Today we heard little Potatoes Wilson's heartbeat for the first time. I was completely unprepared. I had no idea what the doctor was doing and then I heard it--the very loud, very fast heartbeat that wasn't mine.
My first thought is, "Thank God it's still alive" because apparently I have a powerful fear that something I do or eat will hurt it. My second is, "Wow, that's loud." Loving Husband just had a look of shock on his face.
I think it's slowly dawning on us how real this whole thing is. Don't get me wrong, we are thrilled and can't wait to meet Potatoes. However, we don't really believe there is a Potatoes to meet, if you catch my drift.
Friday, May 30, 2008
doughnuts and jesus
Have you ever had a Krispy Kreme glazed doughnut fresh off the conveyer belt at 6 in the morning? No? Go ahead and set your alarm now so you can drive to the closest Krispy Kreme—in Columbus—and try it. I'll wait.
How was it? No, I don't expect you to have actually driven to Columbus, but I do expect you to try it next time you're in a city with a Krispy Kreme bakery. You won't regret it. Let me paint the picture for you. When you walk in, your nose fills with the scent of baking dough and hot glaze. You can see through several large glass windows the machinery which makes the doughnuts: mixers, shapers, some sort of tall, rise-inducing rack, the oven or vat or whatever it is that cooks them (it's been a while for me), and the conveyor they arrive on, doughnuts freshly drenched in sweet glaze. At this point, you may think, "So what? It's a commercial baking enterprise." If you were there, you would only be thinking that until you ordered your doughnut, had it handed to you, still hot, from the conveyor, and taken your first bite.
My friends, this is what heaven tastes like. It's hot but not uncomfortably so, sweet but with a strong undertone of yeast, and literally melts in your mouth. It is not, though I may try, a taste that can really be described. And it is, much to my disappointment, almost completely unlike the taste of the same doughnut several minutes later. Once it cools, the glaze hardens, the dough firms up, and the taste of heaven dissipates like smoke on the breeze. The doughnut we buy at the store bears no relation to this newly-minted, fresh, passionate doughnut.
That's right, passionate. Because I'm not just waxing lyrical about breakfast foods in my second-trimester state, I'm talking about the Gospel, too. How often have we heard the Gospel preached and it sounds nothing like what Jesus actually said? Or it has no taste, no yeast, no passion? Or it's gone stale? And how often do we ourselves feel that way about it, ignoring the scandalous implications of Jesus' words and the drastic measures he wants us to take to change the world? Jesus offers us the Gospel—the fresh-off-the-conveyor, melt-in-your-mouth, taste of heaven doughnut—and we receive or offer the world the day-old, store-bought version.
To be fair, we've always quite liked the day-old, store-bought version—it's sweet and a little salty and satisfies what we think we want. But there's more out there—there's challenge to live better, there's powerful comfort in grief, there's unnamable joy when you search for it and get up early and wait for a glimpse of the kingdom. But the kingdom isn't really like a doughnut, friends. There is a cost to discipleship. We are charged to sacrifice our sleep and our wealth and our comfort for the sake of others and for the sake of God. It is not easy to follow in Jesus' footsteps and we all too often decide to sleep in and go to the convenience store instead. But the reward for following is passionate life and a taste of heaven.
What is your passion at Redeemer? How is your faith evident in what you do in the world? What are you sacrificing for the sake of heaven? And what have you tasted as a reward?
How was it? No, I don't expect you to have actually driven to Columbus, but I do expect you to try it next time you're in a city with a Krispy Kreme bakery. You won't regret it. Let me paint the picture for you. When you walk in, your nose fills with the scent of baking dough and hot glaze. You can see through several large glass windows the machinery which makes the doughnuts: mixers, shapers, some sort of tall, rise-inducing rack, the oven or vat or whatever it is that cooks them (it's been a while for me), and the conveyor they arrive on, doughnuts freshly drenched in sweet glaze. At this point, you may think, "So what? It's a commercial baking enterprise." If you were there, you would only be thinking that until you ordered your doughnut, had it handed to you, still hot, from the conveyor, and taken your first bite.
My friends, this is what heaven tastes like. It's hot but not uncomfortably so, sweet but with a strong undertone of yeast, and literally melts in your mouth. It is not, though I may try, a taste that can really be described. And it is, much to my disappointment, almost completely unlike the taste of the same doughnut several minutes later. Once it cools, the glaze hardens, the dough firms up, and the taste of heaven dissipates like smoke on the breeze. The doughnut we buy at the store bears no relation to this newly-minted, fresh, passionate doughnut.
That's right, passionate. Because I'm not just waxing lyrical about breakfast foods in my second-trimester state, I'm talking about the Gospel, too. How often have we heard the Gospel preached and it sounds nothing like what Jesus actually said? Or it has no taste, no yeast, no passion? Or it's gone stale? And how often do we ourselves feel that way about it, ignoring the scandalous implications of Jesus' words and the drastic measures he wants us to take to change the world? Jesus offers us the Gospel—the fresh-off-the-conveyor, melt-in-your-mouth, taste of heaven doughnut—and we receive or offer the world the day-old, store-bought version.
To be fair, we've always quite liked the day-old, store-bought version—it's sweet and a little salty and satisfies what we think we want. But there's more out there—there's challenge to live better, there's powerful comfort in grief, there's unnamable joy when you search for it and get up early and wait for a glimpse of the kingdom. But the kingdom isn't really like a doughnut, friends. There is a cost to discipleship. We are charged to sacrifice our sleep and our wealth and our comfort for the sake of others and for the sake of God. It is not easy to follow in Jesus' footsteps and we all too often decide to sleep in and go to the convenience store instead. But the reward for following is passionate life and a taste of heaven.
What is your passion at Redeemer? How is your faith evident in what you do in the world? What are you sacrificing for the sake of heaven? And what have you tasted as a reward?
Friday, May 23, 2008
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
non-attachment
There was once a part of me which loved mowing the lawn. It was such a zen kind of moment. The action of cutting the grass shorter proved my existence and that my presence had made a difference in the world, yet it was short-lived: within days the grass grew back and there was no way to tell I'd been there.
The same is true for house-cleaning, only the "re-growing" is our clutter which is proof positive that we exist. Cleaning the house, de-cluttering, sweeping, dusting, laundry--it all gives a powerful sense of satisfaction when it's done. "I was here and I made a difference. I have triumphed over the forces of chaos and filth." But of course it doesn't last. The house, like the universe, gradually succumbs to entropy.
I suppose this might be depressing to some--that no real change can be made--that the grass and the clutter continue to grow despite our best efforts. I am oddly comforted by the encroaching chaos--the world continues without me, the community I live in will exist after we leave, the faith community perseveres through clergy and lay changeover, the earth remakes itself with each passing moment. What we do is not permanent, and we'd do well to remember it. Our towers and committees will all eventually fall apart yet the spirit that animated them will not.
The prophet Qoheleth wrote "Then I considered all that my hands had done and the toil I had spent in doing it, and again, all was vanity and a chasing after wind, and there was nothing to be gained under the sun." Again, some read this as depressing, but it rings so truly and beautifully in my ears. Only the moment is truly available to us--the past cannot be undone and the future is only a theory--it is only the olam, the eternal now, the depth of a single moment, that is where we live.
When I took ceramics in college, our professor--a gruff, hippie sort--spent a lot of time on "non-attachment." When you make a pot, he said, you pour your heart into it. You shape it with your hands, it's messy, it's beautiful, and you love it. And then you surrender it to the processes of drying, bisque firing, glazing, and re-firing and at any point along the way it could break. Your beautiful pot containing your heart could break and be worthless. So don't get too attached. Create with your hands and heart, invest fully in the moment of creation, then let it go.
The same is true for house-cleaning, only the "re-growing" is our clutter which is proof positive that we exist. Cleaning the house, de-cluttering, sweeping, dusting, laundry--it all gives a powerful sense of satisfaction when it's done. "I was here and I made a difference. I have triumphed over the forces of chaos and filth." But of course it doesn't last. The house, like the universe, gradually succumbs to entropy.
I suppose this might be depressing to some--that no real change can be made--that the grass and the clutter continue to grow despite our best efforts. I am oddly comforted by the encroaching chaos--the world continues without me, the community I live in will exist after we leave, the faith community perseveres through clergy and lay changeover, the earth remakes itself with each passing moment. What we do is not permanent, and we'd do well to remember it. Our towers and committees will all eventually fall apart yet the spirit that animated them will not.
The prophet Qoheleth wrote "Then I considered all that my hands had done and the toil I had spent in doing it, and again, all was vanity and a chasing after wind, and there was nothing to be gained under the sun." Again, some read this as depressing, but it rings so truly and beautifully in my ears. Only the moment is truly available to us--the past cannot be undone and the future is only a theory--it is only the olam, the eternal now, the depth of a single moment, that is where we live.
When I took ceramics in college, our professor--a gruff, hippie sort--spent a lot of time on "non-attachment." When you make a pot, he said, you pour your heart into it. You shape it with your hands, it's messy, it's beautiful, and you love it. And then you surrender it to the processes of drying, bisque firing, glazing, and re-firing and at any point along the way it could break. Your beautiful pot containing your heart could break and be worthless. So don't get too attached. Create with your hands and heart, invest fully in the moment of creation, then let it go.
Monday, May 12, 2008
repenting and big business
Saw Iron Man last night--beautiful, exciting, and surprisingly funny. The bits when Tony Stark converses with his AI lab equipment are priceless.
It got me thinking, though, about a certain genre of movies lately. Iron Man and Batman Begins both focus on men whose lives and livelihoods have been shaped by their parents and other powerful adults into something monstrous. Tony Stark has embraced it by helping his company become the foremost manufacturer of weaponry--and he is filthy rich. Bruce Wayne, too, is filthy rich, but more from his parents' idealistic projects in Gotham. Until the company is overtaken by his "mentor" and it, too, turns to weapons manufacture. Both men at some point in their lives have an epiphany and turn away from the violence and greed of their big businesses. Or at least the greed--they are, after all, superheroes and a certain amount of violence is part of the genre.
It is interesting to me that we go in droves to the movie theatre to see these stories enacted and yet don't really expect CEOs in the real world to follow suit. There is so much talk about corporate culture and consumerism as a necessary evil, yet we cheer on heroes who forsake the path laid out for them and try to save the world. This is, at its base, what repentance is. It means "to turn" or "to turn away." Jesus and others call us out of what we think we have to do, out of the monstrous molds we've grown into, and give us another path. Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne turn away from the corporate sin they've participated in, however unwittingly, and commit themselves to helping the helpless.
What would the world look like if we all did the same?
It got me thinking, though, about a certain genre of movies lately. Iron Man and Batman Begins both focus on men whose lives and livelihoods have been shaped by their parents and other powerful adults into something monstrous. Tony Stark has embraced it by helping his company become the foremost manufacturer of weaponry--and he is filthy rich. Bruce Wayne, too, is filthy rich, but more from his parents' idealistic projects in Gotham. Until the company is overtaken by his "mentor" and it, too, turns to weapons manufacture. Both men at some point in their lives have an epiphany and turn away from the violence and greed of their big businesses. Or at least the greed--they are, after all, superheroes and a certain amount of violence is part of the genre.
It is interesting to me that we go in droves to the movie theatre to see these stories enacted and yet don't really expect CEOs in the real world to follow suit. There is so much talk about corporate culture and consumerism as a necessary evil, yet we cheer on heroes who forsake the path laid out for them and try to save the world. This is, at its base, what repentance is. It means "to turn" or "to turn away." Jesus and others call us out of what we think we have to do, out of the monstrous molds we've grown into, and give us another path. Tony Stark and Bruce Wayne turn away from the corporate sin they've participated in, however unwittingly, and commit themselves to helping the helpless.
What would the world look like if we all did the same?
Monday, May 05, 2008
a forked tongue
How often do you lie?
Seriously, though, how often? I was kind of a goody-two-shoes in high school, so I never lied about staying out or who I was with. Well, except that once when my grandmother was in town and I convinced her that my folks were okay with my going on a 5-hour picnic date with my new boyfriend that they had never met. Yeah. But I’m not a big liar—I can’t. I get guilty when I tell big lies and it’s obvious to everyone. Little ones, though… “I really can’t make it.” “You look great in that dress.” “I’m actually helping the sweat-shop worker by purchasing her product.” Those I tell all the time. It’s easy. I know what I want, and I go after it. Even with a little falsehood.
I just read The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible—at one point, he get’s caught in his truth. His toddler son wants English muffin for breakfast. They’re out. Mom says, “tell him the bagel’s an English muffin—it worked yesterday.” Dad says, “I can’t tell a lie. Little buddy, it’s a bagel and it’s delicious.” Toddler son wants none of it and throws a tantrum. So should he lie to his son? I don’t know. It’s a sticky area, but I do know that lies can destroy relationships. There is no trust. There is no connection. There is no love. And when I get away with a lie, I frequently feel crappy about myself, like there’s a stain in me.
What do you think?
Seriously, though, how often? I was kind of a goody-two-shoes in high school, so I never lied about staying out or who I was with. Well, except that once when my grandmother was in town and I convinced her that my folks were okay with my going on a 5-hour picnic date with my new boyfriend that they had never met. Yeah. But I’m not a big liar—I can’t. I get guilty when I tell big lies and it’s obvious to everyone. Little ones, though… “I really can’t make it.” “You look great in that dress.” “I’m actually helping the sweat-shop worker by purchasing her product.” Those I tell all the time. It’s easy. I know what I want, and I go after it. Even with a little falsehood.
I just read The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’s Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible—at one point, he get’s caught in his truth. His toddler son wants English muffin for breakfast. They’re out. Mom says, “tell him the bagel’s an English muffin—it worked yesterday.” Dad says, “I can’t tell a lie. Little buddy, it’s a bagel and it’s delicious.” Toddler son wants none of it and throws a tantrum. So should he lie to his son? I don’t know. It’s a sticky area, but I do know that lies can destroy relationships. There is no trust. There is no connection. There is no love. And when I get away with a lie, I frequently feel crappy about myself, like there’s a stain in me.
What do you think?
Thursday, March 06, 2008
let it go
Wednesday's healing service celebrated the lives of John and Charles Wesley. Made famous, of course, for being the unintentional founders of Methodism and for writing piles of great hymns. The gospel lesson for the day was Jesus' sending out the Apostles to preach the good news and to heal.
Key to the passage is his admonition to "shake the dust off your feet" if they are not welcomed. It suggests that not even the dust of a town that is ambivalent will stay with the Apostles and with the message. They wash their hands of it. They dismiss them with a gesture. On the one hand, you could say it is harsh and contrary to Jesus' radical inclusiveness. On the other, it's a bit of practical psychological advice to Christians wandering through life--do what you can, offer what you have, be open to the lives and experiences of others, but don't sweat it when they don't do the same. Recognize, as Niebuhr's "Serenity Prayer" says, the difference between the things you can change and the things you can't, and be at peace.
Key to the passage is his admonition to "shake the dust off your feet" if they are not welcomed. It suggests that not even the dust of a town that is ambivalent will stay with the Apostles and with the message. They wash their hands of it. They dismiss them with a gesture. On the one hand, you could say it is harsh and contrary to Jesus' radical inclusiveness. On the other, it's a bit of practical psychological advice to Christians wandering through life--do what you can, offer what you have, be open to the lives and experiences of others, but don't sweat it when they don't do the same. Recognize, as Niebuhr's "Serenity Prayer" says, the difference between the things you can change and the things you can't, and be at peace.
Monday, March 03, 2008
internal monologue upon waking up
shoot.
[suddenly panicks]
what have i forgotten? did i miss a meeting? no, that was yesterday and the other isn't until tomorrow. ok. breathe.
[breathes slowly]
the bed is so comfy. i don't need to get up for hours. laundry can wait. 's not so important to get thank you cards/spray paint/unripe fruit this morning. five more minutes.
[gets into more comfortable snoozing position]
wait. don't i have to...nah. that can wait. or can it. what time is it? what day is it?
[looks at phone]
plenty of time if i don't make art or meditate this morning.
[feels stab of guilt]
if i feel this tired, i must need to sleep more. i only got, what, 10 hours? sure, another few minutes won't hurt...
[realizes is already truly awake and kidding self]
[sighs]
[gets up]
[suddenly panicks]
what have i forgotten? did i miss a meeting? no, that was yesterday and the other isn't until tomorrow. ok. breathe.
[breathes slowly]
the bed is so comfy. i don't need to get up for hours. laundry can wait. 's not so important to get thank you cards/spray paint/unripe fruit this morning. five more minutes.
[gets into more comfortable snoozing position]
wait. don't i have to...nah. that can wait. or can it. what time is it? what day is it?
[looks at phone]
plenty of time if i don't make art or meditate this morning.
[feels stab of guilt]
if i feel this tired, i must need to sleep more. i only got, what, 10 hours? sure, another few minutes won't hurt...
[realizes is already truly awake and kidding self]
[sighs]
[gets up]
youth ministry update
Friday night was the first Guys' Night In, an all-boy lock-in at Redeemer. Think about that for a moment--all teenage boys all the time. And guess who wasn't there? If you guessed PastorAlice, you win. Masterful Mike and his Marvelous Minions led the event to a spectacular finish. Oh, who am I kidding, I really was there, albeit behind the scenes. I just can't let go.
Confirmation is nearing the close of business. We have Michael Battle next week and then our final class on Palm Sunday. Times like this, I'm glad for it to be over but also worried that we didn't teach enough or encourage the class' participation more. I am so passionate about the message of the Gospels and such a church nerd. And I want our teenagers to feel it, too. Sometimes I feel like there should be a magic word or phrase that would grab their attentions and surprise them into deep faith. Of course, I know it doesn't work that way, but like a lot of parents, I want to spare them the aching doubt and the rough path ahead. Mostly, I just want them to react to something.
Sunday night was Girls' Night In--not another lock-in, cause I'm not insane--hang out with just the girls, watch Mean Girls, chat about self-image, etc. Hillie, one of my new lieutenants, is fantastic--she brought a clip from Pretty Woman and a kids' book called The Paper Bag Princess and her own growing up experience to the table. We had a good time, though only two teens showed up. Disappointing, but not surprising.
So, youth ministry scores:
guys playing laser tag and talking about God=5
PastorAlice's quest to have less stress about events=1
Girls' Night=2
confirmation and passion for faith=enh...
misery and woe=0
Confirmation is nearing the close of business. We have Michael Battle next week and then our final class on Palm Sunday. Times like this, I'm glad for it to be over but also worried that we didn't teach enough or encourage the class' participation more. I am so passionate about the message of the Gospels and such a church nerd. And I want our teenagers to feel it, too. Sometimes I feel like there should be a magic word or phrase that would grab their attentions and surprise them into deep faith. Of course, I know it doesn't work that way, but like a lot of parents, I want to spare them the aching doubt and the rough path ahead. Mostly, I just want them to react to something.
Sunday night was Girls' Night In--not another lock-in, cause I'm not insane--hang out with just the girls, watch Mean Girls, chat about self-image, etc. Hillie, one of my new lieutenants, is fantastic--she brought a clip from Pretty Woman and a kids' book called The Paper Bag Princess and her own growing up experience to the table. We had a good time, though only two teens showed up. Disappointing, but not surprising.
So, youth ministry scores:
guys playing laser tag and talking about God=5
PastorAlice's quest to have less stress about events=1
Girls' Night=2
confirmation and passion for faith=enh...
misery and woe=0
Friday, February 29, 2008
existentialism
I have never thought Garfield was funny. Even when I was a small child, ostensibly delighted by a mouthy orange cat obsessed with lasagna, the back of my brain said, "Why are you reading this? It's not funny. It doesn't even make sense."
Enter "Garfield minus Garfield". This blogger has removed Garfield completely from the strip. It's reminiscent of another internet phenomenon wherein folk remove Garfield's thought balloons; Jon becomes a sad, single guy who talks to his cat. "Garfield minus Garfield," however, introduces an entirely new level of misery. Jon wanders around his empty house being alternately wacky, explosively angry, or quietly despairing. It is oddly beautiful.
Enter "Garfield minus Garfield". This blogger has removed Garfield completely from the strip. It's reminiscent of another internet phenomenon wherein folk remove Garfield's thought balloons; Jon becomes a sad, single guy who talks to his cat. "Garfield minus Garfield," however, introduces an entirely new level of misery. Jon wanders around his empty house being alternately wacky, explosively angry, or quietly despairing. It is oddly beautiful.
Monday, February 25, 2008
book thoughts
Celebration of Discipline by Richard J. Foster
A careful and heartfelt exploration of the spiritual life, it covers the disciplines of meditation, prayer, fasting, study, simplicity, solitude, submission, service, confession, worship, guidance, and celebration. We cannot expect to recognize our experiences of God, much less understand them, without effort and sacrifice on our parts. God certainly acts in our lives and we, from time to time, see it happening, but we don't know what to do with it. Foster suggests that to deepen our relationships with our brothers and sisters and with God we must be intentional in our practice, both sacred and quotidian. This is the discipline of the title.
I have said for years that I don't fast well--my body doesn't accept the lack of food and I feel ill and miserable. I thought this was a legitimate thesis. And I suppose it can be in some cases. The natural result of fasting, however, is feeling ill, hungry, and kind of empty. The whole point is the discipline of it--getting through the misery of the early stages (and sometimes the middle ones as well) can lead to significant insights into what we hunger and whose we are. Having the discipline to continue in the face of difficulty is what sets the mature apart from the immature. An acquaintance of mine simply doesn't get this in even the simplest of terms. His attitude is that if something is hard or painful, it must therefore be bad and not worth doing. So he doesn't.
Many of you may remember Dumbledore's words to Harry: "The time is coming when we will all have to choose between what is right and what is easy." The Christian life to which we are called is not easy and is not something we can take for granted. To truly change the world and to be transformed ourselves, we must take intentional action. We must discipline ourselves like soldiers or professional artists to do what needs to be done. And there is joy beyond our expectations in that discipline.
A careful and heartfelt exploration of the spiritual life, it covers the disciplines of meditation, prayer, fasting, study, simplicity, solitude, submission, service, confession, worship, guidance, and celebration. We cannot expect to recognize our experiences of God, much less understand them, without effort and sacrifice on our parts. God certainly acts in our lives and we, from time to time, see it happening, but we don't know what to do with it. Foster suggests that to deepen our relationships with our brothers and sisters and with God we must be intentional in our practice, both sacred and quotidian. This is the discipline of the title.
I have said for years that I don't fast well--my body doesn't accept the lack of food and I feel ill and miserable. I thought this was a legitimate thesis. And I suppose it can be in some cases. The natural result of fasting, however, is feeling ill, hungry, and kind of empty. The whole point is the discipline of it--getting through the misery of the early stages (and sometimes the middle ones as well) can lead to significant insights into what we hunger and whose we are. Having the discipline to continue in the face of difficulty is what sets the mature apart from the immature. An acquaintance of mine simply doesn't get this in even the simplest of terms. His attitude is that if something is hard or painful, it must therefore be bad and not worth doing. So he doesn't.
Many of you may remember Dumbledore's words to Harry: "The time is coming when we will all have to choose between what is right and what is easy." The Christian life to which we are called is not easy and is not something we can take for granted. To truly change the world and to be transformed ourselves, we must take intentional action. We must discipline ourselves like soldiers or professional artists to do what needs to be done. And there is joy beyond our expectations in that discipline.
Friday, February 15, 2008
v-day post
So, what does the deliriously happy yet appropriately cynical and modern couple do for Valentine's day? I don't know about them, but we drove to the north end of town ("God's country") to the Brazenhead for burgers and scotch, then to Target to buy a new printer, yet another set of plastic bins for comics, cheapo but cute sneakers, and fair-trade chocolate.
Flowers and romance? Pshaw. Nothing says love like a new USB cable.
Flowers and romance? Pshaw. Nothing says love like a new USB cable.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
why i love julie taymor
She thinks this is beautiful. She also thinks abandoned, broken-down docks in New York are beautiful. She thinks the mostly-blank brick wall Jude and Max can see from their apartment in Across the Universe is beautiful. She sees the elegance and the pain in everyday things and elevates them--they're not pretty in a conventional sense, but they're beautiful.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
snow day
I don't so much get snow days. Loving Husband does as he's a school teacher. Here's a little secret: teachers are just as excited about snow days as the kids. I'm home this morning in the warmth, spending time with LH, eating a late breakfast, watching special features on Across the Universe, battling gnats--you know, the usual.
Will brave the elements (which aren't so bad as everyone says) in an hour or so. Makes me more concerned for those who have no shelter--how do they deal with the cold? with the wet?
Will brave the elements (which aren't so bad as everyone says) in an hour or so. Makes me more concerned for those who have no shelter--how do they deal with the cold? with the wet?
Saturday, February 09, 2008
book thoughts
Leaving Church by Barbara Brown Taylor
BBT is one of the most gifted preachers of the 21st century--I heard her preach in Washington, DC once and her words both convicted and raised me up. She writes about her journey as a woman and as a priest towards/with Jesus without hiding the blemishes and without glorifying her own triumphs. It's humanity longing for God at its best. Ultimately (and given the title, I don't think this is a spoiler), she leaves the church she had been pastoring, her patience with human structures fractured but her love of God undimmed. She writes, "After twenty years of serving Mother Church at the altar, I have pitched my tent in the yard, using much of what she taught me to make a way in the world" (222).
We can't give up on the things we struggle with. Sometimes we're on the margins, feeling rejected and unwanted. Sometimes we're in the center, wondering what all the fuss is about. We can never be content with where we are but listen to where God is moving. "Much that is certain at the center," says Taylor, "is up for grabs in the wilderness, while much that is real in the wilderness turns out to be far too feral for the center" (172). It's about balance, about knowing what's enough right now, about feeling the moment when change is necessary.
Taylor asks in her final chapter, "What is saving your life now?" (225) What gives you strength and hope? Who is the presence of God in your life?
BBT is one of the most gifted preachers of the 21st century--I heard her preach in Washington, DC once and her words both convicted and raised me up. She writes about her journey as a woman and as a priest towards/with Jesus without hiding the blemishes and without glorifying her own triumphs. It's humanity longing for God at its best. Ultimately (and given the title, I don't think this is a spoiler), she leaves the church she had been pastoring, her patience with human structures fractured but her love of God undimmed. She writes, "After twenty years of serving Mother Church at the altar, I have pitched my tent in the yard, using much of what she taught me to make a way in the world" (222).
We can't give up on the things we struggle with. Sometimes we're on the margins, feeling rejected and unwanted. Sometimes we're in the center, wondering what all the fuss is about. We can never be content with where we are but listen to where God is moving. "Much that is certain at the center," says Taylor, "is up for grabs in the wilderness, while much that is real in the wilderness turns out to be far too feral for the center" (172). It's about balance, about knowing what's enough right now, about feeling the moment when change is necessary.
Taylor asks in her final chapter, "What is saving your life now?" (225) What gives you strength and hope? Who is the presence of God in your life?
Friday, February 08, 2008
how life is like a hangnail
As Charlie was preaching on Ash Wednesday, I realized I was worrying a hangnail on my thumb--rubbing it back and forth, every now and again picking at it half-heartedly. It was nervous energy focused on a tiny thing that, if I could smooth it out, fix it, all would be right with the world. It was the same with the Shrove Tuesday Auction. I was very ready this year--all ducks in a regimented row--and Monday night I lay awake, my thoughts racing over miniscule details. I created short To Do lists so I wouldn't forget in the morning, going over and over them, trying to smooth out things out so all would be well.
And of course all was well--the event was wonderful. But that's the point, isn't it? Worrying something means going over and over it with your hand or in your mind, memorizing the flaws until all you can see is the flaw. How could it possibly go well with so much wrong with it--O God, how did it come to this?
The worrying of a sore doesn't help. It fills my desire to do something but that's it. More often than not my worrying a hangnail leads to blood and pain. But how to get away from the need to worry? "You cannot by worrying add to your life a single day" says Joshuah bar-Joseph. But how to stop?
In worrying a hangnail, my finger is the sole focus of my mind. I am in the midst of a crisis--there is imperfection, there is roughness, there is challenge--which must be met. The world narrows to this one thing. It's no different with a work challenge or a personal worry--the thing which gives us pain or frustration becomes the locus of everything we do. There is no distance, no space to gain perspective--the worry is all. Centuries of Christian writers have said the answer is Sabbath. We need a moment separate from our daily worry to see things as they are. Easier said than done. We are commanded several times to take a day off yet, as Richard Foster writes in Celebration of Discipline we cannot convince ourselves that it's important enough to find the time. Sabbath seems like slacking off because we don't have anything to worry, because we don't have anything to keep us busy.
The thing that worries me is not all-consuming. The thing that worries me is not all-important. The thing that worries me is not an idol. The thing that worries me will pass.
And of course all was well--the event was wonderful. But that's the point, isn't it? Worrying something means going over and over it with your hand or in your mind, memorizing the flaws until all you can see is the flaw. How could it possibly go well with so much wrong with it--O God, how did it come to this?
The worrying of a sore doesn't help. It fills my desire to do something but that's it. More often than not my worrying a hangnail leads to blood and pain. But how to get away from the need to worry? "You cannot by worrying add to your life a single day" says Joshuah bar-Joseph. But how to stop?
In worrying a hangnail, my finger is the sole focus of my mind. I am in the midst of a crisis--there is imperfection, there is roughness, there is challenge--which must be met. The world narrows to this one thing. It's no different with a work challenge or a personal worry--the thing which gives us pain or frustration becomes the locus of everything we do. There is no distance, no space to gain perspective--the worry is all. Centuries of Christian writers have said the answer is Sabbath. We need a moment separate from our daily worry to see things as they are. Easier said than done. We are commanded several times to take a day off yet, as Richard Foster writes in Celebration of Discipline we cannot convince ourselves that it's important enough to find the time. Sabbath seems like slacking off because we don't have anything to worry, because we don't have anything to keep us busy.
The thing that worries me is not all-consuming. The thing that worries me is not all-important. The thing that worries me is not an idol. The thing that worries me will pass.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
photographic brilliance
This guy is a photographer with no legs. He travels around the world taking photos of people as they stare at him and he talks about the reactions he gets. Fascinating stuff. After you read his statement, check out the gallery. I believe he's got the Holy Spirit just like my friend Jake has the Spirit when he plays drums.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
ramblings
Cleanliness is next to Godliness, they say. It’s usually one of those “mom sayings” that you think just means to clean behind your ears and put on deodorant every now and again. Or maybe you think about all those rules in the Hebrew Scriptures called the Holiness Code about what animals are clean and how unclean we all are if we touch a woman or wear mixed fibers. The weird thing is, it’s begun to make a lot of sense to me.
When I celebrate the Eucharist, I make a point to wash my hands before the service. The most effective way to prevent spreading disease is to wash your hands; at the same time, it cleans my soul, too. I feel lighter, more focused, cleaner, like I’ve just washed my mind and body. Standing in the Sacristy, listening to the choir, running hot water and soap over my hands is so ordinary yet so sacred—it’s like a deep breath. It also feels like a gesture of respect—I’m coming to the Table clean, not covered in dirt or in all the stresses of the week. There’s a reason that our Jewish and Muslim brothers and sisters take ceremonial baths before worship.
God has high expectations of us—we’re to be loving and accepting but also not take oppression or self-righteousness lightly. We’re to be holy, clean. I don’t think God expects us to be squeaky clean—we screw up and roll about in the dirt all the time—but trying to see our uncleanness is a good first step. Maybe if you spend some time cleaning up you’ll see God in the midst of that ordinary moment.
When I celebrate the Eucharist, I make a point to wash my hands before the service. The most effective way to prevent spreading disease is to wash your hands; at the same time, it cleans my soul, too. I feel lighter, more focused, cleaner, like I’ve just washed my mind and body. Standing in the Sacristy, listening to the choir, running hot water and soap over my hands is so ordinary yet so sacred—it’s like a deep breath. It also feels like a gesture of respect—I’m coming to the Table clean, not covered in dirt or in all the stresses of the week. There’s a reason that our Jewish and Muslim brothers and sisters take ceremonial baths before worship.
God has high expectations of us—we’re to be loving and accepting but also not take oppression or self-righteousness lightly. We’re to be holy, clean. I don’t think God expects us to be squeaky clean—we screw up and roll about in the dirt all the time—but trying to see our uncleanness is a good first step. Maybe if you spend some time cleaning up you’ll see God in the midst of that ordinary moment.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
calling to mind
In the Eucharistic prayer, there is a section called the anamnesis which means "remembering" or "calling to mind." You could take it to meant that the Meal is a memorial where we remember Jesus and what he said and did. You could also dig deeper and think of it as re-enacting his sacrifice (which would be mimesis or mimicry). Or, you could think of it as sense memory--a kind of combination of rational remembering and physical action. Anamnesis is a kind of metaphysical participation in the events of long ago in the here and now. It's not just something we do but something that forms us, makes us into new people.
I have to be constantly reminded of who I am. Not my name or my address but whose I am and what I'm called to do. It is so easy to forget, to justify my selfishness, to ignore the push at my back to live into the good news. Barbara Brown Taylor writes, "I pecked God on the cheek the same way I did Ed, drying up inside for want of making love." What we do as Christians is make love with God--interpret that any way you wish. It is not about drying up inside. It is not about simply mimicry, though that can lead you to a deeper relationship eventually. It is not about becoming Jesus either, no matter how much we want to. We are called to a dance of love in which we spin faster and faster, catching sight of the other dancers and not knowing where we end and they begin. We are called to anamnesis not just on Sunday mornings but in every moment of our lives--to remember in a visceral way, in our guts, that we are loved and that we are called to love. It will be messy and uncomfortable and it will be elegant and comforting. Embrace it, embrace God, embrace your neighbor and call to mind.
I have to be constantly reminded of who I am. Not my name or my address but whose I am and what I'm called to do. It is so easy to forget, to justify my selfishness, to ignore the push at my back to live into the good news. Barbara Brown Taylor writes, "I pecked God on the cheek the same way I did Ed, drying up inside for want of making love." What we do as Christians is make love with God--interpret that any way you wish. It is not about drying up inside. It is not about simply mimicry, though that can lead you to a deeper relationship eventually. It is not about becoming Jesus either, no matter how much we want to. We are called to a dance of love in which we spin faster and faster, catching sight of the other dancers and not knowing where we end and they begin. We are called to anamnesis not just on Sunday mornings but in every moment of our lives--to remember in a visceral way, in our guts, that we are loved and that we are called to love. It will be messy and uncomfortable and it will be elegant and comforting. Embrace it, embrace God, embrace your neighbor and call to mind.
Saturday, January 19, 2008
the saga of the sink, abbreviated for your convenience
I just spent two days putting a new sink into my bathroom. That's right, two days. It was an odyssey of self-discovery and cathartic frustration. My father and I took four trips to the hardware store, one of which was easily 45 minutes long. We struggled like Titans and swore like sailors. Yesterday afternoon, we declared it finished and turned on the water for the moment of truth. It leaked. All over the place. I called the plumber.
Then my friend Mark came over. Mark, arriving with tool box in hand and a glow about his head and shoulders nigh unto a halo. He came, he saw, we conquered. We took the whole thing apart and put it back together. And, lo, the water runneth and doth not overflow.
Then my friend Mark came over. Mark, arriving with tool box in hand and a glow about his head and shoulders nigh unto a halo. He came, he saw, we conquered. We took the whole thing apart and put it back together. And, lo, the water runneth and doth not overflow.
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