have expected on a Wednesday afternoon at 4:30. And most of the gathered were grandparents, who chuckled when I mentioned that the UN Convention Against Torture was held before I was born (1975).

We explored the image of God in three Biblical passages. And honestly, they dug their heels in and really explored these three passages asking tough questions about the image of God and the implications in torture. I'm just amazed. I never thought it would go so well.

It's one of those moments. One of those moments that you remember: YES LORD! This is why I am here. This is why. I remember now. Thank you Jesus.