I love Target. I really do. The one here in Williamsburg is remodeling and reorganizing a little these days, so at times I love it a little less because I can't find what I am looking for, but still. I walk in and see colorful scarves and pretty shoes and nicely arranged kitchen equipment...and it's all so reasonably priced!! And today I wandered around their new and improved grocery section with real live fresh fruit and stuff. It's not as big as a regular supermarket, of course, but it wasn't bad. As I realized when I first found out they were putting one of these in: now I really have no reason to go anywhere else.
I don't know what this says from a social justice perspective, this getting everything in one place. Not because Target has a bad record on social justice--now that they've promised to stop donating to the PACs of anti-gay candidates, I think they're on the up and up. But because ideally, I suppose I'd shop at a lot of different local, family-owned stores. One for produce, one for bread, one for linens, one for pots and pans, one or more for clothes. This way, instead of a lot of different people owning businesses, a few people own one business, and the rest get to work for them as cashiers. (Although never enough cashiers for the number of people in line, I might add...)
There are some small local businesses in Williamsburg, of course, but not enough I know of to get all the different things I need. But even if there were: who has time for social justice these days? When I went to Target tonight, it was 8:30, and I hadn't been home since 8:45 am, and I had to get Oreos and a springform pan and some cat litter and some moisturizing cream and some coffee filters, and then I had to go home and make the chocolate mousse pie I had promised for staff meeting tomorrow. No way I would have gone to a bunch of different places. We'd make do with a smelly litter box and dry skin and no pie.
I promise I don't generally fantasize about a return to the 1950s or anything. I will continue to shop at Target, and I will like it. I will do the best I can and buy things there that have names with "eco" or "green" in them, however much that means. I will pay more for the Newman's Own fair trade coffee, even though I really want the cinnamon flavor in the Dunkin Donuts package. Sometimes all we can do is the best with what we have to work with, or work within. But I guess it's still good to remind ourselves of the consequences of the systems we buy into even as we load our one-stop baskets with exercise videos and cheap jewelry and toothpaste and, now, bananas. And even as we fully enjoy it.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Perdida
One of my group's Barbara Brown Taylor spiritual practices for this week was the Practice of Getting Lost. It may be hard to do that intentionally, in the literal sense, but in the chapter talks not just about getting geographically lost but about intentionally putting yourself in places where you are a stranger.
The other practice for the week was the Practice of Walking on the Earth, but it was cold today, and I did not feel like doing extra walking.
Anyway, today I got myself intentionally lost by going to a Spanish language church service after my own church got out for the day. I have been to a Spanish church service before, but not here, and never by myself. I've also been saying for years I need to start going to a Spanish service, but I have never gotten up the courage to do so.
I was nervous for two reasons. First, I am not good at Spanish. My reading is decent, but I can barely understand a natively-spoken word. That was all the more reason to go, of course--I need practice. But it was also all the more reason to fear that they would ask visitors to identify themselves and I wouldn't even know what they were asking, and everyone would be looking at me, and I wouldn't know what to say.
The second reason I was nervous is that I read a description of the church on its website, the bigger English-speaking church of which this Spanish service is a part. It said they worship like the Bible commands, with lifting hands and dancing and stuff like that. My own church is predominantly comprised of 75-year-old white people, and I fit right in. We do not lift our hands. We do not dance. Furthermore, the "What We Believe" section was full of things that would make any progressive mainline Protestant think twice, like the infallibility of scripture, even in scientific matters.
But the point was to get lost. So I went, half hoping it would be big enough that I could sit in the corner and no one would notice me. It was not that big.
We started with praise songs, and there was some clapping, and some lifting of hands, but I was relieved to find that it seemed to be like any contemporary worship service. The guest speaker spoke in tongues a little when he prayed, but not too much. During what I suppose was the passing of the peace, I talked to people. Just a few sentences, but it was a start.
The guest speaker actually spoke in English (natively, and appeared not to know Spanish.) It was translated by a native English speaker who did speak Spanish. In a way, that meant I was a little less lost than I had anticipated, about which I was both glad and not glad.
The speaker was loud. That's basically what I can say about him. Everything he said was loud and punctuated, like each sentence was the most important thing you were going to hear all day. At one point he told people to take notes. This is not a preaching style that tends to resonate with me. I'm not saying it's wrong, but it's a lot different from my own preferred style of "OK, now, let's see if we might be able to look at this text a little differently..." In a way, I felt more out of my comfort zone listening to him than I did singing praise songs in Spanish. I also think if I'd been listening to that preaching style in Spanish, it would have been OK. When something's in another language, you expect it to be different from what you're used to, and there's a openness to that. When it switches back to your own language, when you're on the border between lost and not lost, you shut down. You want to not be lost. At least I do.
But that was a good reminder that you don't have to go far to find another culture. Because even if we both call ourselves Christian, that man and I come from very different cultures. I am lost in his, and I'm sure he would be lost in mine. I'm learning Spanish because I want to be able to connect with some of God's children whose stories might be very different from my own. It's scary to walk into someone else's story. But that's why it's spiritual, too--it demands something of us, it demands our vulnerability. And that's true whether that story is told in another language or in your own, whether it takes place across the world or just around the corner. I think I'll be back.
The other practice for the week was the Practice of Walking on the Earth, but it was cold today, and I did not feel like doing extra walking.
Anyway, today I got myself intentionally lost by going to a Spanish language church service after my own church got out for the day. I have been to a Spanish church service before, but not here, and never by myself. I've also been saying for years I need to start going to a Spanish service, but I have never gotten up the courage to do so.
I was nervous for two reasons. First, I am not good at Spanish. My reading is decent, but I can barely understand a natively-spoken word. That was all the more reason to go, of course--I need practice. But it was also all the more reason to fear that they would ask visitors to identify themselves and I wouldn't even know what they were asking, and everyone would be looking at me, and I wouldn't know what to say.
The second reason I was nervous is that I read a description of the church on its website, the bigger English-speaking church of which this Spanish service is a part. It said they worship like the Bible commands, with lifting hands and dancing and stuff like that. My own church is predominantly comprised of 75-year-old white people, and I fit right in. We do not lift our hands. We do not dance. Furthermore, the "What We Believe" section was full of things that would make any progressive mainline Protestant think twice, like the infallibility of scripture, even in scientific matters.
But the point was to get lost. So I went, half hoping it would be big enough that I could sit in the corner and no one would notice me. It was not that big.
We started with praise songs, and there was some clapping, and some lifting of hands, but I was relieved to find that it seemed to be like any contemporary worship service. The guest speaker spoke in tongues a little when he prayed, but not too much. During what I suppose was the passing of the peace, I talked to people. Just a few sentences, but it was a start.
The guest speaker actually spoke in English (natively, and appeared not to know Spanish.) It was translated by a native English speaker who did speak Spanish. In a way, that meant I was a little less lost than I had anticipated, about which I was both glad and not glad.
The speaker was loud. That's basically what I can say about him. Everything he said was loud and punctuated, like each sentence was the most important thing you were going to hear all day. At one point he told people to take notes. This is not a preaching style that tends to resonate with me. I'm not saying it's wrong, but it's a lot different from my own preferred style of "OK, now, let's see if we might be able to look at this text a little differently..." In a way, I felt more out of my comfort zone listening to him than I did singing praise songs in Spanish. I also think if I'd been listening to that preaching style in Spanish, it would have been OK. When something's in another language, you expect it to be different from what you're used to, and there's a openness to that. When it switches back to your own language, when you're on the border between lost and not lost, you shut down. You want to not be lost. At least I do.
But that was a good reminder that you don't have to go far to find another culture. Because even if we both call ourselves Christian, that man and I come from very different cultures. I am lost in his, and I'm sure he would be lost in mine. I'm learning Spanish because I want to be able to connect with some of God's children whose stories might be very different from my own. It's scary to walk into someone else's story. But that's why it's spiritual, too--it demands something of us, it demands our vulnerability. And that's true whether that story is told in another language or in your own, whether it takes place across the world or just around the corner. I think I'll be back.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Broken for birds and squirrels
Today I did a little communion service for the Respite Care folks in the chapel. I love doing this. The only tricky part is that it's a pretty small group, and it's hard to buy bread the right size. When we do this I usually end up with a hefty chunk of leftover Body of Christ.
Properly disposing of communion elements can be a bit of a pain. You can't just shove them in the trash or dump them down any old drain. You have to either eat them, or return them to nature. The juice isn't too bad, although there was that one time I spilled grape juice all down my front by trying to drink the excess without actually putting my mouth on the chalice. Since then I've discovered the special drain in the sacristy (OK, I hope that's what it is), and besides, you can always just pour it outside. But there is something that feels a little irreverent about just throwing a (whole) half a loaf of bread into the woods. I don't know if any theological school of thought says yea or nay on that, but usually I try to break it up into little pieces, and that is what I did today.
I think about feeding the birds when I do this, like when I was little and at my grandmother's house in Philadelphia, and we would stand on her little balcony and tear up slices of Wonder Bread and throw them to the pigeons. But today it wasn't Wonder Bread, it was consecrated bread, the Body of Christ. And it felt like there was something holy in doing this, in tearing off pieces of bread just like I had served to people in the chapel, and throwing them in the grass for the birds or squirrels or whoever else would find them.
I don't think the birds and squirrels care that this bread is holy bread. And I don't think they need the sustaining, renewing grace that is in that bread in the same way we do. Birds and squirrels live by God's grace every day, eating what God provides, praising God just by being birds and squirrels. But I care that this is holy bread that I am feeding them. It reminds me that God's grace is for all creation, and that this Body of Christ is broken for the salvation of the whole world. And on my way home, I heard the birds singing a little clearer, because I was reminded of this.
Properly disposing of communion elements can be a bit of a pain. You can't just shove them in the trash or dump them down any old drain. You have to either eat them, or return them to nature. The juice isn't too bad, although there was that one time I spilled grape juice all down my front by trying to drink the excess without actually putting my mouth on the chalice. Since then I've discovered the special drain in the sacristy (OK, I hope that's what it is), and besides, you can always just pour it outside. But there is something that feels a little irreverent about just throwing a (whole) half a loaf of bread into the woods. I don't know if any theological school of thought says yea or nay on that, but usually I try to break it up into little pieces, and that is what I did today.
I think about feeding the birds when I do this, like when I was little and at my grandmother's house in Philadelphia, and we would stand on her little balcony and tear up slices of Wonder Bread and throw them to the pigeons. But today it wasn't Wonder Bread, it was consecrated bread, the Body of Christ. And it felt like there was something holy in doing this, in tearing off pieces of bread just like I had served to people in the chapel, and throwing them in the grass for the birds or squirrels or whoever else would find them.
I don't think the birds and squirrels care that this bread is holy bread. And I don't think they need the sustaining, renewing grace that is in that bread in the same way we do. Birds and squirrels live by God's grace every day, eating what God provides, praising God just by being birds and squirrels. But I care that this is holy bread that I am feeding them. It reminds me that God's grace is for all creation, and that this Body of Christ is broken for the salvation of the whole world. And on my way home, I heard the birds singing a little clearer, because I was reminded of this.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Dream on
I've been reading Revelation these days. Not for any specific purpose, but just because I've been working my way through the New Testament in my own devotional reading each morning, and I finally got there. I've read Revelation before, and despite what the Left Behind series has made of it, I don't hate it. In fact, I really like some parts of it. Dr. Newsom's Apocalyptic Imagination class at Candler gave me a solid appreciation for the social justice implications of the book, and especially how it has been meaningful through history for oppressed and/or minority communities--for whom, of course, it was first written. Reading it as a work of spiritually grounded political resistance starts to look a lot different than reading it as if it were written especially for upper middle class white Americans.
This is the first time I've come back to the book as a whole since I took that class, and it's different to come back and read it outside of that academic context, too. The appreciation is still there, but the details of that appreciation are fuzzy. I feel much more like I'm encountering the book as an "average," not-in-seminary person this time. Which brings me back, somewhat, to the mindset that seminary shook up a little: this book is weird.
There's just so much imagery shoved together. That's my problem. If John of Patmos could just pick one or two symbols and do a kind of extended metaphor thing, I think I could be on board. But that's not what he does. Instead...there's a throne! Now there are some creatures around it! Now there are horsemen! Now there are some angels with bowls of plagues! Now there is a beast! Also a whore is riding it!
It makes it all very hard to follow.
But here's a thought that helps me read Revelation. It's not a very academic thought that explains why all these symbols are there thrown together. It's just a thought. And that is that this book is the retelling of a dream. Or a vision, a revelation, an apokalypsis, whatever you want to call it.
Have you ever tried telling someone about a dream you had last night and ended up sounding like a complete crazy person? I've had those dreams. There's someone whose face I never see, but I know who it is. Or there is someone who looks like one person I know, but in the dream I know they're really supposed to be someone else I know. There are non sequiturs where you move from one scene to another with no good explanation, but somehow it all makes sense. All the parts seem so disconnected that it's almost embarrassing to try to relate them to anyone. And maybe it's not just random synapse firing, either--there are subconscious reasons why all these things play a part in your dream--but when you put them all together, it's just weird.
I'm not saying that's a completely accurate representation of a sacred text, here, which I am sure has very carefully chosen imagery and symbology throughout. But really, if John did have some divinely-given revelation of this struggle between heaven and earth, it would be no wonder if he couldn't quite relate in terms that made complete logical sense to the person he was telling it to. In fact, it would have had to have been a pretty boring vision if he could. The overall dream has an important and poignant meaning, and each part of it is there for a reason, but when you put it all together in chronological order it comes out sounding like, "And then there was a beast! And then there was a whore!"
Scholars who know more than me are free to debate me, but it helps me to read this text without thinking I have make complete sense of it all, that trying to make logical sense of it even does it a disservice--because how could a powerful divine revelation like that make perfect sense?
I like to think this. It helps me appreciate what's there.
This is the first time I've come back to the book as a whole since I took that class, and it's different to come back and read it outside of that academic context, too. The appreciation is still there, but the details of that appreciation are fuzzy. I feel much more like I'm encountering the book as an "average," not-in-seminary person this time. Which brings me back, somewhat, to the mindset that seminary shook up a little: this book is weird.
There's just so much imagery shoved together. That's my problem. If John of Patmos could just pick one or two symbols and do a kind of extended metaphor thing, I think I could be on board. But that's not what he does. Instead...there's a throne! Now there are some creatures around it! Now there are horsemen! Now there are some angels with bowls of plagues! Now there is a beast! Also a whore is riding it!
It makes it all very hard to follow.
But here's a thought that helps me read Revelation. It's not a very academic thought that explains why all these symbols are there thrown together. It's just a thought. And that is that this book is the retelling of a dream. Or a vision, a revelation, an apokalypsis, whatever you want to call it.
Have you ever tried telling someone about a dream you had last night and ended up sounding like a complete crazy person? I've had those dreams. There's someone whose face I never see, but I know who it is. Or there is someone who looks like one person I know, but in the dream I know they're really supposed to be someone else I know. There are non sequiturs where you move from one scene to another with no good explanation, but somehow it all makes sense. All the parts seem so disconnected that it's almost embarrassing to try to relate them to anyone. And maybe it's not just random synapse firing, either--there are subconscious reasons why all these things play a part in your dream--but when you put them all together, it's just weird.
I'm not saying that's a completely accurate representation of a sacred text, here, which I am sure has very carefully chosen imagery and symbology throughout. But really, if John did have some divinely-given revelation of this struggle between heaven and earth, it would be no wonder if he couldn't quite relate in terms that made complete logical sense to the person he was telling it to. In fact, it would have had to have been a pretty boring vision if he could. The overall dream has an important and poignant meaning, and each part of it is there for a reason, but when you put it all together in chronological order it comes out sounding like, "And then there was a beast! And then there was a whore!"
Scholars who know more than me are free to debate me, but it helps me to read this text without thinking I have make complete sense of it all, that trying to make logical sense of it even does it a disservice--because how could a powerful divine revelation like that make perfect sense?
I like to think this. It helps me appreciate what's there.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Confessing Grumpiness
Today has been one of those days. It didn't start out that way. I was tired when I got up, but I'm always tired when I get up. And it's Monday, but I don't particularly mind Monday. Monday is Pastor Tuesday. My week is already off and running, and Monday can be a good time to get things done.
And there was a lot to get done today--preparing for tonight's Lenten study, picking out liturgy for Sunday's service before tomorrow's bulletin deadline, getting started on sermon preparations. Those were the big things. Only there seemed to be so many little things popping up that I started to wonder if I would have time for the big things. And then the little things started going wrong, like when I discovered a conference I thought I had registered for weeks ago had never actually gotten my registration and check.
A little past noon, I got a call from a woman I'd spoken to about housing needs last week. She and her family were being evicted from their current residence, and I had told them to call me closer to the eviction for me to arrange a temporary hotel stay.
"We have to be out of here NOW," she told me on the phone today. "Can you do something soon?"
I could and I did. But not without being annoyed about it. Do you think I have nothing else to do today? I mentally said to the phone. And when my fax to the motel didn't go through the first time and the family called back: I don't have time for this!
It was not lost on me that while I was getting grumpy over my delayed to-do list, a family was worried about where they were going to sleep tonight. It wasn't lost on me. I tried to keep things in perspective. Sometimes compassion is hard even when it seems like a good idea in theory.
I did eventually get to the things on my to-do list. As I flipped through one of Bill's books searching for liturgy, I came across a prayer of confession. "We confess to you this morning that we can be a grumpy and unsatisfied people," it said. It was based on the Old Testament lectionary reading for the week, one of many passages in which the newly exodized Israelites are whining in the desert, this time because they are thirsty.
I'm not using that prayer in the service this Sunday, but I confess that I can be a grumpy and unsatisfied person. If the most inconvenient thing that happens in my day is the chance to help a family find a place to sleep, I don't have much to whine about. I pray that especially on "those" days, I'll be able to take a deep breath and find joy in whatever work God is giving me to do.
And there was a lot to get done today--preparing for tonight's Lenten study, picking out liturgy for Sunday's service before tomorrow's bulletin deadline, getting started on sermon preparations. Those were the big things. Only there seemed to be so many little things popping up that I started to wonder if I would have time for the big things. And then the little things started going wrong, like when I discovered a conference I thought I had registered for weeks ago had never actually gotten my registration and check.
A little past noon, I got a call from a woman I'd spoken to about housing needs last week. She and her family were being evicted from their current residence, and I had told them to call me closer to the eviction for me to arrange a temporary hotel stay.
"We have to be out of here NOW," she told me on the phone today. "Can you do something soon?"
I could and I did. But not without being annoyed about it. Do you think I have nothing else to do today? I mentally said to the phone. And when my fax to the motel didn't go through the first time and the family called back: I don't have time for this!
It was not lost on me that while I was getting grumpy over my delayed to-do list, a family was worried about where they were going to sleep tonight. It wasn't lost on me. I tried to keep things in perspective. Sometimes compassion is hard even when it seems like a good idea in theory.
I did eventually get to the things on my to-do list. As I flipped through one of Bill's books searching for liturgy, I came across a prayer of confession. "We confess to you this morning that we can be a grumpy and unsatisfied people," it said. It was based on the Old Testament lectionary reading for the week, one of many passages in which the newly exodized Israelites are whining in the desert, this time because they are thirsty.
I'm not using that prayer in the service this Sunday, but I confess that I can be a grumpy and unsatisfied person. If the most inconvenient thing that happens in my day is the chance to help a family find a place to sleep, I don't have much to whine about. I pray that especially on "those" days, I'll be able to take a deep breath and find joy in whatever work God is giving me to do.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Waltzing with Potatoes, part 2
Yesterday was Wesley's Potato Drop, when 44,000 pounds of potatoes showed up in the Morton parking lot at W&M and volunteers got to load them onto smaller trucks for local food organizations. The Potato Drop has been an annual thing for a while now--I'm not sure how many years, but I remember it from when I was in college. Specifically, I remember being on my hands and knees on the parking lot asphalt putting potatoes in bags one by one.
This year, except for a small group, we weren't really bagging potatoes. We had lines of people going from the big truck to the small trucks, passing down these 50 pound bags of potatoes. Only, there were a ton of volunteers, baseball teams and school groups and W&M students and church people. And really, there were more than enough people to fill these potato-passing lines. So Peter, Megan, Jason and I stood around and kind of cringed (at least I did) as baseball players threw these heavy sacks of potatoes off the truck to their teammates on the ground.
We came ready to work, but it was hard to figure out what to do. At one point I found myself in a potato passing line, more to look busy than because there was actually a gap, but it only took a few 50 pound bags of potatoes for me to decide my gifts and graces might better be utilized elsewhere. (I'm sore today from those five or six bags, by the way.)
Well, I saw a cute baby over by the snack table, being held by her grandfather, a member of my church. So I made friends with this baby, and held her while her grandparents manned the table and refilled the lemonade, and tried to make sure she wasn't actually eating the styrofoam cup she was chewing on. My friends thought perhaps I planned to steal this baby (since it is no secret I love babies. BABIES!) But I didn't. I just held her and had a one-sided conversation with her until she cried for Grandpa, and then I gave her back.
They say ministry happens in the interruptions. Sometimes, so do small blessings like holding a baby. I showed up at the Potato Drop to bag and carry potatoes, and I did very little of that. That can be kind of hard for a service-oriented person, who shows up to do a good thing and ends up more in the way than anything. But what's that Wesleyan covenant prayer--"Let me be employed by you, or laid aside for you"? It says that sometimes, feeling useful is more about our own self-esteem than what God actually needs from us. It's like you show up thinking, "I'm going to help a bunch of hungry people get dinner tonight!" and God's like, "Nah, I got some other people for that. Today, you just get to hold a baby."
After all, those potatoes got into the right trucks, and they got into those trucks fast. And people will get to eat them. And a lot of people from the community, especially kids, got to be a part of that. That's awesome, even if I didn't do much to help. And in the meantime, I made friends with a baby. And that was a pretty good thing, too.
This year, except for a small group, we weren't really bagging potatoes. We had lines of people going from the big truck to the small trucks, passing down these 50 pound bags of potatoes. Only, there were a ton of volunteers, baseball teams and school groups and W&M students and church people. And really, there were more than enough people to fill these potato-passing lines. So Peter, Megan, Jason and I stood around and kind of cringed (at least I did) as baseball players threw these heavy sacks of potatoes off the truck to their teammates on the ground.
We came ready to work, but it was hard to figure out what to do. At one point I found myself in a potato passing line, more to look busy than because there was actually a gap, but it only took a few 50 pound bags of potatoes for me to decide my gifts and graces might better be utilized elsewhere. (I'm sore today from those five or six bags, by the way.)
Well, I saw a cute baby over by the snack table, being held by her grandfather, a member of my church. So I made friends with this baby, and held her while her grandparents manned the table and refilled the lemonade, and tried to make sure she wasn't actually eating the styrofoam cup she was chewing on. My friends thought perhaps I planned to steal this baby (since it is no secret I love babies. BABIES!) But I didn't. I just held her and had a one-sided conversation with her until she cried for Grandpa, and then I gave her back.
They say ministry happens in the interruptions. Sometimes, so do small blessings like holding a baby. I showed up at the Potato Drop to bag and carry potatoes, and I did very little of that. That can be kind of hard for a service-oriented person, who shows up to do a good thing and ends up more in the way than anything. But what's that Wesleyan covenant prayer--"Let me be employed by you, or laid aside for you"? It says that sometimes, feeling useful is more about our own self-esteem than what God actually needs from us. It's like you show up thinking, "I'm going to help a bunch of hungry people get dinner tonight!" and God's like, "Nah, I got some other people for that. Today, you just get to hold a baby."
After all, those potatoes got into the right trucks, and they got into those trucks fast. And people will get to eat them. And a lot of people from the community, especially kids, got to be a part of that. That's awesome, even if I didn't do much to help. And in the meantime, I made friends with a baby. And that was a pretty good thing, too.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Spirit fingers
Sometimes I miss the spirit days we used to have in high school: things like Nerd Day (though at my high school this was every day), Talk Like a Pirate Day (OK, that was never an official one), Pajama Day (this was my favorite, and I brought back this particular spirit day several times in college on my own.) I'd be all for a few more adult spirit days. So I am happy that today is St. Patrick's Day, and not just because it means I get to wear the awesome green-pompom headband I found in Target's dollar aisle.
I walked through CW a little on my way to Wawa for lunch, and all the people wearing green made me smile. Young people, old people, black people, white people, even (remember, this is CW) 21st century people and 18th century people. Not everyone, of course, but a lot of people.
Why do we wear green today? Personally, I'm 1/8 Irish, but I don't really strongly identify with that. And since I'm no longer in elementary school, I'm not terribly afraid of getting pinched. The green is just for fun. It's fun to be part of something bigger just to be a part of it. We wear green because other people will be wearing green. It's a way to wiggle our metaphorical spirit fingers.
Wearing green on St. Patrick's Day lets us come together, in a way. And we're not coming together over any tragic event (though we have some to choose from) or for any sort of rivalry, or even for any particular cause. It's just that doing something together makes us happy.
It may not be communion, and St. Patrick's Day might be the most secular of all saint's days, but there is something vaguely spiritual in a whole bunch of different people who will probably never know each other coming together just because. Amen to spirit days!
And if anyone wants to bring back Pajama Day, just let me know.
I walked through CW a little on my way to Wawa for lunch, and all the people wearing green made me smile. Young people, old people, black people, white people, even (remember, this is CW) 21st century people and 18th century people. Not everyone, of course, but a lot of people.
Why do we wear green today? Personally, I'm 1/8 Irish, but I don't really strongly identify with that. And since I'm no longer in elementary school, I'm not terribly afraid of getting pinched. The green is just for fun. It's fun to be part of something bigger just to be a part of it. We wear green because other people will be wearing green. It's a way to wiggle our metaphorical spirit fingers.
Wearing green on St. Patrick's Day lets us come together, in a way. And we're not coming together over any tragic event (though we have some to choose from) or for any sort of rivalry, or even for any particular cause. It's just that doing something together makes us happy.
It may not be communion, and St. Patrick's Day might be the most secular of all saint's days, but there is something vaguely spiritual in a whole bunch of different people who will probably never know each other coming together just because. Amen to spirit days!
And if anyone wants to bring back Pajama Day, just let me know.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Words that pale
I started a blog post earlier about something else, but instead, I feel like I need to write something about Japan.
But I don't know what to write about Japan. Anything I might say pales in comparison to the reality, especially since I'm so far away.
Every time I read or see the news it seems to get worse. I saw on the TV attached to the treadmill next to mine at the gym tonight that over 13,000 people were now dead or missing.
And maybe it's that last sentence that makes it so hard to say anything worth saying. It is amazing to me that while in one place, the whole world is falling apart, here life goes on as normal. While workers desperately try to save nuclear reactors and ex pats flee the country, today I went to work, and helped some people pay their power bills, tried to visit a woman at a nursing home (she was asleep), attended a board meeting, went to the gym. Those are all good things, but they are normal things. While the headlines on BBC.com are all about earthquakes and radiation, a link on the side brings you to a story about Boston's Running of the Brides. While people starve and die, others are storming Filene's Basement. That sounds like a condemnation, but it's not. It's just the way it is. And though that means that those of us on this side of the world buying dresses and counting calories aren't thinking all the time about what's happening in Japan, when we do think about it, it makes it even more awe-inspiringly heartbreaking, and even harder to say anything about.
The earthquake was Friday. Then there was a tsunami. Then there was radiation. Things have been getting worse for days. And yesterday, I blogged about potatoes.
The dichotomy there reminded me of lyrics to a Dave Matthews song. I wrote out the lyrics and then deleted them. They didn't seem like an appropriate response. Maybe that's why when something horrible happens, or someone we love dies, we have a moment of silence. It's the response with the most integrity.
In that case, I guess I've already said too much. I'll end with just three more things, not even in complete sentences: prayers, and grace, and a belief in a God who suffers with us.
But I don't know what to write about Japan. Anything I might say pales in comparison to the reality, especially since I'm so far away.
Every time I read or see the news it seems to get worse. I saw on the TV attached to the treadmill next to mine at the gym tonight that over 13,000 people were now dead or missing.
And maybe it's that last sentence that makes it so hard to say anything worth saying. It is amazing to me that while in one place, the whole world is falling apart, here life goes on as normal. While workers desperately try to save nuclear reactors and ex pats flee the country, today I went to work, and helped some people pay their power bills, tried to visit a woman at a nursing home (she was asleep), attended a board meeting, went to the gym. Those are all good things, but they are normal things. While the headlines on BBC.com are all about earthquakes and radiation, a link on the side brings you to a story about Boston's Running of the Brides. While people starve and die, others are storming Filene's Basement. That sounds like a condemnation, but it's not. It's just the way it is. And though that means that those of us on this side of the world buying dresses and counting calories aren't thinking all the time about what's happening in Japan, when we do think about it, it makes it even more awe-inspiringly heartbreaking, and even harder to say anything about.
The earthquake was Friday. Then there was a tsunami. Then there was radiation. Things have been getting worse for days. And yesterday, I blogged about potatoes.
The dichotomy there reminded me of lyrics to a Dave Matthews song. I wrote out the lyrics and then deleted them. They didn't seem like an appropriate response. Maybe that's why when something horrible happens, or someone we love dies, we have a moment of silence. It's the response with the most integrity.
In that case, I guess I've already said too much. I'll end with just three more things, not even in complete sentences: prayers, and grace, and a belief in a God who suffers with us.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Waltzing with Potatoes
For Lent, I'm leading a study of Barbara Brown Taylor's book An Altar in the World. This book is all about spiritual practices you can do in your everyday lives, and one of the first ones she writes about is the Practice of Paying Attention. That might mean paying attention to nature, paying attention to people you'd ordinarily ignore, paying attention to what countries items in a catalogue come from--no matter what you pay attention to, doing so is supposed to evoke reverence in you. Everyone in our group, which met for the first time last night, is supposed to find some way to practice paying attention this week, and come back and talk about what they gleaned from it.
So today, since I Lead By Example, I was looking for something to pay attention to. What I quickly discovered is that there are lots of choices, but it's hard to think of something that would sound worthy of coming back and talking about.
I ended up at Bloom on my way home from our worship committee meeting tonight, because as is often the case, I had no food at home. I decided I was in the mood for mashed potatoes. And then I thought that maybe potatoes were something I could pay attention to.
So I got home and started paying attention. As I held and washed my potatoes I noticed how rough they felt and how if you looked close enough, their skin almost looked like snakeskin. I noticed their lumps and eyes and ridges. I don't know who first decided that a potato was something they might want to eat, because it is dull and brown and hard, like a rock.
The next thing I quickly discovered was that I was bored. Maybe it is hard to practice reverence when you are hungry.
So I went ahead and chopped my potatoes. I tried to pay attention as I did this, too. After all, I've read things about how distanced we Americans often are from our food, and how just slowing down and spending time actually cooking can reconnect us to what we eat. And I like cooking, in theory. I just don't always like cooking when I get home from a meeting at 8 or 9. Also I don't like washing dishes, which is somewhat of a deterrent. Anyway, I paid attention. I felt the tension between my knife and the potato, heard how the slices crunched like an apple when I cut them, felt how they were almost a little slimy on the inside. I suppose if you pushed me I might say the cutting became slightly meditative after a few minutes.
So I don't know. I'm glad God made potatoes. They are delicious mashed up with garlic. Did I develop a heightened sense of reverence for these potatoes and the God who made them? Maybe not so much. Maybe I stopped too early.
Or maybe the practice of reverence and paying attention really does take practice. Maybe it just takes a while to see something new in a vegetable, a person, a catalogue. In the meantime, I suppose it can't hurt to be a little more aware of the things and people God has put around you. And maybe you just have to be in the right frame of mind--and have a snack first.
So today, since I Lead By Example, I was looking for something to pay attention to. What I quickly discovered is that there are lots of choices, but it's hard to think of something that would sound worthy of coming back and talking about.
I ended up at Bloom on my way home from our worship committee meeting tonight, because as is often the case, I had no food at home. I decided I was in the mood for mashed potatoes. And then I thought that maybe potatoes were something I could pay attention to.
So I got home and started paying attention. As I held and washed my potatoes I noticed how rough they felt and how if you looked close enough, their skin almost looked like snakeskin. I noticed their lumps and eyes and ridges. I don't know who first decided that a potato was something they might want to eat, because it is dull and brown and hard, like a rock.
The next thing I quickly discovered was that I was bored. Maybe it is hard to practice reverence when you are hungry.
So I went ahead and chopped my potatoes. I tried to pay attention as I did this, too. After all, I've read things about how distanced we Americans often are from our food, and how just slowing down and spending time actually cooking can reconnect us to what we eat. And I like cooking, in theory. I just don't always like cooking when I get home from a meeting at 8 or 9. Also I don't like washing dishes, which is somewhat of a deterrent. Anyway, I paid attention. I felt the tension between my knife and the potato, heard how the slices crunched like an apple when I cut them, felt how they were almost a little slimy on the inside. I suppose if you pushed me I might say the cutting became slightly meditative after a few minutes.
So I don't know. I'm glad God made potatoes. They are delicious mashed up with garlic. Did I develop a heightened sense of reverence for these potatoes and the God who made them? Maybe not so much. Maybe I stopped too early.
Or maybe the practice of reverence and paying attention really does take practice. Maybe it just takes a while to see something new in a vegetable, a person, a catalogue. In the meantime, I suppose it can't hurt to be a little more aware of the things and people God has put around you. And maybe you just have to be in the right frame of mind--and have a snack first.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Ashes and nail polish
For the past several years working and volunteering in various churches, one thing I avoided like the plague was the children's sermon. Every once in a while I was offered the chance to do one, and I would worm out of it as subtly as possible with an excuse like "it's just not my gift." Once or twice I wasn't able to worm far enough, and so I was stuck in front of the whole church, awkwardly rambling about Jesus while kids played hide and seek under the chairs.
It's not that I don't like kids. I love them. But I suppose I didn't have any confidence in my ability to communicate with them in groups, and especially in front of a crowd of adults.
Now it is my job to do the children's sermon almost every week, and in spite of myself, I have discovered I enjoy it. In a way, it's not so different from preaching to adults. No matter who you're preaching to, it is the preacher's job to figure out what God is saying in a certain scripture to his or her particular congregation, and communicate it in a way that is relevant. That comes out looking different for kids, but the process is similar.
I'm learning to go with the flow and be ready to improvise. Yesterday at the 8:15 service I sat on the chancel steps with a bowl of ashes left over from Wednesday's service, and two little girls came up and joined me (most of the kids come to the 11:00). I showed them the ashes and explained what they were, and asked if they knew what we used ashes for in church.
And one little girl eagerly extended her hand and replied, "Do you like my nail polish?!!!"
I did. It was sparkly.
And that's what I love about children's sermons, though it is hard to explain why. I love that they put me right in the middle of the immediacy and the urgency of whatever the kids are excited about at the time. I love that they force me to let go of the importance of my own message for a moment, and to instead celebrate something a child wants to share. I love that I am becoming more comfortable without having an exact plan.
I did, of course, steer the lesson back to my bowl of ashes. And maybe that little girl will remember something about ashes and Lent and saying we're sorry, or maybe not yet. But if nothing else I hope she'll grow up knowing that church is a place where people like her nail polish.
It's not that I don't like kids. I love them. But I suppose I didn't have any confidence in my ability to communicate with them in groups, and especially in front of a crowd of adults.
Now it is my job to do the children's sermon almost every week, and in spite of myself, I have discovered I enjoy it. In a way, it's not so different from preaching to adults. No matter who you're preaching to, it is the preacher's job to figure out what God is saying in a certain scripture to his or her particular congregation, and communicate it in a way that is relevant. That comes out looking different for kids, but the process is similar.
I'm learning to go with the flow and be ready to improvise. Yesterday at the 8:15 service I sat on the chancel steps with a bowl of ashes left over from Wednesday's service, and two little girls came up and joined me (most of the kids come to the 11:00). I showed them the ashes and explained what they were, and asked if they knew what we used ashes for in church.
And one little girl eagerly extended her hand and replied, "Do you like my nail polish?!!!"
I did. It was sparkly.
And that's what I love about children's sermons, though it is hard to explain why. I love that they put me right in the middle of the immediacy and the urgency of whatever the kids are excited about at the time. I love that they force me to let go of the importance of my own message for a moment, and to instead celebrate something a child wants to share. I love that I am becoming more comfortable without having an exact plan.
I did, of course, steer the lesson back to my bowl of ashes. And maybe that little girl will remember something about ashes and Lent and saying we're sorry, or maybe not yet. But if nothing else I hope she'll grow up knowing that church is a place where people like her nail polish.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Post-it theology
I didn't have any profound theological thoughts of my own today, so I thought I would steal someone else's. I heard it on The View this morning. Sarah Silverman was on the show talking about a new movie she's in, and after they showed a scene from it, one of the hosts (forget who) said that her character was kind of a bitch. (Her words, not mine.) "Yeah," Sarah Silverman said, "but of course, as Mr. Rogers said, there's no one you couldn't love once you've heard their story."
(Disclaimer: a quick Google search actually attributes this quote to Mary Lou Kownacki...but maybe Mr. Rogers used it sometime.)
My first thought, because this is how I think these days, is that that would go great in a sermon sometime. Maybe my upcoming one on the woman at the well. So I grabbed a post it and wrote it down before I forgot. But now it's just sitting on my coffee table, and I think I might leave it there as a reminder for a little while.
I think it's kind of cool that actors get to practice knowing people's stories when it's their job to make "kind of a bitch" into a sympathetic character. I don't know how well that skill translates to real life. In real life, we don't always get to to hear the stories that would allow us to love people. But I think it's a good reminder to assume that those stories exist, and that if we only did know them, we could love someone--so I guess we might as well love them in the meantime too.
(Disclaimer: a quick Google search actually attributes this quote to Mary Lou Kownacki...but maybe Mr. Rogers used it sometime.)
My first thought, because this is how I think these days, is that that would go great in a sermon sometime. Maybe my upcoming one on the woman at the well. So I grabbed a post it and wrote it down before I forgot. But now it's just sitting on my coffee table, and I think I might leave it there as a reminder for a little while.
I think it's kind of cool that actors get to practice knowing people's stories when it's their job to make "kind of a bitch" into a sympathetic character. I don't know how well that skill translates to real life. In real life, we don't always get to to hear the stories that would allow us to love people. But I think it's a good reminder to assume that those stories exist, and that if we only did know them, we could love someone--so I guess we might as well love them in the meantime too.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
The Kingdom and Awkward Turtle, part 2
This Lent, our music director is leading Taize services every Thursday. Today was the first. We started early with a movie about the Taize community and what Taize worship is. A smattering of people sat quietly in the fellowship hall, watching.
About halfway through the movie, a woman came in and stood hesitantly at the entrance to the fellowship hall. The woman sitting next to me waved her in. She came in and put some stuff down on a chair. Then she started handing out bulletins.
The bulletins said "Taize" at the top, had a picture of a cross, and the words "United Methodist Church" at the bottom. Inside were the words to some Taize songs.
This was odd, because I did not know this woman, and I had seen the draft of Richard's bulletin, which this was not. But hey, I wasn't in charge. I figured either she knew something I didn't, or she was maybe a little crazy, in which case I would pick up the real bulletin and not worry about it.
This strategy seemed to be working out OK until Richard caught wind of what was going on, and brought her out to the lobby and asked her to leave. Only she didn't want to leave. I'm pretty sure she had no clue why she would be asked to leave. By this time it was becoming clear that she leaned a little more to the crazy side of things.
I tried to figure out what her story was. After all, she seemed to legitimately know something about Taize. I asked her if she had been there. But all she did was point at Brother Roger up on the movie screen and say that he had invited her. After a little while, a friend of hers came in. She was able to clear things up: the woman had, indeed, been to Taize, as had her friend. She had also gone to Yale Divinity School. She had also been diagnosed with dementia. Her friend agreed to sit with her for the service, which she did, with no more incidents.
Thoughts on this:
One, sometimes you have to take a step back and laugh at the hilariously absurd things that happen in the course of ministry--or, I suppose, life. Coming to a church service and handing out your own bulletins? That's great.
But second, it is things like this that should make us constantly examine what it means to be a welcoming church. Do we welcome people even when they are (non-maliciously) disruptive? If we think we should, are we able to in practice? What lines do we draw? We have certificates on the wall that declare us a Certified Welcoming Congregation. How do those accolades help us understand ourselves in situations like this one?
Third, if this woman was a Yale-trained Taize pilgrim now riddled with dementia, then I think it was probably more important for her to be there at that service than it was for anyone else. We might appreciate the beauty and the silence and the meditative music. For her, it might have been a connection to a life she had once loved, now out of her grasp. She might not have been able to worship God in the ways we often think of worshiping God. But tonight, she wanted to worship God.
In the end, even if events like tonight's are hard, awkward, uncomfortable, disruptive; whether we handle them wrong or handle them right; I believe with all my heart that they are blessings to the church. They make us think about how best to love people.
At the end of the service, I told the woman I was glad she came. I meant it.
About halfway through the movie, a woman came in and stood hesitantly at the entrance to the fellowship hall. The woman sitting next to me waved her in. She came in and put some stuff down on a chair. Then she started handing out bulletins.
The bulletins said "Taize" at the top, had a picture of a cross, and the words "United Methodist Church" at the bottom. Inside were the words to some Taize songs.
This was odd, because I did not know this woman, and I had seen the draft of Richard's bulletin, which this was not. But hey, I wasn't in charge. I figured either she knew something I didn't, or she was maybe a little crazy, in which case I would pick up the real bulletin and not worry about it.
This strategy seemed to be working out OK until Richard caught wind of what was going on, and brought her out to the lobby and asked her to leave. Only she didn't want to leave. I'm pretty sure she had no clue why she would be asked to leave. By this time it was becoming clear that she leaned a little more to the crazy side of things.
I tried to figure out what her story was. After all, she seemed to legitimately know something about Taize. I asked her if she had been there. But all she did was point at Brother Roger up on the movie screen and say that he had invited her. After a little while, a friend of hers came in. She was able to clear things up: the woman had, indeed, been to Taize, as had her friend. She had also gone to Yale Divinity School. She had also been diagnosed with dementia. Her friend agreed to sit with her for the service, which she did, with no more incidents.
Thoughts on this:
One, sometimes you have to take a step back and laugh at the hilariously absurd things that happen in the course of ministry--or, I suppose, life. Coming to a church service and handing out your own bulletins? That's great.
But second, it is things like this that should make us constantly examine what it means to be a welcoming church. Do we welcome people even when they are (non-maliciously) disruptive? If we think we should, are we able to in practice? What lines do we draw? We have certificates on the wall that declare us a Certified Welcoming Congregation. How do those accolades help us understand ourselves in situations like this one?
Third, if this woman was a Yale-trained Taize pilgrim now riddled with dementia, then I think it was probably more important for her to be there at that service than it was for anyone else. We might appreciate the beauty and the silence and the meditative music. For her, it might have been a connection to a life she had once loved, now out of her grasp. She might not have been able to worship God in the ways we often think of worshiping God. But tonight, she wanted to worship God.
In the end, even if events like tonight's are hard, awkward, uncomfortable, disruptive; whether we handle them wrong or handle them right; I believe with all my heart that they are blessings to the church. They make us think about how best to love people.
At the end of the service, I told the woman I was glad she came. I meant it.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
To dust
When I was little, and just learning what death was, I was scared. I remember nights sitting on my bed with my mom sobbing over the inevitability of this thing I didn't understand. I remember Mom trying to comfort me, telling me that probably neither of us would die for a very long time. Eventually she took me to a therapist, who I remember suggested that belief in heaven was an answer.
I have no other memories of this counseling and don't recall if I went anymore. I know that I now consider myself a fairly well adjusted adult, on most days, probably no more or less wrapped up in morbidity than the next person. But I am still scared of death. The word "forever," if I stay with it a little while, is enough to make me panicky. Of course, the alternative is no better. Forever is forever, whether you spend it alive or dead.
I am scared of death, and yet it is my job to tell others that they should not be scared of death. I know that is an overstatement. But it is my job to speak at funerals, to stand at a casket and proclaim resurrection; to reassure people taking their loved ones off life support that to let them go is the unselfish thing;to preach on scriptures that tell us to lose one's life is to gain it; and to smear people's foreheads with ash and remind them that they will return to dust.
We had two Ash Wednesday services today, and I thought about this more at the second than at the first: for one thing, there were about a hundred more people at the evening service, so I had a lot more time, and for another, I read this essay by Sara Miles in the meantime, posted by several friends on Facebook.
Miles writes that a woman came up to her with a week-and-a-half old baby to receive ashes for both of them. "I crossed his forehead with ashes," she says, "and took a deep breath, and told the baby he was going to die."
I didn't tell any babies they were going to die tonight. I did tell one girl, maybe age nine, and I didn't like doing it. Miles writes about giving ashes to kitchen workers, and truck drivers, and drug dealers. I didn't tell any drug dealers they would die, as far as I know. But I did say those words to my senior pastor, and a retired bishop, and a bunch of college students with makeup on and hair done from their concert before the service. Telling people they were on their way back into dust, I felt embarrassed, even apologetic. True or not, who I am to tell them this--I, who am also dust, who am scared of my own dustiness?
I believe and love the words it is my job to say: that we will die, but that we will ultimately live. And I think that we're allowed to be scared, even if we believe that. And as always, I hope the truth and the good news of the words I say come through to people, whether or not I am scared.
I have no other memories of this counseling and don't recall if I went anymore. I know that I now consider myself a fairly well adjusted adult, on most days, probably no more or less wrapped up in morbidity than the next person. But I am still scared of death. The word "forever," if I stay with it a little while, is enough to make me panicky. Of course, the alternative is no better. Forever is forever, whether you spend it alive or dead.
I am scared of death, and yet it is my job to tell others that they should not be scared of death. I know that is an overstatement. But it is my job to speak at funerals, to stand at a casket and proclaim resurrection; to reassure people taking their loved ones off life support that to let them go is the unselfish thing;to preach on scriptures that tell us to lose one's life is to gain it; and to smear people's foreheads with ash and remind them that they will return to dust.
We had two Ash Wednesday services today, and I thought about this more at the second than at the first: for one thing, there were about a hundred more people at the evening service, so I had a lot more time, and for another, I read this essay by Sara Miles in the meantime, posted by several friends on Facebook.
Miles writes that a woman came up to her with a week-and-a-half old baby to receive ashes for both of them. "I crossed his forehead with ashes," she says, "and took a deep breath, and told the baby he was going to die."
I didn't tell any babies they were going to die tonight. I did tell one girl, maybe age nine, and I didn't like doing it. Miles writes about giving ashes to kitchen workers, and truck drivers, and drug dealers. I didn't tell any drug dealers they would die, as far as I know. But I did say those words to my senior pastor, and a retired bishop, and a bunch of college students with makeup on and hair done from their concert before the service. Telling people they were on their way back into dust, I felt embarrassed, even apologetic. True or not, who I am to tell them this--I, who am also dust, who am scared of my own dustiness?
I believe and love the words it is my job to say: that we will die, but that we will ultimately live. And I think that we're allowed to be scared, even if we believe that. And as always, I hope the truth and the good news of the words I say come through to people, whether or not I am scared.
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