the end, I think

I have really enjoyed and appreciated this blog. It's been a great place to connect with others, some of whom have become good friends. It's been a wonderful chance to be part of the RevGals community, and to find other fantastic blogs to read.

But I think the life of this blog has reached its end. I haven't been writing much lately, for which there are a variety of reasons - and, instead of feeling guilty about not updating this blog, I think it's simply time to acknowledge the end of its useful life and move on to the next thing. For one, I'll be starting a public blog on my church's website this year. That alone will take enough time to maintain that I'll have to cut back someplace else.

So, to the few of you still putting up with my total lack of updates lately...thanks for reading. It's meant a lot. I'm so glad I found you, out there in blogland. I'll keep reading - just not writing. Here, anyway.

Peace to you all.

a christmas miracle

It is December 18. And (drum roll here) the Christmas Eve sermon is done.

That, my friends, is a gen-ew-ine Christmas miracle.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

church nerd alert level: orange.

You know you are an unrepentant church nerd when you spend most of the day doing the bulletins for Christmas Eve, and then, when someone asks how your day was, you say, "Great! I had so much fun!"

I may need to get out more often.

advent. again.

I used to love Advent. Along with Lent, it was my favorite church season: short enough to be tightly woven with text, song, and imagery; a place apart from the frantic nature of the Christmas-Industrial Complex surrounding us; a time full of promises and babies and hope and joy.

Yep - I used to love Advent. Used to.

I'm not sure whether I hate Advent now. I think 'hate' would be a bit too strong. There are still things I love about Advent as a pastor: that text/song/imagery thing is still awesome, and I love the hymns especially, and I love preaching during Advent. (Mostly.)

But those babies. Those damn babies. They're everywhere during this season, this freaking baby-centered season, damn babies showing up right and left, born after long times of waiting, born before they were ever expected - they're omnipresent. Like fruitcake.

I know what you're saying: who hates babies? Who is this woman? Who hates babies during Advent?

Infertile women. Infertile women hate babies during Advent.

(Please note that I do not actually HATE babies. But sometimes it feels that way.)

This is, in case you were keeping track (like me), my fifth Advent sans baby. We are now officially beginning our fifth year of trying to get pregnant. Which, if you were counting months (like me), would bring us to a grand total of 48 consecutive non-baby months. (Except for last April, when I was pregnant for about 24 hours until it turned out to be ectopic. I don't count that.)

Yesterday, my brother and his wife sent us a card to tell us that they are pregnant. This is very nice, in theory. The card thing was very thoughtful and indeed, did give me space to react (i.e. rage and swear until the paint practically blistered off the wall) in my own time. I appreciated that.

I was doing pretty well until that announcement. We are gearing up for another treatment cycle starting in January, so I was focused on that. It felt good to be hopeful again.

And now, it's just another Advent where someone I love is pregnant, and it's not me. And where the thing I hate the most, much more than said pregnant person, is my own hideous, self-centered reaction to the news. Another Thanksgiving where I have to stand up in the pulpit and talk about gratitude, which today feels a million miles away. Another Advent where I will watch other people's children dress up in old bedsheets and fall over themselves trying to get up the aisle to be shepherds so that their parents can smile and take their photo and then go home and put their sleepy shepherds to bed. Another Advent where I will preach about Elizabeth and Mary and secretly curse them both during the hymn of the day.

It's Advent. Again. Without child. Again. And today, I wish I could fast-forward to January 1. Again.

Good luck with me, God. You've got your work cut out for you this year.

on being patronized

Nearly eleven years into ordained ministry, and I still run into this problem.

Today, I was visiting with some people from a neighboring congregation. They'd come over to see our seniors group, since they're thinking about starting one of their own - we started chatting, and then suddenly they were asking all sorts of questions. Our conversation went something like this:

Patronizing Ladies: "So, are you the senior pastor here?"

Me: "No, I'm the associate."

PL: "Oh, that's nice. So how long have you been here?"

M: "About two years. And I was in Old City for about nine years before that."

PL: "Oh, my goodness! You don't look old enough for that!" (and here one of said ladies put her hand on my arm in that SUPER PATRONIZING sort of way, the whole, "you just look so young" kind of thing.)

(Let me say that, in fact, I do take some steps to keep myself looking young. Or, young-er. Young-ish. I take care of my skin. I, yes, I dye my hair, because I am seriously prematurely grey and would be very, very salt-and-pepper hair if I didn't, and I'm just not quite ready for that at age 36. However, my grandmother - who gave me this super-curly hair in the first place - had gorgeous silver hair, and my goal is to slide into that in my 50's or 60's. I refuse to be the old lady with suspiciously black hair. It's too weird.)

Anyway. Interestingly, I find that this sort of patronizing, "but you're so young!" behavior comes almost entirely from women. I can't remember the last time a man said that to me. Maybe guys just don't notice age the way women do. Or maybe they have decided that commenting on a colleague's appearance in any way is dangerous territory, and they're staying out of it. (Probably wise.)

But I think there's more to it than that. Why is it always women who insist that I'm so young, that they "could never have been a pastor" at my age (yep, I've gotten that one), that, well...let's finish today's conversation.

Patronizing Ladies: "So, what year did you graduate from college?"

Me: (Dreading probable response) "1995."

PL: "Oh, my goodness - you're just a baby!" (Insert Patronizing Arm Grip again here.)

WHAT THE HELL IS THAT ABOUT? First of all, I'm two months away from being 37. I'm freewheeling toward forty here, people. I'm still young - you bet. But a BABY? What is THAT about?

Would it have been okay for me to say to her, "you're getting pretty old, aren't you? Are you STILL working? Wow - you're no spring chicken."

Obviously that would be bad. I would never do this. Because it would be irritating, and rude, and I would probably get beat up a lot.

I have no idea where to go with this, which is probably why I came here. It's just that it really bugs me. It bugs that it's women that do this (at least to me). I've made it a personal creed not to do this to women in ministry who are younger than I am. Does this ring true for anyone else?

one of those days

I'm having one of those days. You know, the kind where it's raining and dreary and you are about to welcome a speaker for a class you are pretty sure no one will show up for, and also you screwed up and double-booked yourself on a Sunday and had to admit your foolish mistake because there was no way out of it, and also you're suffering from pretty serious jet lag. You know, one of those days.

At text study today, we got into a discussion about general lack of participation in our churches. It seems to be something of an epidemic at the moment, people saying how much they want a certain program, or class, or worship opportunity, but then never actually showing up for the stuff you put together. This gets old. Fast. Because of my jet lag, I woke up at 5:00am this morning with DOOM, DOOM thoughts running in my head - this is the sort of thing I usually do at 3:00am, when it's possible to go back to sleep and then wake up and realize what an idiot you were, but when you do it at 5:00, there's not much time to clean the slate. So I got up, and I'm still spinning in a vortex of worry and frustration.

It's partly exhaustion, for sure, but it's also the trail end of the honeymoon period in New Congregation. They just don't show up for the stuff I do at the rate they show up for the stuff my colleague does. He's been here 25 years, so this makes a lot of sense when you look at it from a purely objective perspective (at which, let's face it, I suck). And right now a few no-show-things are coinciding, along with the jet lag, which makes me much more negative than I really am.

Sometimes the minutiae of ministry - the administrative stuff, the human-resources stuff, the petty arguments and the anxieties and the ego bruises and the tiredness - just gets you down. It always passes. Sleep helps, for one thing.

And sometimes you just have to admit that you're having a crappy day. Nothing dramatic; nothing life-altering. Just crummy. This too, shall pass. Soon and very soon, I hope.

damn yankees.

Sigh.

I guess the value of the widow's mite doesn't apply to major league baseball.

Stupid Yankees.

That is all.

keeping it in perspective

Okay. I don't know if you do this, but I tend to blow things way out of proportion. As in, let's say, one person in the congregation is mad about something involving me, and by the time I'm done with my 3am freak-out session, I'm sure that I'm about to go into the office and get fired because everybody hates me. You never do that, do you? No. Certainly not. It's ridiculous.

But it does help to write down some perspective-keeping things. In the spirit of which:

1. One angry person is just that: one angry person. Not the whole church. Chill.

2. This person's particular anger is probably not about you at all. Even though it's aimed at you. Don't take it personally.

3. This person's particular beef is way, way off base. You know this.

4. You have the full and complete support of your fellow staff members and the council and, I'm guessing, 98% of the congregation. Not bad.

5. Tomorrow, this whole conversation you need to have with Angry Person will be over and done with. And life will go on.

6. The last, oh, one hundred times you've had to have a conversation with an Angry Person, it never went as badly as you thought it would. (Except for that one time, which was worse. But that was an isolated incident. Let it go.)

7. You can be firm and gracious at the same time. Really.

8. Also, there is apple pie in the fridge when you get home. Not that you want to go overboard with this as a coping mechanism, but it's there.

Okay. Ready to go.

sideswiped

Huh.

After ten years of ordained ministry, you'd think I would be accustomed to random, 'where the heck did that come from' attacks. Rare (thankfully), but they do happen.

However...not accustomed to them. They still hurt. Even if they are easily dismissed as baseless.

Definitely leaves a dent, though.

to bless or not to bless

I haven't been blogging much lately, for which there are a few legitimate reasons and some not-so-legitimate ones. But, on the off chance that anyone is still reading this, I'd love some opinions on a family situation.

I have two younger brothers, neither of whom attend church. I've always been very cautious about even mentioning that to them, both because a.) my mother mentions it enough for everyone; and b.) my experience is that many people assume pastors will pressure people to go to church, and I don't want to play that role in my family. (Or ever, really.)

A year ago - almost exactly - my middle brother and his wife had a baby girl. Whom we love and adore and cannot get enough of, but whom they did not baptize. This has been hard on my parents, who (in spite of my mom's attempts to get my brothers to go to church) are very generous and progressive Christians and who see faith as the center of their lives. They have not pressured my brother and his wife to baptize their daughter, but she is their only grandchild and I know they are sad that this hasn't happened.

My sister-in-law has not much religious background. Her parents were divorced when she was a teenager, after years of a very rocky and unstable relationship. Her dad, who is a really nice guy and close to my sister-in-law, is not religious at all. Her mom, who is a high-maintenance, demanding, and self-centered crazy lady, is also the Christian in the family. GREAT. She and my sister-in-law don't have a great relationship. When I look at those dynamics, it's no wonder my sister-in-law doesn't have much interest in Christianity - even in spite of the very different example she's seen for ten years in my parents. As a small addition, when my sister-in-law did go to church in her younger years, it was a Baptist church, so there's no tradition of infant baptism in her life anyway, regardless of how she feels about church now.

So. This week is my niece's first birthday, and my brother and sister-in-law decided to have a 'blessing' ceremony for her. They really want me to officiate at it, which I was delighted to do. My first thought was that this is a way for me to participate in something important to them, and to honor their spirituality (my sister-in-law's, really). Although I would love for my niece to be baptized, I really don't think it's appropriate unless her parents take seriously the promises parents make at a baptism - to bring the child to worship, teach them the faith, etc. - but this seemed like a way to keep the door open, just in case. God works in mysterious ways, right?

Then they sent me a copy of the ceremony. And here's where I'm hitting some problems.

It's very nice and Mother-Earth-y, very "will you help her grow to accept her beauty...may she walk in ways of peace and compassion, etc." No problems there. No mention of God, but I'm not interested in forcing that on them.

There's really just one line which grates on me: it's a question for the parents, asking if they will "help her to grow and hold her close" (fine, sounds good), "and let her go when it is time" (okay, all well there), "so that she may know that she alone can complete herself" (uh-oh).

She alone can complete herself? I don't believe that. I think I get what it's supposed to mean - that she doesn't have to have a boyfriend, or husband (or wife, if that's the case), or any other person on whom she depends for her self-esteem in an unhealthy way. But I don't think she can "complete herself." I don't think any of us can. And really, although I think I understand what it's supposed to mean in this context, I don't think my brother and sister-in-law believe that either.

Of course, the big reason I don't believe that is because I think the good news of the gospel is precisely that we can't complete ourselves, in spite of all our efforts to the contrary, and that God has already loved us so deeply that we are complete in that love. But that would require me to talk about Jesus, which doesn't seem like a good idea in this context.

For the sake of the family relationships here, I'm going to do this blessing even if I have to cross my fingers behind my back for the "complete herself" part. But while I've been writing this out, it occurred to me that what I could do is talk through my disagreement on that one with them and see if we could re-word that bit. We do have a great relationship, and they did ask for my thoughts on the ceremony, so I think they're open to suggestions.

In other words, after all this explaining, I may just have answered my own question. But I'd love to hear from others. When the spirituality of those you love crashes into yours, what do you do?

if only peace were so contagious

To the two parishioners who are FREAKED OUT that they are going to get the swine flu from passing the peace by handshake on Sunday mornings:

Chill.

Out.

No, we are not going to stop sharing the peace.

No, we are not going to install hand sanitizer dispensers in the sanctuary.

No, we cannot save you from getting the flu, unless we outfit everyone with a hazmat suit, and that seems to be pretty bad theology (not to mention expensive. And distracting).

If you wish not to shake hands during flu season, then just don't shake hands. It's that simple.

Besides, let's do the math: there are 168 hours in a week. You spend ONE of them here. Maybe three, if you're around for other activities (during which there is no forced handshaking, so I'm just going to count the one). 1 of 168 hours is about .005% of your time. Yes, you might get the flu here. Definitely possible. But not overly likely.

Everybody should just calm down. Wash your hands. Take a deep breath, and RELAX.

Sincerely,
Your slightly irritated pastor.

just a Friday

Now that I'm one of two pastors and I don't preach every week, I don't really know what to do with my Fridays. I still carve them out on my schedule as 'sermon-writing day' and, out of 9 years of habit, I rarely make appointments on Fridays, but then I find myself on a day like today, with no sermon to write, and I feel...a bit disoriented.

Don't get me wrong: I have stuff to do. But it still feels weird.

I think we have figured out how to handle the 'should we or shouldn't we' situation from the post below. After a meeting with the interested parties last night, we decided that our committee which works with these matters should come up with a proposal for how the congregation might go about endorsing a political issue. I don't think we can even start thinking about the possibility unless we all agree on the ground rules beforehand. And while it's a bit late for this election cycle, there are a few things we can do related to this particular referendum - not as public as some would like, but better than nothing.

Today I'm going to the funeral of a friend from elementary school. A strange reality. She died after a surgery - the cause is not yet clear, and it seems impossible to me that the girl who ran up and down the basketball court like a ball of fire is being buried today. I haven't seen her for years. Her mom was our CampfireGirls leader (mostly we sat in their basement and ate cookies, with the occasional craft project interjected).

After the funeral, I will be racing home to finish cleaning my house, as my in-laws arrive today. My mother-in-law, whom I love, is about the cleanest person you have ever met. And while I know she would never judge the cleanliness of my house, I can't stop myself from purging the place as if the President were coming whenever they're here for a visit.

A meeting with a baptismal family tomorrow. A graveside service for the father of a church member on Monday (switching day off to next Friday). An adult education class to plan for next week.

I suppose these aren't especially blogworthy moments - no great stories lately - but sometimes I lose sight of the promise that our ordinary days are infused with God's presence. So I'm trying to remind myself of that on this ordinary Friday.

things that make you go, "Huh. I have no idea what to do about that."

Well, I think I have myself a genuine, bona-fide dilemma here.

I've had this problem before, and I'm sure I'll have it again: it falls into the "how public is the nature of my call, really?" category, with a generous helping of the always-interesting side dish, "how prophetic can one be without getting in serious trouble?"

I live in a state which is inordinately fond of referendums and initiatives and all manner of political machinations which can either be understood as, "Cool! Power to the people! Everybody participates in the process!" or, "If we're all going to vote on every bloody issue anyway, why did we even bother to elect a legislature?" (Can you guess which side I'm on?) At the moment, we have a few of these things in front of us. One in particular is causing me some problems today.

The referendum in question has to do with the state's so-called 'Everything But Marriage' law, which gives the rights of a married couple to same-sex couples (and to older couples living together who can't afford to get married because of various changes that would cause in their benefit status,but naturally, the same-sex-couple part is getting all the attention). The legislature put this law into action awhile ago, but some people who oppose it have managed to scrape together enough signatures to force the issue onto a general ballot.

I know how I feel, personally, on this issue, which is that I support it almost wholeheartedly (my only reservation being that I wish we would just open a marriage option for same-sex couples instead of playing all these other games, but I guess that's a bit farther down the road). This will probably come as no surprise to anyone who knows me.

Because my congregation is openly welcoming to gay and lesbian men and women, I doubt that any of my parishioners would be surprised by my opinion either. But, naturally, there are some folks here who would not support the law - or me. A few who are especially passionate about this issue, however, have asked if the congregation would publicly support this referendum.

My gut instinct was quick: "we can't do that." There aren't a lot of hard and fast rules in parish ministry, but one of the few I know is that the congregation can't get involved in telling people how to vote. We can encourage them to vote, and we can give them information on issues, but we have to represent both sides. If you don't do this, the IRS comes in the middle of the night and takes away all your hymnals and also revokes your tax-free status. (Or, just that second part. I think.)

But then I went onto the website supporting this referendum, which has a very handy section for faith groups, and discovered that - lo and behold - there are congregations and synagogues and other faith groups which have signed their community names publicly offering support for this issue.

Which leaves me with two questions, one of which probably matters more than the other: 1.) can we publicly support this? and 2.) even if we can, should we?

We talk a lot about inclusivity in this congregation, and a big part of my concern here is that we tend to forget that we need to be inclusive of those who disagree with us. One of the things I am most proud of in the ELCA's decisions regarding sexuality this summer is the quality of the concern for the deeply-held convictions of all people. I may be horrified by the convictions of some people, but unless I believe those very people are my brothers and sisters in Christ, and act accordingly, then we are not really being the church.

And yet...it comes in pretty handy that my desire to be a welcoming church even to the more conservative among us just happens to align with my natural tendency to be, in short, chickenshit. Am I really concerned about the viewpoints of all people? Or am I just too wimpy to take a stand? At what point does "concern for the viewpoints of all" morph into "never having the guts to be prophetic"?

I've made a call to some people who can help me answer the "can we do this?" question. (I know we can't advocate for candidates or parties, but apparently the whole referendum thing is kind of a grey area.) The "should we?" is a whole other question. I've put in a prayer about that, but nothing so far. Except this post.

Jump in with whatever you've got. We'll see where it goes.

still alive

You know how you go on vacation for, let's say, three weeks - and you have a great time, a wonderful time of resting and relaxing and hanging out with friends and family, and you feel totally and completely great, and then you come back to work all smiley and happy and you get HIT OVER THE HEAD WITH 257 EMAILS and last-minute preparations for Rally Day and Sunday School and HOW ON EARTH are there that many confirmation kids?

Yeah. That's my week.

I had a great vacation. And now I'm barely keeping my head above water, though I have to admit that it's fun to be back at work.

Aside from the update, here's my blogworthy moment for the day:

Listening to NPR on the way home, I heard the end of a story about some woven flax dyed string found in a cave (I think) and dating to about 30,000 years ago. The expert being interviewed talked about how string would have been a huge technological achievement for the time, enabling people to carry larger burdens or tie things together. Flax, of course, is what you can weave to make linen - but clothes weren't worn in those days, she said. "If you were cold, you would wrap yourself in the pelt of whatever you ate for dinner," she continued. "Clothes came into being more for fashion - and they weren't a big deal until we developed have's and have-not's, so that clothing became about what you were wearing as opposed to what other people had or didn't have."

Which made me think about Adam and Eve, frantically fashioning bits of loincloths for themselves in the garden. Was it just about covering nakedness? Or is that story the very beginning of the have's and the have-not's - and all the chaos that follows?

Maybe it will show up in a sermon one day. I'll call it "string theory."

Hopefully back to regular blogging in a few more days.

things I love friday

Inspired by my friend at Seeking to Build a Bridge, I'm listing some things I particularly love at the moment. For two reasons: 1.) sermon procrastination; and 2.) more importantly, practicing gratitude. After inner-and-outer complaining about the heat all week, it's time to knock off the whining.

1. Cooler temperatures (and air conditioning) - okay, well, I'll start with something related to the heat. After several days above 100 degrees, we're at a nice mid-80's today. There was a cool breeze this morning. And we have air conditioning at home, so we could at least sleep alright. All good things.

2. The tomatoes - at least they loved the heat, and they're chock full o' green globes. Just about to turn red. We planted them a bit late, but oh, the anticipation of a home-grown tomato...can't beat it.

3. Hanging clothes out to dry - I work off some of my guilt about running the air conditioner by trying not to use the dryer all summer. Plus, you get that amazing fresh-off-the-line smell. LOVE.

4. Books, books, books - after a childhood of Summer Reading Programs, I find myself inexorably pulled toward a marathon of book-reading every summer. No one gives me cool stickers for it anymore, but that's okay. Right now I'm (finally) reading Sophie's Choice, interspersed with a few mysteries and that book about the Potato Pie and Literary Club, or whatever. All good.

5. Manna - I love the manna story. I love that manna means, "what IS it?" I love having fun writing the sermon.

6. Breyers' Fruit Bars - they are cold. They are fruity. AND THEY ARE ONLY FORTY CALORIES. Enough said.

7. This review of The Shack by PeaceBang - I was going to get around to writing a review myself, but this one said it all.

8. Reconciliation - so the other day, I got an email from a woman who used to be a member of Wholly Busy Congregation. "Used to," as in, "in 1968." She explained in the email that she had left as an angry parishioner in the midst of a painful divorce. And that she was now joining a nearby congregation but wanted to reconcile with her old one before starting over again. So she came in today, and we had the most amazing and lovely conversation, about her grief and how much she regretted her actions, and her time away from church, and her sadness that her two sons had not had a church home. And how her daughter - over whom she had truly left church - had somehow, over the years, found her way into a congregation and became the door through which her mother could enter again. It was amazing. And such an honor. And if I do nothing else productive this summer, being part of that conversation was enough. Sometimes I forget the myriad of ways that God can resurrect the dead.

the bread of life in a low-carb world

Oh, the bread of life. You arrive again for six long weeks in the middle of a god-awful hot summer (a term I do not use lightly; it was 106 on my deck, in the shade, yesterday; and this in a place where we usually think 85 is SUPER hot).

I went to text study today and we talked about the lectionary readings for next Sunday, which is particularly confusing in the midst of this series since I can hardly tell one week from another after all these weeks of the bread of life. Years ago, I was - well, complaining - to a colleague, a woman I have known for a long time who is, hands down, the best preacher I know in real life. I said something about how I 'just couldn't take one more week on the bread of life,' and she smiled sadly and said gently, "I always loved those weeks; it was like holding a gem in the light and seeing all its facets." I felt like crap. (I do think a bit of her romanticism was due to no longer serving in a parish, but only a bit - she really meant it.)

I try to remember this gem image now, but all I can really think of is how my feet are practically swelling right out of my sandals and I'm starting to wonder if we should begin a special capital campaign to get airconditioning in the whole building. The whining seems entirely appropriate to this week's first reading. (One of the profs on Working Preacher said, "I envision this whole scene taking place in a minivan.") How much longer is this going to last? Where are we going? When are we going to get there? What is this stupid flaky bread, anyway? Where's the protein? What's for dessert?

We got into a big discussion at text study about what people expect from church. One colleague had dealt with a parishioner - the kind that never come to worship but consider themselves connected to the congregation - who had been heard complaining at a local event that she no longer attended worship because, "I come to church to be inspired, not to be made to feel guilty." What do people expect from the bread of life, or from the community which claims to be fed by it? It seems like a lot of people want to be part of the church without any conversion experience. What we preachers hear as good news - your stuff doesn't matter, your life is more than your work, you are loved beyond what you accomplish - isn't good news if you can't separate your identity from those things. Then you just feel naked and exposed, which even in the worst heat, isn't a great feeling.

I'm thinking about the blueberry muffins I made last week, when it was warm but not HOT. I kept them in a nice glass container with a lid on the counter. Every morning I took one out for breakfast, until the fourth day, when I opened the container and all those lovely muffins had molded. Give us this day our daily bread. Such a deep, beautiful, and yet insignificant image. Bread is just bread. A dime a slice (well, not anymore, but you get the point) - disposable, to us. One loaf molds; you pick up another at the grocery store. So ordinary.

So we fill ourselves with much fancier things because, after all, just bread couldn't be enough, right? There must be more than that. How...bourgeouis.

I think the "daily" bit is the hardest part. It doesn't seem very secure. How about weekly bread? Or bi-monthly? I like gettting my bread on the 15th and the 30th of each month, personally. Makes it easier to plan ahead.

No, I suppose not.

I started re-reading Take This Bread by Sara Miles, looking for some preaching help. I ran across this prayer:

God of abundance, you feed us every day.
Rise in us now, make us into your bread,
that we may share your gifts with a hungry world,
and join in love with all people, through
Jesus Christ our Lord.

Maybe that's enough for today.

summer school

Summer does teach you stuff, mostly outside the classroom.

For instance, today I learned that, although I have a four-year Master's degree followed by quite a bit of continuing education and, although I can write fairly well, and although I can gather a lot of information about church history for a future teaching opportunity (by the way, here's what I learned from my dive into church history today: Christians are SERIOUSLY messed up) -

in spite of all this, I cannot, for the life of me, correctly operate the sprinkler in our front yard. After 20 minutes, I have managed to water a.) much of the sidewalk; b.) my shorts; c.) my shoes; and d.) about 10 percent of the lawn.

There's a reason I'm not the primary yard-worker in this house, that's all I'm saying.

Laugh it up, stupid sprinkler. I will not accept defeat so easily. I will return and FIGURE YOU OUT, or, more accurately, I will SEND MY HUSBAND OUT THERE because he actually knows what he's doing. And then I will read a book. AND LAUGH AT YOU, STUPID SPRINKLER. Now, please excuse me while I go change into dry pants. HA HA HA HA HA.

identity and decisions

I'm not normally a big news-junkie, but I'm fascinated lately with the whole Supreme Court confirmation process. Partly, yes, because the nominee is a woman. Partly because I am tremendously relieved that the previous President didn't get to nominate additional candidates, given that he and I agreed politically on, you know, NOTHING.

But mostly because of this whole debate about identity and decision-making. Apparently, Justice Roberts claimed during his confirmation hearings that a justice ought to be like an umpire, simply calling balls and strikes without any personal subjectivity whatsoever. At which point, someone on the liberal side of the aisle claimed that such an image left no room for the humanity of a judge, so that we might as well have a computer making the decisions for us. And then this whole concept collided with Sotomayor's compelling personal story and her (I believe) off-handed remark, once upon a time, that a 'wise Latina' might make better decisions as a judge.

First off, I have no doubt that not a single one of us - congresspersons included - would make it through a process this invasive without running into some dumb, thoughtless, or otherwise ripped-out-of-context remark thrown in our faces. It's a wonder to me that anyone survives to make it into a government position at all.

And yes, I understand that a judge's personal story, biases, and experiences should not be the primary factor in making decisions from the bench. That has obvious problems.

But the insistence coming from legislators that UNDER NO CIRCUMSTANCES should your personal history have ANYTHING TO DO WITH ANY DECISION - this is ridiculous. And, to my mind, utterly naive.

Hey, congress; let me tell you what any reasonable adult ought to know: there is no such thing as objectivity. We are all captive to our own stories, at one point or another. Every single one of us is subjective all day long, and if you ever think you are being otherwise, then all you have done is to find yourself in a situation which aligns itself with your own biases. The only way to deal with this is to admit it, and do the best you can to hear all the stories involved - yours included. Any judicial candidate who claims that he or she can, in fact, act without any subjectivity is a candidate you should run from. Fast. And far. Because that's either a lie, or a huge, huge blind spot.

I know that the Justice Statue Lady has a blindfold and everything, but that's a lie too. Justice is not blind. Justice is not about being, or trying to be, blind to all the biases claiming space in front of you. Justice is about seeing all of them and trying to hold them in balance.

And yes, I think this has something to do with God. There is an image out there of an Umpire God, a completely impassive force who decides for you or against you based on evidence alone, who acts without passion, whose job it is to try and make life as 'fair' as possible.

That's an image of God out there, but for my money, it sure isn't a Christian one. The Christian image of God is Jesus, incarnate in all his biased, subjective flesh, who took that enfleshed experience into God's very heart. God is not objective. God is very, very, unapologetically biased in favor of all creation.

And, hey - if God can't even pull off objectivity, I don't know how Sotomayor is supposed to do it. Or any other justice. Or me. Or you, for that matter. And I don't think we are even supposed to try.

(On the very off-chance that I am ever nominated for a government position, this blog post is totally coming back to haunt me.)

this week brought to you by the letters...

...VBS.*

Which means that this Friday afternoon will be brought to you by the word, "Margarita."

Chances of blogging this week: slim to none. See you next week.

*VBS = "Vacation Bible School," in case the letters are unfamiliar to you. 163 kids, 85 volunteers. I need a nap.

what's on my desk: second edition

I did this awhile ago, and it serves two purposes: one, to make the readers of this blog feel better about the potentially messy state of their own desks (not you, naturally); and two, to prompt me to CLEAN UP MY DESK.

So. Here goes. Currently on my (admittedly, rather large) desk:

• 1 pile of books-to-be-read (7)
• 1 pile of books-I-am-sort-of-reading (8)
• I pile of books-I-am-totally-going-to-put-away-any-minute-now (4, plus 1 DVD)
• beggars bowl (still empty!)
• 4 back issues of Christian Century
• Notes from a meeting two weeks ago
• Next year's confirmation teaching schedule
• Feasting on the Word, open to this Sunday's gospel lesson
• yellow note pad with notes for this week's sermon (which, yes, I should be working on)
• 2 coffee mugs, including my "does this pulpit make my butt look big" mug from RevGals
• sunglasses
• a hymnal open to this Sunday's hymn of the day (Lord, Speak to Us that We May Speak)
• two candles
• bible, open to this Sunday's gospel lesson
• book I am currently reading (The Pastor as Minor Poet, which ROCKS)
• an old Sunday School craft project
• My Big Fat Greek Wedding (just the case, as I can't find the actual DVD...which I used during confirmation for teaching on baptism - "I'm Greek now.")
  
• Lutheran World relief commuter coffee mug
• letter from a local rabbi offering to speak at our church (which we scheduled already)
• last year's annual report (don't ask)
• worship bulletin from Good Friday (good Lord, it's JULY)
• wedding photo
• sugared walnuts, a Christmas gift from parishioner
• water jug
• jar of chocolates
• kleenex box
• flyer for Wo.men of Faith conference (buried on purpose)
• two pens
• post-it note pad from alum seminary
• business card with Millennium Development Goals
• small wooden carving of Mary, from Israel trip 12 years ago

And this doesn't even count the countertop across my office...

time to clean.