Respect My Authority

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.

I Learned Something New Today

I participated (sorta) in the *new* Coffee Talk on Google Chat today with my sisters on YCW. There were 17 of us on the East Coast. And though they were teasing me about my recent blog posts -- especially Alex -- I learned something really cool.

See, there are two YCWs (that I know of) that are not English speaking -- and they blog. I've been sorta curious about what it's like to be in ministry in Sweden. I mean, I'm Swedish. My father wants to retire there. It would be so cool to be able to read their blogs, but I can only say "thank you" and I'm not even sure I know how to spell it, so reading their blogs has been out of the question.

But, then, I found out about Google Translator, which seems pretty easy. So, go read in multiple languages and live into the season of Pentecost.

And for those of you that are eager to hear about my dating life, I haven't really got much to say. We'll see what the evening holds. He's been talking about inviting me over for dinner (did I mention he cooks?) and not staying up all night for once. Sleep would be nice, I admit.

Happy Things

I was tagged by APBS to name the ten things for which I’m grateful -- which is a fun summer exercise for this young preacher gal that can't stop with the stupid smile.

1. Making out like teenagers. (Judge what you will.)
2. Rising to a Challenge
3. Reading words written by another that resonate with my heart in poetry, in blog, in book or in the sand at the beach.
4. Having steady work, health insurance and a pension, when the economy is so crazed and driving a Prius when gas prices are sky-high. (I copied this one from Sarah as I have offered this thanksgiving several times over recently).
5. My baby sister that turns 17 today!
6. Having family that I know I can turn to when something goes wrong. Or even when something goes right.
7. Finding and creating community across the many places I have called home.
8. Having the perfect song come on the radio which calls me to sing out of tune or dance around my apartment like a crazy woman. This also works really well with running outside. 80s music is great for that.
9. When God proves that I'm not the cynic or pessimist I think I am. It's humbling but I love it when God proves me wrong.
10. The women of YCW that read my blog. In our virtual board meeting yesterday, I was overwhelmed by the power of the prayer community we share and I often take for granted.

And so, it is now my task to tag others, so here it goes: Rev. Ez, Ann, Pink Shoes, Teri, Father Stacy.

Preaching about Marriage

Y'all are sweet to ask about my sermon.

My words in reflection of Genesis 12:1-9 are below. It's a sermon I called Barren Places. Somehow, my wonderful preaching professor urged me to talk about justice without being aggressive -- so I manage to be pastoral (to a fault). The response was that we needed a reminder about being Open & Affirming. I think we need more than a reminder, but OK. The lesbians (or as I call them, my lesbians) were all there in the front row. I name them in my sermon except for one -- who did the Children's Sermon so beautifully. They each cried. I freakin' cried.

I did a couple of other things in the service that changed the tone so that these words were not the focus. I made them sing (and dance) to Father Abraham for the first hymn. I led. We laughed and were filled with joy. And then, I benedicted by asking each worshipper to greet their neighbor and learn their name and one thing about them. And then, they were to acknowledge that they were family with the words I offered in the benediction. Because of these things, my sermon was no longer the focus -- but I'd be interested to hear reactions.

This is a story of beginnings. It’s the story that you may never have asked your own parents. (Never mind your Biblical ancestors.) It’s the story your parents were probably reluctant to tell – like how my step-mother was tripped into my father’s lap in a bar by a wise friend. The details may not be as juicy for Abram and Sarai – but we don’t know. The story isn’t told. Without any romance or ceremony, the list of ancestors in chapter 11 assures us that Abram took Sarai as his wife. That’s how the story begins. Abram takes Sarai as his wife – but that’s not all. Sarai is barren. You can’t trip over that bar stool. There is no way around that one. This is so much more than a juicy detail. This is a scandal! The story begins in a place without hope or possibility. This is a story that begins in a barren place.

Before we learn that Abram is expected to have children at 75 years old. Before God tells Abram that he will be made “a great nation” where all of the “families of the earth shall be blessed.” Before the risk of divorce for Sarai’s inability to bear her husband a son. Before God told Abram to go anywhere at all, this is just a story about when two people fell in love. This is just a story of beginnings – a beginning where Abram and Sarai affirm their love for one another before their friends and family.

This is the honeymoon phase of any relationship – before anyone knows that she will be barren or that he will become the father of us all. These facts are, of course, what confuse us. We know Abraham and Sarah how we know our own parents – as parents, not as high school sweethearts or even as young people tripping over bar stools in the Old Port. We don’t really want to know the details. We’d prefer the idealized version without the family pressures or scandal or any other complicating factors. Our parents can keep the barren places, in the past – where they belong.

I never wanted that. I wanted to know all of these complicating factors. As a child, I wanted to know every last detail about my parents, partly because it was the only way that I had to know my mother after she died. I only had these stories about their beginning. And then, my father remarried – and I got a new story of beginnings – but even so, my family’s beginning didn’t look like the beginnings of other families.

I was a child in the 80s when divorce rates soared. None of my peers had typical families – with one mother and one father. But, my mother didn’t live on the other side of town. My parents weren’t divorced. And so, I thought that our family – like Sarai – was barren. There was an emptiness. There was a void that I so badly wanted to be filled. I wanted my father to get married again. I thought that would make everything whole again.

Of course, this isn’t just a childish impulse. We all want the honeymoon. We all want our community to affirm our love so that barren feeling turns into blessing – even among the most complicating factors. It seems like a scandal – but perhaps it is just a barren place waiting for a beginning. Or maybe it’s even simpler about that. Maybe it’s just about love and the beginnings of love – as for Abram and Sarai. It’s about beginning a list of ancestors as two people start their lives together – as Joshua and Benjamin did.

The New York Times Magazine recently featured their story. They met in college. One of them wanted to see other people. The other was in hot pursuit and soon – they fell in love. And as so many of us do, Joshua and Benjamin wanted “what they’ve long seen espoused by mainstream American culture: a long-term relationship with a chance to start a family.”

“Go,” God says to Abram. “Go from your country and your kindred and your father’s house to the land that I will show you.” Abram was to leave behind all he knew to seek a new home – by faith. He took his new wife and his nephew, and they left to find a place where “all of the families of the earth shall be blessed.” Abram goes – trusting that God will lead him to a new land. And when he finally gets there, God keeps talking. “To your offspring I will give this land.”

But, we already stopped listening. We’re stuck on the fact that Abram went without asking any questions. Does he even know that his wife his barren? Why would he go? Why doesn’t he ask? After all, there are no offspring. Sarai is barren. There can’t be any offspring! We are not like Abram. We do not listen. We ask questions. We begin to edit the story so that we might better understand it. We take the facts and rearrange them into some logical explanation – as if we had any control over how this all started. We focus on those barren places and ignore God’s assurance that “all of the families of the earth shall be blessed.”

Go, God urges when we are stubborn.

Go from what you believe to be true.

Go from the expectations of your friends and your family.

Go from your small town where (just maybe) you were accepted as you are.

Go from the barren places without hope of new life.

Go from your parent’s house to the possibility I will show you.

We are going together to find a place of possibility – that beginning of a possibility that we all want where we are known and loved. Where our families – in all of their shapes and sizes – are blessed. This is where we are going. This is a story our beginning. It started when our church family covenanted to be an Open & Affirming congregation, when we dared to welcome and bless each and every one of God’s people. We began to listen to each other’s stories, which is not as easy as it sounds. Listening means that we have to acknowledge that we don’t have all of the answers. We can’t be God anymore than we can be like our parents (though Lord knows, we never want to be like them). We can’t tell them where they went wrong. We just have to listen. But, when we are brave enough to listen, really listen, like Abram did and perhaps go along with the story without editing or deciding how the story should end, we might find that we are all truly blessed.

That’s the strange thing about this place. We meet people in the midst of their stories – when they wander through these doors feeling barren, empty and alone – and we get to listen to their stories and be transformed by their stories until somehow those stories become part of our place on Meetinghouse Hill. Those become the stories that affirm our possibility that all families can really be blessed – no matter what the legislation of our state upholds.

And though we might want to edit or insist on scandal or begin their story for them, that’s not our task. This is the story of our beginning. This isn’t the story of one gay couple in Massachusetts or one lesbian couple in California. It is our story to tell how we answer God’s call together. After all, we are a group of people that believe our mission is not only:

to worship God as made known in the Scriptures, as revealed in Jesus Christ, and as encountered through the Holy Spirit;

but also:

to serve our members, our community and our world, working in faithful witness toward justice and peace for all people;

to educate people of all ages toward a deeper understanding of their individ ual faith pilgrimage, their relationships with others, and their responsibilities as stewards of God’s created order;

to grow in fellowship as the Body of Christ, inviting others to share in the Good News of God’s love.

This is our mission. This is what we believed it to be in 1993 and still do. This is how we claim our life together in this family so that when God tell us to go, we don’t question. We know that it is our call to serve, educate and grow with the stories that we hear. It is these stories that inform who we serve, how we educate and whether or not we dare to grow into what God is calling.

These are the stories that matter and shape our ministry together – not only the story of Joshua and Benjamin. They have their story of blessing, but we have many others that require our careful listening. After all, Abram couldn’t go anywhere unless he listened. He had to hear God before he could go to that place where all of his offspring might be blessed.

Like Abram, we must begin to listen to those barren places – whether it is the story of a lesbian couple who have begun the countdown until their wedding while dreading the reality that the one of the bride’s parents refuses to come. It’s the story of another couple that comes to find sanctuary here because their pastor insisted their love was a sin. These are the stories in this place. These are the possibilities that are trusted with us and waiting for blessing. And it comes. Trust me. It comes when one of our members taps her pastor on the shoulder just before an evening meeting to share the news that she’s pregnant. It is not only her pastor that jumps up and down in the church office, knowing the anxiety these two young women face in beginning a family. It is her entire church family that celebrates in this story because we get to be there as that new family is created. And with our faith, we will grow with them listening carefully for God’s voice urging us to go – just as Abram did. Go from what we believe to be true. Go to worship, serve, educate and grow, invited others to share in the Good News of God’s love right here.

Prophesy Mortal

I have fallen out of the practice of prayer. I won't make excuses. It is what it is -- but I noticed it and became proactive a few weeks ago. I started reading the Bible (again) for myself. Not for sermon study. Or other ministerial roles. Just for me. I jumped into the Book of Exekiel wanting to eat and to live.

My new spiritual director teased me about this. She thought Ezekiel was an obvious choice for my present situation. Amusing. So, I've been pushing through slowly. I read a few chapters this morning in the middle. God's a bit angry which didn't help in my centering. There are two words that are repeated over and over: prophesy and mortal. After all, I am mortal and I'm hunting for God's words to prophesy into my dry bones (ok, I'm not that far into Ezekiel).

Prayer leads to interesting things. This is all I have to say. That 10 minutes provided an important reminder to begin my day. I hope you found the same strength this morning in familiar words with new prophetic power.

Never Gonna Get It

Yesterday I hiked over this little town with a friend. This is a friend that did the Peace Corps. She is incredibly talented and intelligent -- and rooted in Maine. We agreed we could both never live in this little town. That's it. That's the whole town. There isn't even a local store to pick up milk. It's been converted to an antique shop. My hiking said she could live there if she knew there was a definite end. This is how she survived the Peace Corps. It was only 2 years. I have heard this from other Peace Corps friends. And then, she stopped and turned around to face me. "Is that what you think of Portland?"

My answer didn't satisfy her. It wasn't exactly what I had thought of my time here -- but I don't see this as forever. I don't know that there will ever be a place where I settle forever as clergy. (Do we do that?)

While I was running today and thinking about this conversation, I remembered something that Sara Miles had written. She talked about Ezekiel's story and that strange command to eat the scroll. This is how I feel sometimes. I want to eat God's words. Not only in a feast. I want to dig into text. I want to swim into it. I want to be lost in it. But, I also want to eat my own words. I want to swallow my own pride and surrender to the fact that this is (actually) in God's hands. Not mine. And so, I turn to the Book of Ezekiel.

Keeping a Journal

Since I started blogging, I have journaled less. I mean, why keep a journal when you can publish your thoughts for all to read on the internet and get comments? Honestly. But, now, I'm taking a continuing education class discovering my inner ability to write fiction at our local university -- and I am required to keep a journal. Again.

I forgot how much I missed journaling. I forgot what a wonderful companion it can be. Not that I don't adore all of you, but I do write differently in my journal. I say more. I offer thoughts that I would hesitate to offer here as I don't want you to think that I'm crazy. And I am. But, I don't need you to be thinking that. In my journal, I can write differently. It's rather liberating and I had totally forgotten about it.

In class tonight, we made a list of the functions that a full-sentence journal might have. If you are writing in less than full sentences, the fiction writing teacher thinks you are not keeping a journal. I wouldn't know how to do that anyhow. That's what my calendar looks like -- and that's a mess as it is. This list included (but was certainly not limited to): reflections, rants, fantasies, dreams, what ifs, dialogues, parodies, spoofs. And then, I added: "Shit I had a bad day." The fiction writing teacher quickly added something about getting a new job when I made this comment. I didn't say anything. But, I wanted to tell her that this was actually healthy.

When I do write in my journal now, this was what I write. I write about those bad days that I can't tell anyone about. I write about what makes me sad about my work and why my heart is breaking because I care so freakin' much. I don't want a new job. I want to be sane in my current job. So, I'm taking a class to learn how to turn all of this stuff into a really good story -- as I believe there should be more stories about church. Good liberal church. But, I know that others of you write and enjoy writing even if it's just blog posts and sermons. I wonder about what outlets you give yourself in your journal or other places. How does writing feed your ministry?

Learning to Write

I would like to begin with two teeny tiny complaints. First: it's March. The Spring Equinox has come and gone. It's almost April. It doesn't need to be warm -- but snow? Really? Why snow? Is this really necessary? I'm grateful it didn't snow for Easter like it did in the Midwest but still. C'mon now. Second: I would really like to be healthy. I seem to get sick after these big holidays. I don't have the flu that it seems everyone around me has. But, I got sick on Easter Monday or Tuesday. And now, I'm sunken into my couch praying for health. This also forced me to cancel my birthday party tonight -- which is fine. Again, it's snowing. I'm happy to stay in. Sad that I'm not healthy. But, whatever.

I'm going home on Sunday after church. I have no idea where home is anymore. I imagine that this will become more and more complicated. But, I'm going back to the place where I grew up to celebrate my actual birthday and go to the New Testament conference at my alma mater.

For now, I'm sitting on my couch and writing. One of the thoughts that is bouncing around in my mind as I weigh what it is that I want to do with my current call is my long-held dream to write a novel. One day, I would like to write about seeking a call and what that is like. I actually started by writing about my brother. I wrote my anger and my process. I wrote in small fits of rage. And yet, I don't think that's what I want to continue with. I don't think I will scrap it though. I think that this is a novel about what it means to be church. My fits will become one character among many that come to find a home in church -- as we wonder about what this means. It will largely be a story about these people that I serve now. I will not use names or obvious narratives. Instead, this will be a story about how these people are compiled into five or six different main characters and how discover what it means to be church together. I'm hesitant because I feel like I need to disclose this to members of the church. After all, my hopeful end is to be published. For now, it's fun to write. We'll see where it leads... And health would be nice too.

Searching for Words

On Saturday, I hung up the phone after crying to my father. My knot had seemed better until I hung up the phone to realize that the knot is directly related to my stress level. I have no idea what is stressing me out. I know what was stressful in the phone call. I know what hurts and what I cannot fix. I know that that is part of my stress -- but I'm not sure what to do about it.

Since I hung up the phone, I have been wanting to write. Not just blog. Not just journal. Not the usual sort of writing that I do here and there. I have been longing to write. Perhaps I'm inspired by the book that I'm reading. Maybe I'm trying to find a way to express what is running through my head or the truth that I have come to know. And yet, I'm not sure where to start. I'm not sure where to begin -- so I'm searching for words.

Reverendmother is reading a book about unblocking creativity. I wonder if that would help. I painted this weekend when I couldn't figure out how to write -- but maybe I should just pick up a pencil and paper and allow myself to just connect. At the very least, I can rejoice that Obama won the caucus in Maine (even if the Democratic Party wouldn't allow me to vote). This is good news, my friends. This is change I can believe in even if I can't find words for my other thoughts.

10 Things About Me

I've been tagged by the woman resting on sabbatical to do this random 10 things thingy. While Ladyburg rests, I've been a little distracted. I had one of those days where I didn't have much focus -- but lots and lots of anger. I went to the gym. I worked some of it out. But, that's not what this post is about. This is a post about 10 random things -- not the 10 things that made me angry today. So here it goes:

1. I sold my first painting when I was 12 years old. It was my grandmother's friend's rose bush. I got $12 for my afternoon of painting in her rose garden.
2. Until recently, I could only paint when I was in a good mood.
3. I am really, really snobby about food. Just ask the guy that I went on a date with last week (which you cannot because I will not see him again). Slathered anything in tomato sauce and mozerella does not make it Italian!
4. I have an addiction to coffee. I get headaches. No, I don't think that's a problem.
5. Bill Clinton hit on me. I kid you not.
6. When my sister was little, I taught her astronomy as we talked about how much we love each other. To this day, we still tell each other that we love each other to Pluto and back. We don't care that it's not a planet anymore.
7. I did not actually minor in religion in college. I refused to take Philosophy of Religion. Thus, I was one class short.
8. My first job out of college was dogsitting in London. It was rough.
9. As a child, I could not be excused from the table until I thanked the chef in Norwegian. This was the only Norwegian I ever learned -- despite the fact that it is my heritage.
10. I am too scared to hike at this time of year in Maine -- especially after the 5th email arrived in my inbox advising me to wear orange if and when I hiked so I wouldn't get shot.
11. (AN EXTRA) The very idea of hunting baffles my mind. I'm a pacifist. I don't get it.

And now, I get to tag my fellow bloggers. So, I tag: Besomami, Little Mary, Audrey, apbs and Teri.

Remember Me

When only one person appeared for Bible Study this afternoon, I announced that I would need to leave early. I needed to worship. I needed to run for the hills -- but the best thing that I could do at that moment was go to worship. I wondered if it would be wiser to go the beach and cry -- but I already knew that my prayers were paralyzed. I needed others. I needed a community that didn't know my problems but would sing the Spirit around me. So, I went to sing with the Episcopalians at their Wednesday night Taize service.

I was still late -- despite my best efforts. And even still, once I settled into the hard wooden pew of the chapel, I started to cry. And it just came in that way that tears come. I cried as I croaked lyrics. I sniffled as I sang. I needed to be in prayer today because I don't know what to do with the news that I recieved yesterday. With the mammograms and delayed travel, I was really beginning to feel pretty great -- until yesterday. Things were pretty fantastic until I learned what was happening at home. I wonder if it's even appropriate to post on my blog. I wonder if I should reserve my feelings and not share the deepest sorrow I have felt in a long time. And though I shall reserve my boundaries for my congregation, I need to share this truth somewhere. I need somewhere to say -- other than to God -- that I have no idea what to do with this. So, I sang this chant:

Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom
Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom

This is not a chant we commonly sing at this ecumenical gathering -- but it is my favorite. I understand the Scriptural reference and what this refrain for our vision of eternity. And yet, I have always thought this verse has more to do with calling to Jesus to coax us into what we believe to be possible. Make the kingdom (ahem, realm) possible in our hands. Show us how! Show us how! Remember us as you share your vision! This is how I have always sung this chant. This is how I have always understood it -- until today. The universalist theologian in me that believes that everyone will be remembered was forced to pause. And here is the crux of my fears: my brother attempted to take his life earlier this week. I don't know what to do with this reality. I don't know how to pray -- but I want him to be remembered. I want Jesus to be there even if that's the last person my brother wants to be there.

My chants were riddled with this plea. I want my brother to taste this grace -- even though I know it is so far outside of his realm. My chant was for hope and peace. I didn't find either in this moment of prayer. I want both peace and hope and yet I don't know how they might be realized. So, I pray for Jesus to remember us -- all of us.

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.

Hooray!

So, you already know the background. But, just in case...

This summer, I travelled to Washington DC to be with other clergy women under the age of 40 at the Cathedral College of Preachers. The conference was hosted by The Young Clergy Women Project.

I'm honored to sit on the board of this organization so after the enthusiasm of the conference had settled, I sat with the 10 other board members to brainstorm our hopes and needs for young clergy women. Want to see who we are? Someone took a cute photo of us after our meeting. You can see it here.

Our conversations in hot and sticky DC created Fidelia's Sisters. And guess what? It was published today! I'm beaming! I'm the editor of The Gospel According to Lexi D. Vina. Get it? If you are interested in continuing Lexi's story, please include your contact in the comments here. Enjoy!

Why NOW?

Or perhaps the question is really: Why EVER?

I'm about to go to an event for church --- one that I'm running and then I read this article. This has been on my mind for weeks. I do self exams almost daily. I monitor what new pimples or marks appear on my breasts. You might think I keep a diary, but I'm not that compulsive. See, this is what beat my mother. This is what I watched as a child -- the scar, the silicone breast, the chemo, the radiation, the pain and death.

I recently learned that the hospital in my new town does these DNA tests. They have a whole unit. So, I'm wondering again if I should take the test. Is it better to know if I carry BRCA1 or BRCA2? Or is it better to not know? I assume the worst in these results, you must understand. And the woman in the article is 33. Why 33? That's how old mom was when she died. She was my age when she found the lump. So, I've been thinking about this a lot -- in that frozen, frightened kind of way where you don't actually do anything but quietly panic.

And I'm single and childless. So, then I have to decide if I could ever breastfeed my child. Which only brings tears to my eyes. But, I can't cry. I have to go to church. Fuck. I think I can curse here. FUCK.

Good News in New York

A good friend in New York (and a former colleague when he was my boss at Common Ground) just sent me this New York Times article claiming that there is "only one first time for getting your name in the paper." Don't you love that? I love that he dreams so big -- not only in his personal life, but knowing that the work he does will change the world if not New York.

If you don't believe there is good news in the world today, read this for some gospel truth. My preaching professor in seminary told us to look for images of the resurrection in our everyday world. And this is surely going in my file.

Forever Young

Yesterday, a member of the church introduced me to another area clergy. I'm not sure what was expected or hoped for in this meeting. But, I felt awkward. No, I felt young. I was asked if I was married, partnered or had children. And I think I replied tersely. This question makes me feel young. Perhaps because I'm sad that I don't have these things. Perhaps because I resent that these things create a personal life for others, and I feel left out. It's the same feeling I had at Bible study last week when I articulated my own feelings. There was a pause. And then I was told that you get to an age when you outgrow these feelings.

As I prepare my sermon for Sunday, these thoughts linger with me. These thoughts make me feel like I have nothing to say. Nothing to add. No gospel to share. I'm too young.

And yet, in these moments, I too often forget how I am perceived as a young 20-something member of the clergy. I forget that those same members of the clergy that I feel awkward around see something in me. They see my fresh insight. They see my youth as a positive thing -- even when I cannot.

And because I often forget this, I ignore that my words have power. Even though I am young and I only see my youth as a hinderance, I ignore that my words are hurtful. I don't pay attention to the fact that there are so many different perspectives. I don't pay attention to the fact that the words that I preach, the words that I write, the words in my emails and the words in on my blog have more power than I can be aware of. And in this, I forget to listen. I forget to love all of those perspectives. I forget to embrace those that are challenged with making tough decisions.

So, today, I offering my blessing and support to all of these people who remind me to listen, to love and to embrace. And I hope that they feel my hug.

Five Things I Dig About Jesus

Oh my gosh! I was tagged for a meme. I must admit that I don't even really know what a meme is. But, I have read several that have been passed around on various blogs that I frequent. But, never -- in my wildest dreams -- would I have imagined that I would be tagged for one. But, miracles never cease. Backwoods Rev tagged me for the 5 Things I Dig About Jesus meme. Could that be any more fun? I don't think so. Nope. OK. So, here are the rules (just so you know I'm not not cheating):

Rules for this meme:
a)Those tagged will share "Five Things They Dig I Jesus".
b)Those tagged will tag 5 people. (if they can find someone untagged!)
c) Those tagged will leave a link to their meme in the comments section of the blog of the person who tagged them (meaning this post) so that everyone can keep track of what's being posted.

Now that the rules are out of the way... I would like to honestly confess that the FIRST thing that I dig about Jesus is that he never ever played by the rules. Yes, he would have shared (even a meme, if that were possible). But, he didn't play by the rules. In fact, his tendency was to do what was not expected of him -- or anyone else in first century Palestine.

Ah Palestine. This reminds me that the SECOND thing that I dig about Jesus is that he preached with conviction and without hesitation, "Blessed are the peacemakers." He stood up for peace and reminded those that might react and retaliate with violence or harsh words to pause, count to ten and turn the other cheek.

This was not actually the only time that Jesus referred to the body or bodily part. And we should all dig this one. Because the THIRD thing that I dig about Jesus is that he was embodied. He was physically present with all that he encountered. He touched. He healed. He reclined with the beloved. And one guy even ran away from him naked (it's in Mark). I love that Jesus loves humanity so much that he celebrated flesh by becoming flesh and adoring all the pleasures of being flesh.

Oh, and that reminds me of the FOURTH thing I dig about Jesus! He knew how to throw a good party. (Make no assumptions that my mind went from sex to parties.) He threw the very first keg party and continually invited all of the interesting people from town to come to celebrate. To celebrate life and being together. To celebrate food and drink. To celebrate all that makes life beautiful.

And finally, FIFTHLY I dig that Jesus challenges me every day to live deeper into this world, to reach beyond myself and to love with reckless abandon. Could you ask for anything more than that?

Perhaps. I bet there are other bloggers with other thoughts and I still play by the rules so I tag: Alex, Hughman, Audrey, Kweerspirit and The Pastor's Husband.

Words to Remember

It is not the concern of any one race. The victims of the violence are black and white, rich and poor, young and old, famous and unknown. They are, most important of all, human beings whom other human beings loved and needed. No one – no matter where he lives or what he does – can be certain who will suffer from some senseless act of bloodshed. And yet it goes on and on.

Why? What has violence ever accomplished? What has it ever created? No martyr’s cause has ever been stilled by his assassin’s bullet.

No wrongs have ever been righted by riots and civil disorders. A sniper is only a coward, not a hero; and an uncontrolled, uncontrollable mob is only the voice of madness, not the voice of the people.

Whenever any American’s life is taken by another American unnecessarily – whether it is done in the name of the law or in the defiance of law, by one man or a gang, in cold blood or in passion, in an attack of violence or in response to violence – whenever we tear at the fabric of life which another man has painfully and clumsily woven for himself and his children, the whole nation is degraded.

These are the remarks of Senator Robert F. Kennedy to the Cleveland City Club in Cleveland on Ohio, April 5, 1968. You can read the whole speech -- and I hope you do -- here.

I heard them in the movie Bobby that I watched this hot June afternoon after leaving church to try to nurse myself to health. And yet again, I feel restless for what change I am not making in the heat of these days. And so, I lift up my simple prayer for peace -- that history might not repeat itself in utter tragedy as I fear it already has.

Words and Mistakes

I made a mistake. I did. I admit it.

I read somewhere that it was Simon that asked the question "Do you see this woman?" And as Bible focused as I tend to be, I didn't return to the text. I took this as gospel and hinged my sermon around it. It was only this morning when I read the gospel lesson that I heard my error. Oh well. It still preached. It would have been a very different sermon if I had listened to Jesus. But, things would always be different if we were really listen to the big JC, right?

Of course, no one said anything about my error. They probably didn't notice. And yet, my struggle is to reclaim the text with progressive Protestants. We tend to shirk it. Or read it as we want (which I wasn't trying to do, I promise). So, I feel a little bad.

I heard my error while I lead the morning chapel service. This service has traditionally been a conversational sermon where the leader coaxes the congregation to explore what is happening. Usually, it is more sermon-like with little moments of reflection. But, today, I decided we would really explore this text in Luke. As God's still speaking people, we would voice our own understanding. I wanted to turn the whole sinner woman thing upside down. I wanted it to be clear that it was not Mary Magdalene. In fact, we know very little about this woman.

That's when another woman -- a member of the congregation who is quite proper and introduced herself as a snowbird -- articulated it rather matter of factly: well, she's a slut. I laughed aloud when this very proper looking woman in her 70s announced that this sinner woman is a slut. I'm not editing the word choice here. Because you can't make that up. Sometimes, I think, we need to use words that don't usually appear in church. Oh, but don't you worry. We wrestled with that for a while to figure out if we really know she was. I love these moments where we finally get to make these stories our own.

Words of Wisdom

After my first weekend away since I arrived at my call, I spent this morning visiting. I went to coffee with one congregant and then went to the hospital. It's nearly one o'clock in the afternoon, and this seems like a good time to arrive at church to blog.

There are still images that flash through my mind from this weekend. Stirring my soul. Creeping into my thoughts. Haunting me, actually. When I arrived at JFK, I zipped over the terminal on the AirTrain and watched a car burst into flames. The train was paused long enough for me to watch as the car continued to burn, engulfed in the flames. My nerves grew tense as I thought about national security and tried to catch the haunted looks of others on the train.

The following morning at about 4 am, I snuck to the bathroom on my old seminary dorm floor where I was staying that night in an extra room. (I am a master at couch surfing when I visit New York.) I heard my name called down the hall only to be greeted by one of my dearest friends. She was having heart palpatations, so we went to the emergency room. And we sat as tests were done to assure that she was in fact well. A baby made our stay last longer. We heard rumors of trauma. We overheard whispers as the stepfather of this young child was interviewed. And then, we saw the gurney with the child wheeled into another room for the grieving family to say goodbye. I sat outside of the x-ray room waiting for my dear friend as I heard the mother enter the room and burst into haunting wails. Cries of protest. Cries of lament and disbelief.

I don't know what to say about these things. Are they just things that happened? Or is there something there? Is there meaning to be discovered in the haunting of their memory? I don't know. And yet, as I open my mail this afternoon when I arrived so late to church, I was surprised a card from a confirmand. A confirmand who perhaps has written the words that find meaning in the stories we do not know what to do with:

Dear Pastor,
Thank you for all of the words of wisdom. Hopefully, I will receive more as time passes.
Reuben.