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.
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