Time to Let Adam Marry Steve

Three years ago yesterday was my first day at Longview Presbyterian Church.  For reasons unrelated to this anniversary, yesterday was also the first time I donned a clerical collar.  In the Presbyterian branch of the Church, collars aren’t as common as for our brothers and sisters in other denominations.  In fact, I don’t think I even knew Presbyterians “did that” until I saw it for the first time when I was well into my twenties.  In some more formal churches, pastors wear them for Sunday worship.  Some, especially young and/or female, wear them on official business, such as hospital visits, to help stake their pastoral authority.  But in my small town, casual church, I’ve never felt the need to wear one.  My mom bought me a collar and the appropriate shirt for my ordination, and it remained in the original packaging until yesterday.  Considering I’d never even tried the shirt on, it was lucky for me that it actually fit.

So why did I finally slip that funky little piece of plastic into my shirt collar?  Just like a young female pastor making a hospital visit, I wanted to be sure to be identified as a member of the clergy.  I was attending an interfaith prayer breakfast kicking of a march from Vancouver to Olympia in support of marriage equality.  I, and all the other clergy in attendance, wanted to be an unmistakable witness in support of love, not hate.  We wanted to make sure that those claiming to be God’s mouthpiece for discrimination would not be the only representation of the God’s faithful seen by the public.  We wanted to get the word out that God loves all God’s children, without exception.

I was one of several clergy invited to speak that the breakfast yesterday.  Whenever I see a long list of speakers, especially clergy, I anticipate some long, boring, speeches.  But I was wrong.  Everyone who spoke did so beautifully.  I am grateful to have had the opportunity to be a part of such a wonderful event.  Here is my contribution:

I remember a self-esteem poster from high school, I think it had a picture of an orangutan and said, “God made me and God doesn’t make mistakes.”  [Yes, it was a public high school.  Things were different back then…]  Though modern science and psychology affirm that people are born into homosexuality—God made them that way—to say that members of the LGBT community should not love who they love or they should not marry who they love, or to tell them that they should settle for domestic partnership, a “separate but equal” status is to say, “God made a mistake.”  Not only is this hurtful and discriminatory to an entire group of people, but is offensive to God.  I believe in marriage equality because I believe that God doesn’t make mistakes.

The late Shirley Guthrie, the highly renowned professor of systematic theology at Columbia Seminary identifies the “rule of love” as one of the rules of Biblical interpretation.  Guthrie quotes the Second Helvetic Confession “we hold that interpretation of scripture to be orthodox and genuine which agrees with…the rule of faith and love” (chap 2).  Guthrie continues, “An often forgotten rule, [the rule of love] is based on the fact that the fundamental expression of God’s will is the twofold commandment to love God and neighbor.  Any interpretation of scripture is wrong that shows indifference toward or contempt for any individual or group inside or outside the church.  [emphasis mine] All right interpretations reflect the love of God and the love of God’s people for all kinds of people everywhere, everyone included and no one excluded.”  In a similar vein, Rev. Jack Rogers, a prominent figure in my denomination who had a turn around on “the issue,” came to see that “We in the church are not living according to the ideals of our Savior and Sovereign, Jesus Christ, when we discriminate unjustly against any group of people in our midst.”

Jesus taught that the greatest commandments are to love the Lord our God with all our heart, mind and soul, and our neighbor as our selves.  Scripture tells us God is love.  No qualifications.  What then, can possibly be objectionable about committed, monogamous love between two people?  I believe in marriage equality because I believe God is love.

I believe that strong, loving, committed marriages strengthen our society.  I believe that children raised by loving parents strengthen our society.  I believe that healthy, loving families give us a glimpse of the Reign of God.  And I believe that love, not anatomy, is the foundation of a healthy family.  I believe in marriage equality because I believe in family values.

And if all those reasons weren’t enough, I believe in marriage equality because I have too many dear friends, wonderful couples, in long-lasting, committed, monogamous relationships who would have been married years ago if they only could.  I had the joy, honor and privilege to attend the wedding of two beloved friends in October 2008 only to have Proposition 8 break our hearts weeks later.  Thanks be to God for the work the Holy Spirit has done this week in the court ruling in California and in the votes of the Washington state legislature.  I eagerly await the day when marriage equality is a reality for all.  May it be so.

Of course, my statement was quite typically Presbyterian.  It was very intentionally crafted, I used a manuscript (is it still a “manuscript” if it’s on an iPad?) and, of course, included academic quotes.  Probably my favorite part of the event was when I sat down after my statement.  There was a twenty-something guy sitting next to me and he leaned over and said to me, “That’s why we love our Presby friends.”

It’s so appropriate to have participated in this event on the anniversary of my call with the first time wearing a collar, in support of marriage equality.  After all, my position on equality for the LGBT community, specifically in terms of ordination standards, was an obstacle—albeit surmountable—to my own ordination.

I look forward to putting on my collar on Saturday when I will join the march for the Kelso/Longview portion.  I will attend events and I will speak on a panel in support of marriage equality, as a witness to God’s love and grace for all.  And I will continue to slip that funky little piece of plastic into my shirt collar in support of social justice whenever, wherever, however I can.  Amen.

Creature Nature

A new dog in the house has me thinking about “creature nature” these days.  Remmie is a lab mix we adopted from the shelter; he is mostly loveable but he does have his moments.  Like this morning when I dared to leave him to himself long enough to take a shower, and he put on a blues concert of mournful howls in our front window, making sure the whole block could hear his tale of woeful neglect.  He will occasionally growl and swear at us when he feels he is not being fed or walked or played with promptly enough.  When I move throughout the house, Remmie is almost always under foot; he seems to sleep with one eye open so he can make sure he follows me from room to room.  He’s a pest at times, but I also know what this behavior is about—his thirst for attention, his desire to be cared for, his dependence on us as his caretakers and his need for reassurance that he will not be abandoned.  Most of the time these creaturely qualities of Remmie’s are also what makes him easy to love—he’s loyal, affectionate,  and obedient (not to mention awfully cute.)

He reminds me of the words of one of my favorite Psalms:  “O LORD, how manifold are your works! In wisdom you have made them all; the earth is full of your creatures…These all look to you to give them their food in due season; when you give to them, they gather it up; when you open your hand, they are filled with good things.   When you hide your face, they are dismayed; when you take away their breath, they die and return to their dust.  When you send forth your spirit, they are created; and you renew the face of the ground (Psalm 104:24, 27-30 NRSV).”  The writer of this Psalm has imagined all sorts of creatures going about their creaturely business and lifting their faces to God for the provision they require:  various birds are mentioned, as are goats, and cattle, young lions, deep sea creatures and “creeping things innumerable…living things both small and great (v.25).”  People are there too, right in the middle of the list; right in the middle of the menagerie, seeking attention, care, and reassurance from the one who has promised to provide.  We share in the delight of receiving God’s bounty and the dismay of feeling at times that God has turned away.  It’s part of our creature nature.  Perhaps we don’t often think of ourselves this way, more inclined to consider ourselves masters over creation and our own destiny.  But as the weather begins to turn, and we’re stocking our pantry with what remains of summer’s bounty to sustain us through the barren season, I’m reminded again of my dependence on what the hand of God provides.  I’m awakened again to the needs we all share, as human and non-human neighbors.  And I’m reassured by the promises of Scripture and the gracious worshipping communities to which I belong that the One who loves me will never leave me.  I may not be as vocal about it, but it’s an assurance I need as much as Remmie does.  I suspect we all do.

Evening Constitutional

As I walked in the on again off again rain this evening, suddenly there was a loud crackling, almost like fire crackers, and then, a huge branch, actually, half a tree fell down across the street not far from where I was. The tree stood between a highly traveled street and a school field where children of all ages were practicing soccer and yet, miraculously, no one was hurt. No one but the tree, who I regret to relate is unlikely to survive. And after everyone screamed and ran to make sure no one was hurt (which I already knew since I saw the tree fall), I turned to continue my walk and saw a huge, full, super bright rainbow.

That is all.

Oh, for a church like Charlie’s

On Monday morning, I sit at the counter at Cheap Charlie’s, as has become my ritual.  Usually my husband is with me but he’s out of town this week, so I am here alone.  But not really.  I never really feel alone in this place.  Kristy the server gives me a hearty greeting and pours my coffee.  She asks if I want the usual.  “Not sure…How’s your strawberry pancake special?”  I know I can count on an honest assessment.  “Lookin’ real good today,” she says.  That’s what I’ll have.  While I’m waiting for my order, we catch up a bit.  She tells me about her other job tending bar in another town, I talk about my week ahead, we commiserate a little about commuting come winter and a couple other patrons drop in their two cents.  Some of this conversation takes place with Kristy half way across the restaurant.  This morning she is waiting on half a dozen full tables and carrying on as many conversations all at once, without missing a beat.  Personal details are exchanged but the talk here is always communal in some ways.  Even the youngest patrons discover this; in one corner, a couple coos and makes faces to cheer the crying toddler peeping over her mother’s shoulder at an adjacent table.

There is nothing in the aesthetics, inside or out, that would particularly entice one to come to Cheap Charlie’s (unless one would call a giant concrete pig on the roof enticing.)  When my husband and I first came, we weren’t looking to become regulars; we had never been genuine Cheers-type regulars anywhere before.  But we had heard about this place from trusted friends, we loved the down-to-earth, come-as-you-are atmosphere, and Kristy and company took a friendly, non-intrusive interest in us from the beginning.  Before we could name the major streets in our new town, we found ourselves drifting back week after week; before we knew what was happening, we were part of a family we didn’t even know we were looking for.

And since I’m in the business of helping people find their place in a family of faith, I’ve been reflecting on Cheap Charlie’s particular drawing power, and dreaming of what the church could learn from a place like this.  Imagine a church where:

–You could come as you are.  I mean really come as you are, as in just rolled out of bed, just came off the farm or the construction site, just stepped in from your morning jog.

–People are real, and they present their establishment in an honest way.  They know they’re not perfect, but they’re not ashamed to be who they are.  They know what they do well and what needs work, and they’re not afraid to answer your questions.

–People take an active interest in your life, who you are and what’s important to you, without subjecting you to an inquisition.  They try to remember significant things about you from one week to the next.  They also know when to give you a little space.  When you’re gone for awhile, they let you know you’re genuinely missed, without laying on the guilt.

–You can tell the people already there are happy to be there; they’re enjoying themselves and each other.  They have a sense of humor and they don’t seem to be in a hurry to leave.

–All kinds of people from all walks of life frequent this place, all seeking and bringing their own particular flavor.

–You come away nourished in body and spirit, grateful to be alive and part of the human community, ready to tackle the work which is yours to do.

What would it take to accomplish this?  Apparently a fancy building and an expansive “menu” are not required; you can offer standard wholesome fare in an aging edifice and still attract a fair-sized following.  It appears to be a question of spirit.  Or Spirit.  Oh that more of our churches would be grasped and shaken awake but such a Spirit, that more of the hungry may find a home.

Tony, Frank and Jude

I would like to write a blog entry today.

But something is missing.

 

I would like to inspire with profound spiritual insights.

But I just can’t find it.

 

It’s not that I have nothing to say.

I’ve thought of wonderful topics for blog posts over the last few weeks.

I just can’t seem to remember them. 

They are, to paraphrase as Shakespeare in Love, safely locked up…

In my mind. 

If you can call it that.

 

So instead of a fabulous post about God’s grace or some such thing…

I offer this:

 

A prayer for the missing idea.

A prayer for the lost inspiration.

A prayer for the slightly-singed mind.

May God’s grace and peace be with us today…

And always.

 

(St. Anthony—patron saint of lost things.  St. Francis de Sales—patron saint of writers.  St. Jude—patron saint of lost causes)

Shoeless M.O.

I do not wear shoes when I preach.

It started out as a theological statement: that in worship we come into God’s presence, just as Moses did at the burning bush. And in recognizing this space as holy ground, we (like Moses) remove our shoes.

But removing my shoes is not an empty theological gesture that has no consequences. On the contrary! Every week, I remove my shoes and allow my feet to be visible to all who would examine them. (And my feet are not traditionally something I am excited to show off.)

Moses removed his shoes … and then, in his encounter with God, went on to demonstrate both his best and his worst natures. So, too, do I find that God’s call utilizes my best gifts, while challenging me in those areas where I need the most improvement.

In an act that is both freeing … and slightly unsettling … I remove my shoes each week and allow the less-than-polished parts to be visible. Barefootedness is no longer just a theological signpost; it has become a continual reminder and my weekly, intentional consent to allow my vulnerabilities to be apparent, rather than hiding behind a polished facade.

This week, as Shoeless Mo (Exodus 3) appears in the lectionary, I am particularly cognizant of the unusual places in our lives that God is at work. And I am oh-so-thankful at the opportunity to remove my shoes and come into God’s presence.

Fall’s My Spring

Fall’s my spring.  I’ve never mused for too long about why, but I’ve known it to be true for as long as I can remember.

What I mean by that is, autumn is the season that ignites my blood, that energizes my imagination, that puts me in touch with the wonder of being in the world like no other season.  I do adore the actual spring, the shedding of coats and the dressing of trees, but it doesn’t have quite the same visceral tug for me that fall does; the tug that I’ve become aware of these past few weeks as the slightest chill has crept into the early morning breeze, and I open the door every other day or so to a front lawn blanketed in birch leaves.

Maybe it’s because I’m a bookish type and fall always meant new books, new lessons, new fields of knowledge to excavate.  That, and the hope of reinventing oneself with new clothes, new hair, new classmates.  With the falling leaves, the chance (however slim) of dropping some of last year’s uncool was offered again.  And while a good measure of my personal trials and private joys took similar shape year after year, change did happen, by golly—and there is probably no more telling record of this than the photos my parents took of my brothers and me on the front step every first day of school.  I was born in the fall; and somehow, through whatever disappointments the year now waning might have brought, autumn always has a way of stripping me of my cynicism and awakening the promise of rebirth.

Autumn is dream time.  My Midwestern neighbors have helped me become more aware of this.  The dog days of summer will still be panting along with us for awhile, but one of these nights the temperature will dip into the low 60s and people will wake up full of praise for “good sleeping weather.”  This phrase was new to me when I moved here, but how true it is—there is something so satisfying about pulling up a blanket on a crisp, chilly night and harvesting dreams that have had time to ripen.

What will I let fall like a leaf this autumn?  What will you?  What new way of being will we try on?  What new insights will befall us when muggy days give way to nights of cool clarity?

Blessed be the season that brings rebirth in the midst of decay.  Thank goodness for another fall a’ coming.

Mortified by God’s Love

Last week, while preparing a sermon about the E-word (evangelism), I explored some different reasons we (myself included) are so uncomfortable with evangelism.  I noted that proclaiming the Gospel (evangelism) isn’t about CONVINCING people.  It’s simply about sharing with people this amazing truth: God loves you!  And sharing with them what that means to you—how you respond to God’s love.  Why would we keep that a secret?

I wondered, are we ASHAMED to be loved by God?  Are we EMBARRASSED to respond to God’s love?  That part didn’t make it into the sermon.  I axed it because I thought, “Surely people aren’t ashamed to be loved by God…”  But I wish I left it in because I repeated the phrase several times throughout, “God loves us.”  And whenever I said it, a palpable discomfort swept the sanctuary.  Every time I said, “God loves us” I could feel people squirming in their seats, avoiding eye contact.

And it occurred to me that in some way, there is something about acknowledging God’s love that is awkward for people.  Like in junior high when EVERYTHING your parents do is embarrassing.  (Well, honestly, not for me because it takes a lot to embarrass me, but) I remember a friend who had her parents bring her to school super early so that no one would see her parents drop her off.  There was nothing wrong with her parents or their car but for some reason she was simply mortified by the very existence of her parents.  Does God somehow fit into the same category as a dad mowing the lawn in his underwear?  Mom going to the grocery store in curlers?  Grandma giving you a big kiss and yelling, “I love you” as you run into the school hoping that no one knows that it is you she loves?

But it is you who God loves.  God loves you.  God loves you.  God loves you.  And that’s nothing to be ashamed of.  Nothing to be embarrassed about.

Or is it that we just don’t really believe it?  For some of us, do we have such a low impression of ourselves that no matter how much we hear it, we just can’t fully buy in to the notion of God loving us no matter what.  Maybe we don’t really believe that God can love us, flaws and all, and that there’s nothing we can do to earn God’s love and there’s nothing we can do to lose it.

Believe it!  It is you who God loves.  God loves you.  God loves you.  God loves you.  And that’s nothing to be ashamed of.  Nothing to be embarrassed about.

God’s Reign is like a garden full of weeds (?!)

When I finally got back to my garden after more than two weeks out of town, I was dismayed to find that weeds had completely taken over my plot.  Apparently, the weather we’re having this year is perfect for weeds, and not so great for vegetables.  It was so bad that I literally could not make out the plants in the sea of weeds.  I had to begin a long and painful task of weeding, being very careful not to “weed” plants that I intended to be growing (sadly, I was not always successful).  As I was toiling away early last week, I was reminded of this passage, not realizing that this passage was the lectionary for Sunday:  “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone took and sowed in his field; it is the smallest of all the seeds, but when it has grown it is the greatest of shrubs and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches.”  (Matthew 13:31-32), In Jesus’ context, mustard plants were weeds.  No one in their right mind would intentionally plant a mustard seed in a field.  It would take over the field, threatening your crop.  It would be like sowing a blackberry seed in your field.  So as I pulled weeds, lamenting the sorry state of my garden, I pondered this passage and honestly, I was a little irritated by it.  Why would Jesus liken the Kingdom of Heaven to a field full of dirty rotten weeds?

And Jesus “told them another parable: ‘The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.’”  (Matthew 13:33)  The kingdom of heaven is like yeast, a necessary but impure item that is not used in ritual bread.  Yeast used in a ridiculously large amount, so much that it would create more dough that the woman would be able to handle.  Just as I was having trouble handling the plot full of weeds.  “The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which someone found and hid; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.”  (Matthew 13:44)  Kind of like the treasure of my plants, that were hidden in the field of weeds.  If only I could find them…

So what is Jesus saying here?   Why would he equate the Kingdom of Heaven, God’s Reign with things so undesirable and undignified as weeds and yeast?  Why would he say that it is a precious treasure hidden in a profane field?  Quite simply, because God’s Reign is as pervasive and unrelenting as weeds thriving a wet, cool summer.  God’s Reign is as bountiful as a ridiculously large amount of yeast, expanding dough to the point of overflowing the mixing bowl, kitchen and even the entire house.  Because God’s Reign, precious though it is, is hidden among us, in plane sight, in our everyday, regular lives.  And that is the Good News.  The Good News is the Kingdom of God, the Kingdom of God is the Good News.

Irises

The backyard of the home my husband and I moved into in February has a make-shift patio with a low rock wall around it, and along the wall a row containing several varieties of German bearded iris.  The blooms were magnificent, but the patio and wall had begun to tilt and crumble, and we determined the rocks needed to go—therefore, the irises needed a new home.  This wouldn’t take long, I figured, especially after the rain that left the soil nice and soft the Friday morning before Pentecost.

But it was much more arduous task than I’d imagined.  The bulbs are close to the surface of the soil, but the roots run deep.  These irises hadn’t been divided in some time, so they were stuck together in awkward clumps, with their backs (literally) against the wall, like kids at a middle school dance.  They were not easily moved.  Each one seemed to cling more stubbornly than the last.  I broke two cheap trowels in the effort before I went for better tools.

If only they knew, I thought.  If only I could help them understand that I was preparing to move them to a new place where they’d receive more light and more nourishment; that I was severing them from their tight clumps for the sake of their freedom, so they’d have room not only to thrive, but to generate more irises, as they were born to do.  (Each individual rhizome produces only one flower stalk of its own; then it devotes its energy to forming other rhizomes.)  But how could they discern my good intentions, while suffering the shock of being pried out of their home turf by the roots, separated forcibly from their siblings, given a cold bath, and left all vulnerable and exposed until their wounds scab over and they can be planted in new earth.  The experience is so jarring that some will not be ready to bloom again until spring after next.  Yes, try telling them, as they’re splayed out and shivering on the back dack, that this is a natural process, and all for their good; that I’m doing this because I care for them and find them beautiful and want to preserve their life; tell them that—not right away, but in a year or two perhaps—they’ll thank me for this.  That if I do nothing an leave them be, they will either consume all their resources and perish, or be crushed.

Are we so different?  If we know this about the rest of the natural world, that growth and rebirth and transformation often involve processes we’d consider harsh and disorienting if we were the object, why then do we assume that somewhere, or in some time long ago, or on some plane just beyond our reach, there exists a process of spiritual growth that is clear, clean, and pain-free?  Why do we imagine the apostles were so lucky?  The wind that blew through the house was a violent one, do we assume it didn’t sting?  Or that the tongues of fire resting on them didn’t burn?

The Holy Spirit did not come to make the process clean and smooth.  Mission is always messy!  The Holy Spirit comes with tools sharp enable the transplant of gospel hope from one frail, tangled, backed-up-against the wall, vulnerable human creature of clay to another.  The Holy Spirit may pluck us out of one hole only to have us dwell in a deeper one, so that—there is always this “so that”—so that men, women and children around us can learn what it means to live in God’s reign, where justice, love, mercy, grace, peace and abundance prevail.  Washing away the mud and muck of our lives has this purpose at heart.  Healing our wounds is for this reason, that we are better equipped to bear the gospel into the world as its witnesses.  Pentecost says we are the incarnation now.  Are we anxious?  You bet!

But one of the gifts we are given by the Spirit is to understand what irises can’t.  That we are cared for by a Master Gardener.  A Gardener who knows just what we need to be well-nourished, to bloom and flourish.  A Gardner who knows how much time we need to heal.  A Gardener that is patient enough to wait with us for the season in which we come into fullness.  A Gardener who knows the full glory of our potential and takes utter delight in the beauty of what we have to offer, and in the meantime is willing, with bent back and stained knees and sweaty brow for our sakes, to come right down in the mud where we are and tend to each of us with such precise and loving labor you’d think each of us were the only flower in the yard—and not one of 7 billion, equally precious.  If we knew where to look, we might be surprised to discover the soil of our circumstances under God’s fingernails, our grit rubbed into the callouses of God’s hands, and this Gardner would have it no other way.

We find ourselves anxious and undone, bewildered and afraid, and we long for a sign of the Spirit at work.  Who are we to say our fear itself is not the sign that something holy is at work in our midst, something glorious afoot, some sacred process of transformation having its slow, miraculous way with us?

The irises had no assurance of where they were being taken, only that they were being carried away by a force greater than them.  The apostles, the same.  At some point they all gave way to the unknown, let go, surrendered, let themselves be taken up.  At some point it seemed a greater risk to stay clumped and clinging where they were than to fall and follow in the direction of their fear.    No doubt they looked bulbous and clumsy as they began.  People said, “They are filled with new wine.”  God knows they were filled with something.  New life.

Kicking good habits (it’s easier than you think)

I’ve been thinking a lot about habit forming lately.  Good habits.  Bad habits.  I think they say that it takes 28 days to form or break a habit.  I’m pretty sure it takes longer for me to form a good habit and less time to break a good one.  And bad habits?  Breaking them often seems an insurmountable task.

This blog, for instance.  I’m supposed to post a weekly entry.  Despite some reservations about my ability to do so, I was really consistent about it for the first few months.  I surprised myself by not missing a week, even when I was on vacation in March.  But then…  I gave myself a pass when I was on vacation in May.  The next week, it totally slipped my mind and here we are, a month has passed and finally I’m getting back to the keyboard, again with reservations knowing that when I go on study leave in July, I’m likely to fall off the wagon again.

But what does all this have to do with God?  Heck if I know.  If you can think of something, please post in the comments section.  (Just kidding.)  (Kind of.)

God knows this about us.  God knows that some of us (most of us?) have a hard time keeping “good” habits, and breaking the “bad” ones.  I don’t like to even use the terms “good” and “bad” habits because these terms can carry negative, moralistic and self-righteous connotations.  But there are “good” habits, those which benefit us and/or others just as there are “bad” habits that are harmful to us and/or others or, at the very least, prevent us from being our best possible selves.  Our true selves, worthy of our identities as children of God created in God’s image.  Because God desires us to be our best possible selves, God wants us to stick with the good habits and drop the bad ones.  For our own sakes.  For our own benefits.  God helps us and encourages us toward that which is good for us and away from that which harms us.

And, of course, the best news is, God loves us regardless.  Have you kicked a good habit?  That’s ok.  God still loves you and God will also help you to pick it up again.  Recently picked up a bad habit?  That’s ok, too.  God still loves you.  God helps us help ourselves, prodding us to do what is best for us and for those around us.  And God loves us all the while.

Restoration

I’ve seen my share of flood and storm-damaged homes lately: buckled floors, moldy walls, soggy couches and ruined refrigerators.
At my own home, a leaky roof plus severe storms equals the removal and replacement of the ceiling in a couple of rooms.
In my work coordinating volunteers who come to help clean and repair flood-damaged homes, and in dealing with my own storm damage as well as my ongoing remodeling project, the question that must be answered again and again is:
Is it worth saving?
What can be restored? And what must be replaced?
As I tear out the ceiling in my family room, can I save the crown molding?
Are the water-damaged shelves able to be given new life?
If it can’t be saved, it gets torn out and thrown away. If it can be saved, it gets carefully removed, restored and replaced.
Tearing out things that won’t be saved is easy. Gently tending to the things that will be restored is slow, difficult, and tedious work.
During these times = when my hands move slowly and carefully and my brain races around for something to occupy it – I have often imagined what God’s work of restoration might look like.
Stripping away the varnish that seals off my heart.
Prying loose my damaged pieces.
Mending my broken places.
Making sure my framework is solid and sturdy.
I’m not sure why, but these imaginings give me comfort. I suppose it is the same comfort that I might have if the original carpenter who built my house came back to help me remodel it.

High Water Marks

Just outside of town, the empty fields are ringed with trees that have been marked. You can see it even at a distance: a perfectly horizontal line marking every tree for miles.

It’s the high-water mark.

Above the line, foliage is green and growing. Below the line both bark and treeless branches are covered with a grayish-brown film like the haze left on the sides of a bathtub with a too-slow drain.

In a few days or weeks or months, the highwater mark will have faded. While images of the flood will remain lodged in this community’s living memory for quite some time, soon we will no longer be able to point and say, “The water got clear up to here!”

Every time I drive past these two-tone trees, I consider the high-water marks of life: the milestones or transitions or moments that marked both the beginning and the end.

Twenty years ago this month, I was graduating high school: a high-water mark, too be sure. In the fall, my twenty-year class reunion will be held – strangely enough – on the day of the my 38th birthday. There’s some strange irony in that.

In honor of life’s high-water marks, here is a quote from Scott Simon (of NPR). It reminds me that not all of life’s transitions can be marked by a cap and gown; not all of our beginnings /endings are moments for pomp and circumstance.

“Let life change you. You’ve worked hard and learned a lot. But if you live well, you’re going to know love, loss, confusion and failure—life’s truest teachers. Real life can shatter certainties like a delicate cup in a tornado. Keep learning. Be inconsistent. Don’t have a rich, full life only to wind up at 40 with the same convictions you had when you were 20. Let life in.” (Scott Simon on NPR)

I Don’t Need a Thing

This week I’m preaching on Psalm 23, and in my preparation I found an interesting juxtaposition. The NRSV reads: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”  The Message reads: “God, my shepherd! I don’t need a thing.” 

There’s a big difference between the two … and it points to something I’ve noticed. Too often, I think we find ourselves resisting the ways in which God would care for us. We find ourselves saying the words of the paraphrase: “God, my shepherd! I don’t need a thing.”

“God, you go on and take care of somebody who really needs you. I’m doing just fine. I don’t need a thing.”

In my interaction with folks in the area that have been affected by recent flooding, I’ve see a lot of examples of this resistance to being cared for. Too many folks resist help, resist supplies, put on a brave face and say they’re doing okay. “You give those things to someone who really needs them. I’m doing okay.” Or “we’ll be fine.”

We folks in rural areas are really good at care for others … but sometimes we’re not all that comfortable with having other people care for us.

“Oh, Pastor Meg, I don’t need to be on the prayer list. There are so many other people who need prayer more than I do.” OR

“Pastor Meg, I don’t want you to make a trip all the way down to Paducah just to see me in the hospital. You’ve got too many other things to do.”

To me, those things sound an awful lot like: God, my shepherd! I don’t need a thing.

Psalm 23 invites us to envision God as our shepherd: one who is with us and who is for us. But it also challenges us to give up our resistance to God’s shepherding care.  Psalm 23 challenges us to let our independence slip – ever so slightly – and to give ourselves permission to receive God’s care.

When you reach the end of your rope

“When you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on!”

I’ve run across this saying a few times over the years, on t-shirts and cards and such.  It’s usually accompanied by a picture of a cute furry animal of some sort clinging to the end of the rope, looking comically frightened.  Somehow I don’t think I’m that cute and cuddly when I’m at the end of my rope.

But it sure feels like I’ve spent a lot of time there, over the years, if we think of the “end of the rope” as that place where one clings to the frayed edge of composure, one stressor away from a meltdown.  That used to be a predominant life pattern for me—tie-off an cling ‘til my fingers (and nerves) are raw, and then eventually collapse into an exhausted, weeping heap; until I could sufficiently regain my composure in order to set off in search of a new length of rope.

The ironic thing about those meltdowns is that I would fight tooth and claw to avoid them (I will not, I will not…), but once I finally did let go, I always felt better—cleansed, clear, refreshed, alive, able to laugh at myself. Invariably I would ask myself (for a little while) what all those knots had been protecting me from?  What exactly is the Great Big Deal about letting go of the rope?

Overtime, I’ve gained some courage in facing up to those things that fray my sense of peace and confidence, before I end up in a heap. This kind of self-reflecting is a hallmark of Clinical Pastoral Education (my previous field), but I’ve discovered it’s essential to my work in the parish.  My need to cling to composure and control not only makes me a pretty un-pastoral person when I let it accumulate, it also has much to teach me about the life of faith when I’m willing to get into it rather than try to stay on top of it.  For example, when I crack open the week’s lectionary texts and my reaction is “Ick. I don’t have a clue about what to say about any of these texts!” I’m often faced with a choice—do I plunge ahead with exegetical study and worship planning, tying knot after knot (after all, there’s no time to waste), or do I close the books, cut the cord, and allow myself to scuba-dive into the awful murk of my resistance.  (This is, I should point out, a little different then wallowing, although I’ve known wallowing to be precursor to the dive at times.)  Sometimes this dive takes a while.  Usually I see stuff I’d rather not know is down there.  Almost always, eventually, I emerge with a gift–a pearl of spiritual truth that hadn’t been as clearly visible to me before, and that’s usually where the sermon comes from.

But the sermon’s not really the point, as much as the fact that I am learning, slowly, to practice what I preach—to believe that the grace and mercy of God will meet me where I land and is enough to hold me up—really.  In fact, that’s pretty much how grace is
allowed to have its transforming way with me, soft and clumsy animal that I
am.  When I reach the end of my rope, and sometimes even long before when I feel another knot approaching—I’m learning more and more to let go.

broken

A disciple asks the rebbe… “Why does Torah tell us to place these words upon your hearts? Why does it not tell us to place these holy words in our hearts?” The rebbe answers… “It is because as we are, our hearts are closed, and we cannot place the holy words in our hearts. So we place them on top of our hearts. And there they stay until, one day, the heart breaks and the words fall in.”

Sometimes the breaking is the result of one swift blow of a hammer. 

Sometimes it’s the ongoing, long-term pressure of a vise grip.

Sometimes it feels like our hearts have been broken to pieces.  Irreparably damaged. 

Sometimes it feels like our hearts have been broken so completely, for so long, that we may never again know what it feels like to be whole. 

 

Whatever the cause of your heartbreak, whether it is now healed with only a scar remaining or whether you sit in the ER waiting to be seen by the triage nurse, I pray that you will find comfort in knowing that it is in our brokenness that God’s Word falls into our hearts.  It is God’s love and the peace that surpasses all understanding that will make us whole again.

Flower Power

I found my apartment on a gray, rainy, dismal day in January.  I moved in on a gray, rainy, dismal day in February.  Little did I know that, come spring, the tree outside my living room window, which I hardly even noticed due to its bare-nakeness, would explode into a giant beautiful mass of pink blossoms.  Since I live on the second floor, I have the full impact of this phenomenon.  That first April, I was amazed by the way, when the sun hit the tree just right, my entire living room was bathed in pink.

The next year, I looked forward to the blossoms but missed the peak as I was out of town for two weeks and returned to find the flowers replaced by the green leaves that follow.  This year, I eagerly anticipated their arrival.  Almost three weeks behind last year.  At one point, I was sure that a particularly hard rain had ruined this year’s crop but then…  it happened.  My window was once again filled with nature’s portrait of cotton candy.  And this year I got to enjoy the whole process:  from itty bitty pink buds to full blossoms to petals floating on the breeze, showering the sidewalk below.

I often catch myself wistfully musing, “I wish the tree could be in full blossom all year long…”  And then I realize, if my living room window were filled with pink every day of the year, I’d probably puke.  In fact, I probably wouldn’t have rented this apartment if that were the case.

I’ve never been one to subscribe to the whole idea that if bad things didn’t happen to us, we wouldn’t appreciate the good times…  To me, it leads to this vision of God, like those of Greek mythology, sitting up on Olympus, zapping us with difficulties just when our lives seem to be getting a little too blissful.  “Look how happy she is.  Maybe a little too happy.  I don’t think she appreciates how good she’s got it.  Better give her an ailment to battle…”

And yet…

It does seem that if everything were excellent all the time, I don’t think I would fully appreciate it.  It took the temporary loss of my right hand for me to fully appreciate the two, good, working hands I’d taken for granted. It took a foot problem for me to fully appreciate being able to walk without pain.  It takes bad to appreciate normal.  It takes normal to appreciate fabulous.  And as things gradually get better in my life, I do appreciate them, because I remember the truly crappy times.  And thanks the crappy times (which were once “normal”), and thanks to the not-so-crappy times that become the new normal, when everything is pink blossoms and rose tints, I’m able to recognize how beautiful and special it is.  And when it’s over, I treasure the memory while also valuing the boring old green leaves of the tree that will keep my apartment cool in the summer.  And looking forward to the next pink explosion, helps get me through the long, loooooong, gray, .rainy, dismal, bare-naked tree winters.

Road to Nowhere

I tried. I really did.

I wanted to post a thoughtful reflection on this blog on Friday (which is my usual day to post) … but it’s as though my brain has gone all fuzzy. (It might be wrackspurts, but I don’t think so.)

Our blog is called Wholly (Holy) Ordinary … and we attempt to notice the holiness of ordinary moments. But as I look around at the floodwaters on every side, my brain just stops working.

This week – instead – I offer you a visual meditation. As I was taking these photos, the phrase “a road to nowhere” kept popping up in my head. Note that everywhere there is currently water in these photos, there is usually (completely) dry land.

(this is one of those tall roadside billboards)

Six Words

A couple weeks ago, I was hearing a lot about the six word memoir on the radio (though for some reason, I am unable to find the recent stories/interviews online).  Apparently this is a format with a fabulous (likely apocryphal) origin.  The story begins with Ernest Hemingway in a bar (as any good Hemingway story does);  in a bar bet, Hemingway was challenged to write a six word novel.  Here it is:  For sale: baby shoes.  Never worn.

Six words.  A complete story.

So I’ve been thinking a lot about this and have written and re-written my own memoir several times.  Here’s the best (fit for online publication) version:

dramaturg turned pastor.  runner turned…yogi?

But here’s my six word faith memoir:

Beloved child.  Forgiven sinner.  Redeemed.  Called.

What’s your six word memoir?

What’s your six word faith memoir?

[Wanna know more?  Google:  six word memoir

And/or check out this link:  http://www.npr.org/programs/totn/features/2008/02/memoir/gallery/]

Redeeming our Senses

On one of my many commutes this week, I caught just a snippet of an interesting interview on Being with Krista Tippett on NPR.

The interview was with Vigen Guroian, who writes on the connection between gardening and the Christian faith (specifically, the Eastern Orthodox tradition). In the part of the interview that I heard, he suggested that the events of Easter redeem our senses.

I’ve been dodging rain for two weeks, trying to plant blueberry bushes and apple trees and roses and holly and tomatoes and corn and carrots. And in the last few days, while digging and mowing and pruning, I’ve been wondering how Easter redeems my senses.

I wonder about those disciples who went to the tomb, who saw messengers whose clothes and faces shone like the sun. After seeing such a light, were they somewhat blinded to the rest of the world for a time?

After a camera flash, I see spots. When suddenly turning on a light after I’ve been in the dark (or asleep) I am temporarily unable to see.

So, in the light of the news of resurrection, did they leave the tomb with one hand out in front of them, so that they didn’t run into trees and bushes that they couldn’t see?

Or, (unlike camera flashes) does the light of resurrection give such light as to improve our vision rather than diminish it? Am I better able to see the seeds, smell the grass and experience the texture of the petals because of the Good News of Easter?

In the Eastern Orthodox tradition, icons are an integral part of the worship experience. These icons are extraordinarily beautiful images of the foremothers and forefathers of the faith, Biblical scenes, or representations of the saints.

The word icon means window. In the Orthodox tradition, it is believed that these visual representations open a window into a deeper understanding of the faith.

Perhaps that is the way in which I experience my senses to be redeemed. Instead of seeing my garden better, I am able to see my garden as an icon, a window: a window through which I am more able to see the fingerprints of God.

Jesus is Risen (whether the pastor is or not)

I prepared meticulously the evening before (not necessarily a natural gift).  After all, it would be the first Resurrection Morning I was to celebrate as a parish pastor, and the first Sunrise Service on the Bluff the community had seen in a number of years.  I had been excited to hear a few folks from the Lutheran fellowship planned to attend, and my friend Brenda, due to be ordained an Episcopal deacon soon, agreed to help lead some of the responsive readings.  Maybe we’d have as many as a dozen people at our brief bluff-top service of prayer and praise.  At 6:00am, though, I would be happy with a handful.

I dug out my markers and made signs on paper plates.  I put two folding camp chairs in the trunk and a thermos next to the coffee pot, pre-set to start brewing at 4:00am, the same time my bedside alarm was set.  I laid out my clothes, including two layers of long underwear.  I placed a confirmation call to the harmonica player and the flautist.  I reviewed my order of service and marked “i thank you god for most this amazing day” in Selected Poems  by E.E. Cummings.  I collected everything in my tote and set it by the back door; and then, because I had been battling bronchitis all week, I went to bed early, following a hot bath and a spritz of lavender essence on the pillow.  By 9:30 I was out like a light.

And it was the light that first alerted me to the fact that something might be wrong,
winking at me slyly from beneath heavy shades.  Light?  I wouldn’t have suspected any light in this room yet before 4:00am, with official sunrise not ‘til 6:04 (I had looked into that months ago.)  I propped up and glanced at the clock.   I stared at it bleakly for at least a minute, willing this to be a dream and waiting for the real reality to manifest
itself.  “Stop playing tricks on me eyes, mind,” I ordered.  The clock said 5:30.  The service was to happen in 30 minutes.  And since I live 50 miles away from the worship site, and do not own a helicopter, the truth began to crystallize–it was going to happen without me.

I ran into the den and snapped on the light, dialing madly as my bemused husband squinted from the futon where he had taken refuge from my hacking and wheezing.  I called our organist, the only number I could quickly find—who was of course not planning to tote an organ to the top of the bluff, but was a natural leader and could figure out to do.  At this point I didn’t know what to do except apologize profusely, proclaim my utter embarrassment, and spew the random tidbits of possibly-useful information to which my careful planning had been reduced:  “If Brenda comes, she’s got
some readings…Jim knows one of the Scriptures…Erin’s supposed to come with her
flute…The hymns are…”  Martha responded with a gentle chuckle and amazing grace.
“Now, don’t spend any more time worrying about that,” she said soothingly.  “You just go get ready and we’ll see you later.  I’m on my way out the door now.”

And I didn’t worry after that—not too much.  Although I did long to be there.  And I felt more than a little stupid.  At the same time, as my adrenaline began to even out during my fifty mile drive, I realized I felt refreshed after an unexpected full night’s sleep, more energized than I had in days.

On the bluff, those who gathered figured it out amongst themselves (they included 17
adults, two small children and a dog, from three different churches).  Everything went well, they said, and they had a great old time.  In fact, I didn’t hear a single complaint.  They brought the old rugged cross from the sanctuary in the back of Jim’s pick up (their idea), carried it out the overlook and draped it in white.  Brenda had my original draft of the order of service in the car, and so they used that as a guide and made their own
impromptu additions and revisions.  Lee played a harmonica prelude 5 times through while they got situated.  They carved up the responsive readings and passed them around.  Some people who never read in church volunteered.  Erin played the flute.  They managed to share three hymnals and a songbook.  At just the right moment, the sun broke through the clouds.   He was risen, risen indeed, and they felt it in their own rising to the
occasion, as well as in the sense of transcendent embrace.

Did I receive a little ribbing when I arrived at the church (on time for breakfast,
of course)?  Absolutely.  Would this funny little story be all over town by Tuesday?  You betcha.  Do I still kick myself a little every time I think about it?  Sure I do.  But once again I am bowled over by the forgiving nature of the people I serve, and more significantly their ability to live into their own call to priesthood, to recognize that Easter is where you
find it and liturgy is indeed the work of the people.

While the perfectionist in me will probably be favoring my bruised pride for awhile, the
radical in me finds it delightful and inspiring that 19 people and a dog, from three different churches got up at 6:00am and had an Easter service of worship—without
one pastor present.  The People’s Easter.  It’s almost too cool and idea to mess with.

Yes, I’m sure I will try to make a more earnest effort to arrive (early!) for next year’s service.  Then again, knowing Jesus will rise whether the pastor does nor not—a little extra sleep this time of year does sound nice.  Maybe just a few more minutes….

Dominos

Some of you might be familiar with “Willow Tree,” a line of figurines, usually angels.  I was given these as an ordination present.  Not technically angels, these figurines representing Love, Joy and Peace sit on my office bookshelves, flanked by books.  A couple weeks ago, I discovered a problem.  Some books had fallen over, knocking down the figurines.  Actually, what happened exactly was, my books on death, dying, suffering and grieving fell over, knocking down Joy (I’m not making this up) who crashed into Love, who then hit Peace and you would think that Peace would have simply and safely fallen against and be propped up by the book Healing a Broken World but in fact, Peace toppled over tumbling all the way down to the floor.  Isn’t that a lot like life?  The first casualty of death and dying is Joy.  Whether real or imagined, we sense that Love, too, is somehow lost, or at least diminished.  And of course, Peace, in our hearts, minds and world, doesn’t have a chance.  And when love, peace and joy are gone, healing the broken world can seem like little more than a nice idea collecting dust on a bookshelf.

I suspect that’s a bit how the women felt that morning, approaching the tomb at dawn.  Surely, in the wake of the death of Jesus the joy they had felt a week before—as Jesus made his triumphant entry into Jerusalem greeted by shouts of “Hosanna” and “Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord”—surely that joy felt like an emotion they’d felt a lifetime ago, as if it had been experienced by someone else altogether.  Surely their grief consumed their entire being leaving no room for any other emotion.  Perhaps it seemed like all the love in the world, too, had somehow been sucked out of the world.  With Jesus, their hoped for Messiah dead, any hope for peace and for healing of the broken world had been toppled.  Crashed.  As lifeless as Jesus himself.

In many ways, we sit in the dark, as the women and the other disciples did in the hours between Jesus’ death and the Easter morning discovery that Christ is Risen.  We sit, assured in faith that God has won the victory over sin and death.  As our choral introit yesterday stated, “sin and death can vex no more.”  But the problem is: sin and death do continue to “vex” to put it mildly.  They do much more than vex.  They cause great pain and suffering in our lives.  No one gets off easy.  We are all “vexed” by sin and death.  And this reality is something that has always disturbed me.  How is it that Christ’s resurrection means the end of sin and death when, it’s no secret, sin and death are still very much a part of our world?

I recently came across the best explanation of this paradox of our faith that I’ve ever heard:  the analogy that in WWII, once the Allies secured a beachhead on the European continent, victory over the Nazis was assured.  Though the war would rage on for months, the outcome had been determined.  Likewise, in the resurrection of Jesus Christ, God has won the decisive battle over death and sin, though the war continues in this in-between time, until God’s Reign has broken through completely.  Until God’s Reign is the new reality.

When the Marys arrived at the tomb at dawn, they found that the tomb already empty.  Already, Christ is Risen. This means that God was working before dawn.  God was at work in the dark.  When the women and the other disciples were still steeped in the dark of their grief, already God was doing the work of Resurrection.  Already God was giving them reason to “fear not.”

God has won the decisive triumph over death and sin.  Death and sin are put in their place.  Joy is again possible, and indeed the most appropriate response.  Love again has a place, front and center.  Peace, utterly dependent on the love of God, the peace that surpasses all understanding, is put aright.  And healing a broken world is again possible through God in whom all things are possible.

Christ is Risen!  Christ is Risen indeed!

Not Just “Cheap” and “Easy”

When I first bought my house (which is a fixer-upper), someone told me the golden rule of hiring remodeling help:

There are only three criteria that count for any kind of service professionals (or amateurs, for that matter): good, fast, and cheap. You will never find anyone who meets all three categories. The best you can hope for is 2 out of 3. Which two, is up to you.

That has, so far, proven true.

The electricians were wonderful to work with, did quality work and were reasonably priced.

The roofers were very quick at their work … but my roof is still leaking.

I recently organized a Lenten study on food ethics for the congregation I serve. As part of my research, I listened to a lecture by Eric Schlosser (author of Fast Food Nation) who pointed out that the selling point of the fast food industry is that they are fast, cheap and easy.

I occurs to me, in both cases, that fast and cheap are thought to be desirable characteristics in everything from hamburgers to handymen.

I don’t have more hours in the day than anyone else, and I have less money at my disposal than many … and so I am often seduced by the wiles of the quick and inexpensive.

But this is the season that challenges us to consider that, perhaps, we were not made to embrace the easiest, fastest or least expensive. We were made for so much more.

The staggering beauty of trees in bloom, the grandeur of fields of purple, the lushness of soft, moist grass, the majesty and ferocity of thunderstorms … nature in springtime forces us to concede that God does not settle for quick and cheap.

I suspect that God doesn’t expects us to settle for that either. What if, instead of fast and cheap, we sought to surround ourselves with things of another quality:

Beautiful
Interesting
Rare
Mysterious
Delicious
Melodic
Abundant
Important

My grandfather (who passed away before I was born and, of whom, I only know the legends of family) was famous for often saying: “It only costs a dollar more to go first class.”

Spring (and, of course, Easter) challenge us to a “first class” way of thinking, challenging us to embrace what is Beautiful, Interesting, Rare, Mysterious, Delicious, Melodic, Abundant, Important.

This Easter, may the risen Christ transform our lives … and our choices.

Hiding out on Holy Wednesday

What to do on Holy Wednesday?

Not that I am short on endeavors to occupy my time today; there is, of course, plenty in the days ahead to be preparing for.  But having spent the last six weeks in the rhythm of rich ecumenical Wednesday night worship, I do find this mid-week vacancy a little disarming, though welcome.  It caused me to be curious about what part of the passion story we might
align ourselves with if we were to do today what we do the rest of the week.  If Sunday was palms and tomorrow’s foot-washing and eucharist, and Friday’s the dreadful cross, what’s happening today in this eerily quiet interlude, this sort of calm before the storm?

I looked to see what St. John the Evangelist had placed between the triumphal entry and the washing of feet (realizing I had drawn utter blank when trying to locate this section in my biblical memory).  Much of chapter 12 consists of Jesus’ meditation on his impending death and signs of eschatological promises coming to fruition.  He shares with the people
his soul is troubled.  He urges them to appreciate the light while it lasts.  And
then there is this curious section, beginning at verse 36:

“After Jesus had said this, he departed and hid from
them.  Although he had performed so many
signs in their presence, they did not believe in him.”

The verses go on to tell how the people’s disbelief is a fulfillment of Isaiah’s prophecy about the blind of eye and hard of heart, how it is the Lord himself who has made them so.
Verse 42 continues:

“Nevertheless many, even of the authorities, believed in
him.  But because of the Pharisees, they
did not confess it, for fear that they would be put out of the synagogue; for
they loved human glory more than the glory that comes from God.”

Basically, before the full-fledged drama begins to unfold (tomorrow), with allegiances formed and everyone’s cards are on the table—in the meantime, there is a lot of hiding going on.

Well, two types really.  There is the holy hiding of Jesus, which may have brought terror or relief to the gaping crowd (it reminds me of my mother, leaving me in time-out after some misdeed with parting words over her shoulder, “Now I’m going to give you some time to think about what I just said.”)

And there is the hiding of the authorities, who are too caught up in their own prestige and respectability to let their belief in the Messiah be known.  Theirs is a hiding in
broad daylight.  Jesus hides and yet is never far away.  The authorities show up
everywhere yet are never truly present.

All caught up in preparation for the week when, as a pastor I get to strut and fret my hour upon the stage more than any other time of year, I am arrested by this paradox.
What a timeless temptation it is. I’m a performer by nature, which is both blessing and curse to my occupation; and this is the week when pastors’ eyes light up at the possibility
of kicking some of our wayward flock and its shirt-tail relatives and unchurched neighbors in the conscience by putting our very best foot forward (could you scrub it a little harder, Jesus? I want it to really shine!) Opportunities to make a good impression abound.  As do excuses for keeping what I really believe about Jesus this week—the demands of his passion, the implications of the resurrection for the entirety of our lives—well hidden.  After all, I want to get in good with the swelling crowd.  I don’t want to create a disturbance that might shake even the committed core!  What kind of evangelism strategy
would that be?

Well, oddly, it seems to be the one the Savior used.  He said what he had to say, without
Easter-candy-coating, and then gave people the option to take it or leave it.  Expecting that many would leave it.  And then he hid himself.  Not wanting people to be seduced by the light itself, but to encounter the Truth it illuminates.

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee,”says the old hymn.  It’s never been my favorite.  It’s often struck me as a kind of cop-out.  But as I consider what I’m
being asked to do this week, and for whom, it strikes me as timely wisdom.  Let me hide myself in the only place where the message I proclaim can be infused with integrity and extracted of excess ego.  Let my performance be the vehicle and not the spectacle.  Let me not lose sight of my own deep need to die and be raised in these busy, holy days.  Let me hide myself where I may find myself, my true believing self, before the false self rushes in to steal the limelight.

And to God be the glory.

Let’s rethink this…

There’s never enough time.

This is how I’ve felt most of my life.  As young as junior high I remember fantasizing about having a magic power to stop time so I could have plenty of “time” to get everything done:  homework, chores, sleep.  Then re-start time to do fun stuff:  activities, watch TV, spend time with friends.

I remember being envious when I first learned that there were people in the world who only needed 4-5 hours of sleep.  (Bryant Gumble and Jay Leno were the first I knew of).  These aren’t people who—like so many of us in college, or as parents or at other times in our lives—get by on 4 hours with lots of caffeine, cat naps here and there and are generally miserable.  These people are just fine with 4-5 hours sleep.  They don’t need or even want any more sleep than that.  Are you kidding me?  Imagine how much I could get done if I just had that gene!

This weekend I heard a story on the radio about these so-called “short sleepers.”  Not only do they thrive on little sleep, but they also have lots of energy, have a very high tolerance for pain and—here’s the clincher—they tend to be thin.  I hate these super people.  And I want to be one.  Who wouldn’t?

But I was really disturbed by how the piece ended.  They were interviewing a doctor about 10 years into a long term study on short sleepers.  Basically, she’d like to find a way to harness whatever it is that makes a short sleeper so regular people could become short sleepers.  A pill.  (Gee…  I wonder if a pharmaceutical company is funding the research…?)

Does this sound like a bad idea to anyone else?  OK, I admit:  in the first split second when I heard about the idea of a magic pill to give me 4 hours a day my first thought was “I want that pill.  When can I get it?”  But in the second split second it occurred to me:  don’t you think that if they develop a pill that can transform regular people into short sleepers, it will become the norm to take it?  People will just add more and more to their calendars, pile on more and more commitments and responsibilities to their lives and soon they’ll need more pills so that they can get by with only 2 hours of sleep instead of a slovenly 4…  And what about those who don’t take the pill?  They’ll be considered slackers.

(Most of) our bodies need 8 hours of sleep for a reason.  We have a built in sabbath system for a reason.  Rest is important.  The answer to busy, crazy lives with not enough time to sleep is…  simplify our lives and make time for more sleep.  Don’t take a pill so you don’t need as much sleep!  (BTW, didn’t they already try that?  It’s called “cocaine” and taking it doesn’t tend to turn out well.)

It’s been a long day.  The start of a busy, busy week.  I’m going to bed.

 (You can read or listen to the NPR story here: 

http://www.npr.org/2011/04/16/135450214/eight-is-too-much-for-short-sleepers )