*runs in to post something...at least a sermon*

I will repeat this to myself: "Life will slow down. Life will slow down." Or, more importantly, "I will slow my life down." And "I will blog more often."

In the spirit of that last one, I'm posting last Sunday's sermon. No time to write more at the moment, though I'm working on something about today's funeral.

Dear friends in Christ, grace and peace to you from God our Father and our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

This Wednesday, of course, is the 4th of July. Like most Americans, you are likely to watch fireworks someplace and eat hamburgers, maybe go to the lake or to a parade, hoist the flag at your house and listen to somebody playing the 1812 Overture or the Star-Spangled Banner.

When I was a kid, my favorite part of the 4th of July was the sparklers. Have you tried those? They’re like tiny little fireworks that you hold in your hand, and you light them and they shoot off sparks, and if you wave them around in the dark you can see the patterns of light they leave behind them. I like the sparklers but I was also a little afraid of them – they fascinated me, but I was always worried that they would catch me on fire or burn my hand. They were irresistible and terrifying at the same time.

Which is fairly appropriate when it comes to thinking about the real point of July 4th. One preacher says, “we call it Independence Day but sometimes I wish we would call it Freedom Day, so we could spend a little more time wondering what that word means. What are we free from? What are we free for? How do I know I am really free? Is my sweet liberty strictly a political thing – my freedom to speak, my freedom to vote – or is it a larger concept?”* What does it really mean to be free?

Americans are famous for loving and promoting a few things: freedom is one of them, maybe the primary one, and family is another. Perhaps by sheer coincidence but perhaps not, our biblical readings today address exactly those topics and, as the bible usually does, it gives both a twist you might not expect. It’s a good week to be thinking about what it really means to be free – freed from something, and freed for something. It’s also a good week to think about family, given that holidays of any sort are often a time when we are around family whether we want to be or not.

What comes to your mind first when you hear the word freedom? Chances are, there are as many answers to that as there are people in this room. It may be a symbol, like the flag or the Statue of Liberty. It may be an action on your part, like voting or saying the pledge of allegiance or singing the national anthem. It may be a person or group – veterans or those serving in the armed forces right now. It may be an emotion or a feeling, something hard to put into words. What does it really mean to be free?

Some 1900 years ago, St. Paul wrote a letter to the Christians of Galatia, a region in modern-day Turkey. His letter survives as the biblical book of Galatians, from which we read this morning. As with any biblical book and especially Paul’s letters, we are not entirely sure what was happening in the community to prompt the correspondence, but from what we can tell, Paul was concerned that the Christians in Galatia were being told that they had to observe Jewish laws and rituals in order to be really Christian.

So it makes a fair amount of sense that, when Paul writes to them about their freedom in Christ, he says this: “For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm, therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.” That’s exactly how we think of freedom most of the time: freedom from something; from slavery, from oppression, from dictatorships, from war, from being told what to do with life.

But, while Paul wants the Galatians to be freed from some things, he is more concerned about what they do afterward – what they will do once they realize that Christ has set them free. And so he makes a jump that sounds he’s going backward: “for you were called to freedom, brothers and sisters,” he writes, “but do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence, but through love become slaves to one another.” Wait a minute, Paul. Are we free? Or are we slaves? Once you’re free, why would you go back to being anything else?

Martin Luther picked up on Paul’s paradox in Galatians in an essay he wrote called, “The Freedom of a Christian.” “A Christian is a perfectly free lord of all, subject to none,” he wrote, and, “A Christians is a perfectly dutiful slave to all, subject to all.”

Obviously, neither Paul nor Martin Luther were Americans – not by nationality and neither, it would seem, in spirit. We are proud of freedom. We throw that word around a lot, especially around the 4th of July. The question is whether we really know what we mean when we say it.

Most of our American use of ‘freedom’ comes from talking about what we are freed from. Freed from taxation without representation; freed from being told how to worship; freed from unjust or cruel imprisonment; freed from monarchy. It’s much trickier to decide what we are freed for.

Which brings us to Jesus’ rather odd words about family – another discussion familiar to Americans, and another time that the bible puts quite a different spin on the topic. The real problem at issue is the cost of discipleship; the expense of following Jesus and his way into life. One potential disciple says with great fervor to Jesus, “I will follow you wherever you go.” Jesus warns him that this path has its complications, but he indeed invites him to follow, right now: and the man says he has only one thing left to do. “First let me go and bury my father,” he says, and if Jesus were really about family values the way we normally talk about them, we would expect Jesus to say something like, “yes, that’s appropriate, honor your father by burying him well, and then come and follow me.” But instead, Jesus bluntly tells them all that there is no turning back, even to honor parents or bid farewell to family – “no one who puts a hand to the plow and turns back is fit for the kingdom of God.”

We have claimed for many years that the United States is a Christian nation, but although many of the founding families were Christian, making such a claim is much more complicated than we might think. What would it mean for us, as a nation, to say that freedom means becoming a slave to all? What would it mean for us, as a nation, to say that Jesus’ vision of family has very little to do with mom, dad, two kids and a dog, and almost everything to do with obedience in faith? This is a lot harder than flying a flag at the church or singing “God Bless America” at a baseball game. The bible asks us hard questions about freedom, and what it’s really for. And Jesus asks us hard questions about family, and what it really means. There are no easy answers here. Freedom and family are like the sparklers you hold in your hand: beautiful and dangerous, irresistible and terrifying. Scripture warns about both, perhaps because God knows how quick we all are to make idols out of almost anything we can find.

What it comes down to in the end is a question of who we really are. You are an American, this is true. Whatever ethnic background your family comes from, however many nations are represented in your family tree, I am assuming that at least most, if not all, people in this room are citizens of this country.

And you are part of at least one family, if not two or three. You are sister, brother, husband, wife, cousin, uncle, child, parent. You are all of those things and each of them has shaped your life, but none of them contains the whole of you. You are Christian. You are a child of God. That is your truest identity, and it takes precedent over all others – over nationality and ethnicity and even family itself. You will not grow out of it. You can try your best to leave it behind, but even if you are the one to walk away, God still will not abandon you.

The freedom we find in Christ allows us to keep all our other roles in perspective. The call to love Jesus above everything else is a hard thing, but once we are tied to him, we find a freedom nothing and no one else can give. It is an irresistible and terrifying demand, and we afraid it will burn us, but following it will light up everything else. For if loving Jesus means losing something along the way – or even losing everything, should it come to that, even including nation and family and everything in-between - we are not to fear, because "buried in Jesus’ demand is also his promise"*: that true freedom does not belong to any flag, that Christ’s family is more diverse and far-reaching than we could ever have imagined, and that binding ourselves to him and enslaving ourselves to one another, is the only real freedom we will ever find. Amen.

*Two quotations taken from Barbara Brown Taylor: the first from "The Cheap Cure," in Home by Another Way; and the second from "Learning to Hate Your Family," in Teaching Sermons on Suffering: God in Pain.

Friday Five: Books, Books, Books

From RevGals...

I've just returned from a meeting in Cambridge so I'm posting this late here in the UK (it is 3:45pm).. because I took the opportunity of a free afternoon in Cambridge's wonderful book shops... I only bought a few- and they were on sale- very restrained for me!!!


So with my head full of books I've seen and a long wish list in my mind, I bring you a Friday Five on books!!!


1. Fiction: what kind? Detective novels, historical stuff, thrillers, romance...
It's easier to identify what I don't read: science fiction, super-gory mysteries (Patricia Cornwell is too bloody for me), and romance. Other than that, I'll read anything with a good story. I love mysteries and, for some reason, I have a thing for books that take place in the UK.


2. When you get a really good book do you read it all in one chunk or savour it slowly?
Depends on how much time I have. Mysteries I tend to devour as quickly as I can; other books take a bit longer. During the school year, I read at night before bed, so it can take me awhile to finish something. In the summer, I have a bit more time and can read for longer stretches. Those public library summer book clubs had a real impact on me!


3. Is there a book you keep returning to and why?
Not so much a book as certain authors. They're like tuna noodle casserole; comforting, if not great cuisine. I always enjoy Rosamunde Pilcher and Maeve Binchy for light fiction. Every few years I re-read the whole Anne of Green Gables series, probably still my favorite of all time. (Along with Emily of New Moon, by the same author.) I also love to re-read the Bridget Jones' Diaries and Agatha Christie mysteries.
And yes, I'm reading Harry Potter again, in preparation for the final installment.


4. Apart from the Bible which non-fiction book has influenced you the most?
I'm not a big reader of non-fiction, honestly. But in college I was assigned a book called Number Our Days, about a Jewish retirement community, and it was fantastic. I believe it was also an Oscar-winning documentary, which I would love to see. Such an amazing story of growing old and the struggles which accompany that journey. I highly recommend it.


5. Describe a perfect place to read. ( could be anywhere!!!)
Exactly as the parentheses says: anywhere. Quiet. My current favorite place in the winter is our living room, with a fire going. In the summer, it's on the deck of the lake cabin (minus the inevitable jet skis).

And I'll throw in two bonuses (boni?) of my own - my two favorite quotes about books and reading.

I have always loved winter, because in winter you get to stay inside, and inside is where the books are. - Garrison Keillor.

The buying of more books than one can read is nothing less than the soul reaching toward infinity, and it is this passion alone which separates us from the beasts that perish. - A. E. Newton

On More Time Into the Fray

This week is Vacation Bible School EXTRAVAGANZA (a word I always believe requires capital letters) at our church. We've turned the sanctuary into a barn and we're singing, talking, and shouting that we need to "Listen Up!" to God the farmer.

I love Vacation Bible School. I love 100 elementary school kids filling the church building with songs and clapping and skits and snacks. I love that, in spite of all the technological changes in this world, we are still making crafts out of popsicle sticks. I love that these kids think VBS is the greatest thing ever and that they want us to do this every week. I love that they are loved by the volunteers and I believe they will remember that, even if they never remember any of the bible lessons.

This year we're also hosting our local church camp counselors, all of whom are here to lead our VBS as their way of practicing to go out this summer and lead day camps at churches all over the area. 60 college kids, so enthusiastic about life and ministry and kids and faith, with energy levels I can hardly believe. They are practicing, so they're not perfect - not all of them ought to play the guitar, it turns out - but what they might lack in some skills, they more than make up for in devotion.

Our local camp is one of the few co-owned by the ELCA and LCMS. If you are not Lutheran, those abbreviations probably mean nothing to you. If you are, you might know that this is something like divorced parents trying to share custody of a child. The ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church in America) is the liberal one. The LCMS (Lutheran Church - Missouri Synod) is the conservative one. Those are both vast and not entirely accurate generalizations, but you get the drift.

I've been leading a few one-hour theology sessions for the counselors in the afternoon. Some of them are ELCA; some are LCMS. Some are not Lutheran, though all are Christian. And this year, like almost every year, the thorny issue of women's ordination has arisen. Again.

That's the most divisive issue between the ELCA and LCMS; it's why the LCMS didn't join other Lutheran bodies in forming the ELCA in 1988. Missouri Lutherans do not ordain women. In some very conservative congregations, women don't even vote. Some Missouri churches, of course, are so liberal that they probably don't care and would ordain women if they could, but for the most part, this issue is still a live one - even though we celebrated the 35th anniversary of women's ordination two years ago. That means that women have been ordained in the Lutheran church since before any of these counselors were born. Even before I was.

Part of me welcomes the opportunity to talk about this issue. I believe myself to be quite open and non-defensive, and I don't mind engaging difficult issues as long as I am not being attacked. I don't mind showing you my interpretation of Luther's writings on ordained ministry, or my reading of those few passages in scripture that have been used to forbid women from this work.

But another part of me - and this part is getting slightly larger each year that I get asked the question - is tired of defending my existence as an ordained clergy person. Part of me gets so discouraged that people are still arguing about this, because if they're doing that, how much longer will it take for us to bless and welcome the ordained ministry of our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters?

I see so many gifted young women in this group and they ask eagerly about my sense of call, and I am delighted that they might sense that in themselves. It's not the most mature reaction, but I do get a bit pissed off when a few of their male colleagues question whether God could so call a woman. Have you not read the Magnificat? Do you not know Deborah and Lydia and Mary of Bethany? Do you remember who it was that Jesus first trusted to share the resurrection news?

Why do we think that restricting the ministry to a chosen few is a faithful interpretation of the scriptures? Or of Luther, for that matter, who sought to remind us that we are all called to be 'little Christs' in the world, and that no one ministry is more important than any other?

My goodness. I might need a nap. But those elementary school kids make it worthwhile. A few years ago, a mother of one of our 2nd graders told me that she and her son had been to visit a friend's church on Sunday. After worship, her son whispered to her, "Hey mom - I didn't know that boys could be pastors."

The Lord who sits in heaven laughs...

Insert Sigh of Relief Here...

You know the Bible 100%!

 

Wow! You are awesome! You are a true Biblical scholar, not just a hearer but a personal reader! The books, the characters, the events, the verses - you know it all! You are fantastic!

Ultimate Bible Quiz
Create MySpace Quizzes

Always glad to be considered a true bible scholar. Even by a total stranger on the internet.

However, although I know you are dead impressed with my vast biblical knowledge, you must also consider that the answers to "In Jesus' parable, who stopped to help a man in need?" were, "a.)Donald Trump; b.) Donald Duck; c.) Don Knotts; d.)A Samaritan." So I wouldn't run out and buy up my commentaries quite yet.

Actually Thinking About the Sermon Before Friday Afternoon...

We're in the middle of the church-induced craziness known as Vacation Bible School this week, so there isn't a lot of extra time to think, but a colleague and I were visiting about the Sunday texts this morning and I've actually had some coherent sermon thoughts. And it's only Tuesday!

Everybody loves the story of David and Bathsheba. It has all the things you want from good reading (not to mention a soap opera) - intrigue, betrayal, sex, power, and the twist at the end. It's fun to preach on, because you can play around with the whole idea of "biblical family values." This is a phrase which, when used, causes me to think that the speaker has never actually read the bible. Most biblical families are effed up. (That line won't preach; don't worry, I won't try.)

And the way Nathan stings David! Great stuff. Speaking truth to power - don't we all wish we could do the same, at one point or another?

Then this great story is paired with the is-she-or-isn't-she-Mary-Magdalene passage in Luke (I'll tip my hand; she's not) about sin and forgiveness. Which, in it's own right, has overtones of sensuality, if not strictly sexuality, and certainly of sin.

So you could definitely focus on human sexuality if you're reading these two stories. Heaven knows that my own denomination, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America, has been completely entranced by such discussions for the last ten years.

Except that it occurs to me that the vast majority of the "gotcha!" stories about morality in both Old and New Testaments are not about sex: they're about money. And heaven also knows that most of us would rather talk about sex than money any day, especially from the pulpit.

I think Jim Wallis once wrote that he cut out of his bible all the passages where Jesus talks about money, and he hardly had anything left. If you tried that exercise with all the passages where Jesus talks about sex, you'd still have tons of decent reading material. What does that tell us? How we treat each other as human beings is certainly important, and sex is part of that. But nothing gets people's ire up as much as someone having an affair. Would we have been half so interested in Bill Clinton's sin if it had been revealed that he didn't tithe? Would Ken Starr have been able to spend forty million dollars dragging that out into the courts?

And what does it say about us that the very prospect of that last suggestion is completely, utterly ridiculous?

These stories are a little bit about sex. But they are mostly about power. And the way Jesus addressed those in power most often was not to talk about their sex lives; it was to talk about whether they were loving the widow and the orphan with their checkbooks.

This could either be the greatest sermon ever, or it could get me fired. Or possibly both, which seems exactly the point.

Friday Five: Getaway Island Edition

From RevGals...

We snitched a bit of time on an quiet island nearby this week. It was a last minute plan, escaping with a minimal amount of preparation. One must have essentials that make it a relaxing time. Perhaps you have had this opportunity to escape, or maybe it's only been a thought to get away. However, suppose you were told to pack some essentials for a trip to get away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life.

Describe your location, in general or specific terms and....

1) What book(s) will you bring?
Right now, I'm reading (as usual) several books: summer mind candy (Whitethorn Woods by Maeve Binchy); a more serious novel (The Good German); and, also as usual, at least one church-related book (The Practicing Congregation, by Diana Butler Bass). For island reading, I'd probably add another novel and leave the church book at home.

2) What music accompanies you?
I'll take my ipod full o' stuff (I guess that's an answer to the fourth question) - but my favorite vacation music is usually in the soundtrack genre. I love good soundtracks since you can get a variety of music in one album. Some favorites, both old and new: Grey's Anatomy, seasons 1 & 2; SIiding Doors; The Truth About Cats & Dogs; In Good Company. And, as long as I have the ipod, I can also listen to my very favorite podcasts: "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me," and "This American Life."

3) What essentials of everyday living must you take (as in the health and beauty aids aisle variety)?
I definitely require sunscreen. My ethnic background sun-formula goes like this: British paternal side + Swedish maternal side = girl who burns in 5 minutes.
I'd also need to bring coffee. Frankly, my very naturally curly hair would do its own thing anyway, so other beauty aids are unnecessary.

4) What technological gadgets if any, will you take with you or do you leave it all behind?
See #2 - I'm takin' the ipod. Everything else can stay at home. Especially the alarm clock.

5) What culinary delights will you partake in while there?
I love guava juice. And pineapple. (Obviously I'm going for 'tropical island' here.) And good fish: mahi mahi or tuna, maybe. But hey - anything I don't have to cook always tastes just fine!

As a bonus question, what makes for a perfect day on vacation for you?
I get up, get a cup of coffee, find my book, and sit on the couch to read. Twelve hours later, I go back to bed. That's about it.
I might knit, eat lunch and dinner, and do a few other things. But truthfully, I could read all day.

Friday Five: Hopes, Visions and Dreams

From Sally at Rev Gals...
My house has been full of young people all week, young people who have just left school, young people with an eye on the future. Their laughter energy, and hope are infectious, so with that in mind- this Friday 5 is about hopes, visions and dreams...

1. Think back to the time you left High School, what were your hopes visions and dreams for your life/for the world?
For my life? I really don't remember, except that I was delighted to get out of high school and head to college. High school was not my favorite time of life. Funny, I was just thinking about that this morning before I saw the Friday Five: our niece is particularly unhappy in high school at the moment, and I remember so well some of that heartache and confusion.

2. Have those hopes visions and dreams changed a lot, or are some of them still alive and kicking? (share one if you can)
Well, I did in fact go to college, and it was every bit as great as I hoped it would be. One of my 'dreams,' if you could call it that, in high school, was to make a lot of money and come to my 10th reunion happy, wealthy, and totally unlike my high school self - and rub it in to all those people who made high school less than fun. But I got over that a long time ago, thankfully, and I'm quite embarrassed that I ever had such a desire. I'm glad that one changed.

3. Hebrews 11:1 " Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen. " Comforting, challenging or frustrating?
Oh, all three. The comfort is knowing, trusting, that there is more than we can see, both personally and in the life of the world. The challenging bit is waiting patiently for it, or working diligently for it, depending on the circumstance. And boy, is it frustrating when you spend so much time waiting for something that seems to have absolutely no discernible reason for delay. (Can you hear the question in-between these lines? "Why I am not pregnant yet???")

4. If resources were unlimited, and you had free reign to pursue a vision what would it be?
Here's the thing about that question: I don't really find it very helpful. (No offense, Sally.) In one way, God promises that resources are unlimited; we just have to find a way to distribute them more equitably. But on the other hand, keeping a huge vision on hold just because you don't have enough resources may be a reality - and simultaneously betrays the whole nature of dreams and visions. So I'd rather think about what visions I have for the life and resources I have right now.

5. Finally with summer upon us- and not to make this too heavy- share your dream holiday....where, when and who with...
Okay, now I'm going to completely contradict my whole earlier statement about thinking beyond your resources! Coming out of a long and grey winter, I'd pick someplace completely tropical - a secluded island, the kind with that perfect white sand and sky blue ocean that you see in magazines. I'll take my husband, and maybe a few other friends. And we will lay around, read books, eat great food, drink good wine, and sleep in.

Friday Five: Hard Habit to Break

From Rev Gals...

As many of you know, I have been experimenting with some severely curtailed Internet usage. I realized that I had gotten into some bad habits, which got me thinking about habits in general. I understand that a habits/random facts meme has already been going around. In the hopes that it hasn't hit too many of us yet, be as lighthearted or as serious as you'd like with the following:

1. Have you ever successfully quit a bad habit, or gotten a good habit established? Tell us about how you did it.
This year I quit visiting a certain website for Lent. This is not a bad site - in fact, it's a message board for newly married women, and the particular page I am, okay, obsessed with, is the page for women having trouble conceiving. I find a lot of support there, which is good. But I can also spend WAY too much time there, which is bad. Giving it up for Lent worked remarkably well. I have gone back since Easter, and I need to give it up again - at least at work. I usually break bad habits by giving myself a specific time in which I can indulge: for example, I have a latte every Tuesday morning on my way to work. Because I know I can have one on Tuesday, I don't crave one the rest of the week. Putting something entirely off-limits generally doesn't work for me - it just makes the forbidden even more attractive. I go for moderation. So I think I'll repeat the Lenten pattern with my problem website: visit only at home.

2. "If only there were a 12-step program for _________________!"
Being superstitious. Seriously. I have a problem with this.

3. Share one of your healthy "obsessions" with us.
I have become a knitting freak. I love it. I have no shame about it.

4. Share the habit of a spouse, friend or loved one that drives you C-R-A-Z-Y.
I love my husband, but he does this thing to clear his throat - this kind of HRAKK sound - that drives me insane. And then he spits this crap in the sink, which bugs me even more. I realize this is a stupid and petty peeve, but there you have it.

5. "I'd love to get into the habit of ___________________."
Walking every day. I've been working on it, but I think I might be fundamentally lazy when it comes to physical activity.

Bonus: What is one small action you might take immediately to make #5 a reality?
I really am working on it: I've been wearing a pedometer since May 1 and it keeps me cognizant of days when I sit still for too long. But I think this is going to be a long-term thing.

Still Here...

So I haven't written in a few weeks, because May has turned into a month of insanity. To top it off, today marks the fourth funeral in ten days for our congregation (and yes, I feel petty complaining about doing funerals since, after all, I'm not the one in the coffin - but four funerals is hard work).

The fourth reception is going on as I type. Just time for my random observation of this morning.

Is it odd for a formally dressed pastor, in suit and clergy collar, to drive down the road with a latte, singing "Are You Going to Go My Way" with Lenny Kravitz, on her way to a funeral?

Yes. But that was me this morning. And from the looks I got on the freeway (I only do this sort of thing on the freeway - it's not like I sing along in the funeral procession itself), other people think it's odd too.

But sometimes you just need to blow off a little steam. Hopefully I'll have time for more blogging after this week is over.

Friday Five: Potato, Po-tah-to Edition

From Rev Gals...

There are two types of people in the world, morning people and night owls. Or Red Sox fans and Yankees fans. Or boxers and briefs. Or people who divide the world into two types of people and those who don't. Let your preferences be known here. And if you're feeling verbose, defend your choices!


1. Mac? (woo-hoo!) or PC? (boo!)
Why yes, the Friday Five author reserves the right to editorialize!
I used to be a PC person. But then I married a Mac person, and he converted me to the Steve Jobs cult. And I'm stuck with a PC laptop that I insisted on buying when we were first dating and I didn't trust him yet...woe is me!

2. Pizza: Chicago style luscious hearty goodness, or New York floppy and flaccid?
Definitely Chicago: the crust is the best part of pizza.

3. Brownies/fudge containing nuts:
a) Good. I like the variation in texture.
b) An abomination unto the Lord. The nuts take up valuable chocolate space.

"If with Christ you died to the elemental spirits of the universe, why do you live as if nuts belonged in brownies?" (A slightly less known translation of Colossians 3:20.) No nuts. Only chocolate.

4. Do you hang your toilet paper so that the "tail" hangs flush with the wall, or over the top of the roll like normal people do?
Over the top. This is a very judgmental list, but I'm okay with that, since I agree with all the judgments.

5. Toothpaste: Do you squeeze the tube wantonly in the middle, or squeeze from the bottom and flatten as you go just like the tube instructs?

I happily disregard the directions to "squeeze from the bottom," at least until I get to the very last bit of toothpaste in the tube. Everybody needs a little chaos in their lives.

For a bonus, I'll add these dichotomies:
...black coffee, never with cream and sugar.
...dark chocolate, not milk (with a few exceptions)
...red wine, not white (except with salmon in the summer)
...CNN, never Fox news (though NPR is best of all)

Hang On

Today I have a dentist appointment, which reminds me of my childhood dentist experiences. (I actually like going to the dentist, by the way.)

But germane to this particular post is that my childhood dentist always had posters on the ceiling, so you had something to look at while your mouth was wide open and being worked on by people in white coats. One poster, I remember, was the classic "cute kitten holding on to edge of some surface by claws," with the caption, "Hang On, Baby."

That's this week: preach last Sunday morning, tear out of church to make it to the airport for a flight to L.A. for conference, return today to plan frantically for this Sunday's sermon and the youth service, happily discover that we have canceled the scheduled lock-in for Friday night since I have two funerals on Saturday, and then weddings the next Saturdays of May...

It's one of those months. So posts may be few and far between. I'm hanging on, baby.

Duck, Duck, Goose

(Disclaimer: it turns out that my midwestern friends, from seminary, all played "Duck, Duck, Grey Duck" in childhood. "Goose" is apparently a west coast thing. So you can substitute your choice of water fowl at will.)

We used to play this game as children. You sat nervously in a circle, waiting for the tagger to touch your head, waiting expectantly to see who would be the "goose" and have to chase around the circle, trying to be the first to sit in the empty spot. I never wanted to be the goose, because a.) I don't really like to run, and b.) as a child, I preferred to be in the background most of the time. Shy Lutheran kid, I guess. "Don't pick me, don't pick me," would run through my head as the tagger approached. She touched my head..."not me not me not me not me"...and moved on to the next kid in the circle. "GOOSE!" Away they ran. I was relieved.

You think this game ends with childhood, but it's been back with a vengeance lately. Whose body is more likely the culprit for our non-pregnancy? Post-coital test, duck. Acupuncture, duck. Pre-natal vitamins, duck. Try not to stress, try to relax, duck. But the hand is approaching, someone coming near. Someone is getting tagged this time. Semen analysis. GOOSE.

So the hand seems to have passed me by. But I am not relieved this time. I can understand why infertility tends to create such problems for couples; when you're frustrated that something you "should" be able to do naturally - something other people seem to do with little time, lots of tequila, or total carelessness - doesn't happen, it's easy to place blame. And the first person I blamed was myself.

I don't know why, really. Statistics say that about 40% of fertility problems are female, about 40% are male, and the rest are either a combination of both, or a total mystery. It was easier to blame myself, I suppose, because I could try to do something about it. I could take vitamins, try to relax, take my basal body temperature, stop using the hot tub, pray like Hannah, stop drinking wine (okay, that lasted about three months), try acupuncture, go to the doctor. It seemed like it should be me, since my body was the one not getting pregnant. But it turns out that I might be the duck.

And my beloved may be the goose. Which comes as absolutely no relief. One bad number in the whole lot does not hopelessness make, but it sure feels that way. Apparently there's quite a ton of the little buggers, and they swim like champs, but not enough of them are the right shape. Come on, people! Aren't we supposed to be all about diversity these days? God doesn't care what shape, size, or color you are - why should your eggs? But eggs persist in being quite choosy, it would seem. Damn.

Deep down, there is a bit of relief that I'm the duck. Not because I can blame him, but because it means that there's still hope. And it turns out that the only way I can envision carrying a child, at this point, is if it were my husband's. I completely understand why women choose donor sperm, and it might be that we will get to that point, but for now, even the distant possibility that there might not ever be a baby with his piercing blue eyes and stubbornness and kindness and cowlick is too much to bear.

Any doubt you ever had about your marriage rears its ugly head when things like this happen. I've never had any serious doubts, but still - who hasn't, in the midst of a crummy day, wondered if there could have been someone else? If you had married that ex-boyfriend, met someone different...would there be a baby now? Believe me, this is not a train of thought I'm eager to get on, but denying that it exists would be a falsehood. I love my husband. I don't want to be married to anyone else. And yet, even I wonder.

So now we head to a different set of doctors than the ones I thought we'd be seeing. Probably less testing for me and more for him - and maybe we'll send him to the acupuncturist for awhile.

It all makes me want to say...well, for the purposes of this post, we'll go with "Mother Ducker." Seems appropriate.

What's On YOUR Desk?

I found this in another blog and thought it was a simultaneously fun and depressing exercise. Fun: the variety of things on my desk reflect the variety in ministry. Depressing: the permanently chaotic state of my desk.

I have a very large desk. So, to keep this from being too long (and warning - it's going to be long enough anyway), I'll stick with what's on the main section...

A pile of papers, on top of which is last night's Pentecost Quiz for confirmation; another pile, which has a Prepare/Enrich inventory on the top; my LBW; a digital camera with which I am supposed to be taking pictures, right now; Free of Charge by Miroslav Volf, just recommended to me; Grace (Eventually) by Anne Lamott, open to page 135.

Yet another pile of papers with an article called "Ethical Decisions About War" on top; a box of sketches from an artist we are commissioning to do a painting in our entryway; a fax; my lunchbox; my confirmation bible; a clipboard with the sign ups to help provide new hymnals for the sanctuary; scissors, a ruler, and a pencil which I was using to do a little craft project for the Relay for Life sign-up; the omnipresent coffee mug; a lovely picture of the church given to me by a parishioner.

I vacillate between reveling in the chaos of my desk and really, really wanting to clean it. But the cleaning isn't happening today, that's for sure.

I Do, I Don't

I swore, upon entering the ordained ministry, that I would NEVER become one of those cynical pastors who said, "I'd much rather do a funeral than a wedding."

It took about six months to change my mind. As one colleague says, "at least at a funeral the guest of honor never argues with you." Have I introduced myself? I'm Pastor Cynical.

Truthfully, a good wedding can be wonderful. Working with a reasonably healthy couple who want a marriage, not just a wedding, is a lot of fun. I've presided at a few weddings that were fantastic, and not necessarily in the Martha Stewart way - some of the most memorable involved very little from the "wedding industrial complex," as one friend puts it. Those weddings are great.

But for every one of those there are a few less-than-healthy couples, with dysfunctional families, where people argue about the processional music and the mother of the bride asks me, in clipped tones, to make sure I sweep the sidewalk clear of grass bits before the ceremony tomorrow. I am not making this up.

Or brides whose cleavage distracts even me, or groomsmen who keep ducking out of the building for a smoke, a friend designated to push the "start" button on the CD player who says, "Is this going to be over quick? Because I've got to tap the keg," or mothers of the groom who insist that their child doesn't need premarital counseling. I am not making any of these up.

And those can be kind of funny - it's more difficult when the couple has tremendous issues, and I feel like they maybe shouldn't be doing this, but...

A couple was in my office this afternoon. She comes from a previous, abusive marriage. She has two sons, and they have a daughter together. He is pretty damn controlling and doesn't understand why his yelling scares her. She doesn't really want much structure for the kids and he thinks they should straighten up. His dad was a loud alcoholic, but he doesn't think that really affects him at all. Her parents split years ago and she's never had a healthy relationship in her life. I have never seen a couple score lower on the Prepare-Enrich Inventory.

Marriage seems like a really good idea here.

Over the past eight years, I've done three weddings about which I had serious, serious concerns. This one will make four. Out of fifty-some weddings, that's not a high number, but one of those is too many. I pray for these couples. They need serious counseling, and all I can do is give them the name and phone number of a decent therapist (which, believe me, I have done with the current couple).

It's not a good feeling. I hope and pray they will be okay, and maybe they will be. I hope and pray that he will not beat the life out of her, that she will find her own voice, that their kids will not grow up and repeat all these crappy patterns.

Today I know exactly what Anne Lamott was talking about:
I thought such awful thoughts that I cannot even say them out loud because they would make Jesus want to drink gin straight out of the cat dish. It drove me to my knees. I prayed about it...I prayed for a miracle. I wrote her name down on a slip of paper, folded it up, and put it in the box that I use as God's In box. "Help," I said to God. (from Traveling Mercies)

Help, I said to God.

Friday Five: Surprised by Joy

From RevGals...

Jesus said to them, "Children, you have no fish, have you?" They answered him, "No."
He said to them, "Cast the net to the right side of the boat, and you will find some." So they cast it, and now they were not able to haul it in because there were so many fish. That disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, "It is the Lord!" When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord, he put on some clothes, for he was naked, and jumped into the sea. (John 21:5-7)

Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning. (Psalm 30:5b)

This week I've been watching parents of the young people slain at Virgina Tech trying to make meaning out of the lives of their lost children, and each one seems to begin by focusing on something joyful about that child. It's a gift that most humans have brains wired to respond in that way. For some of us it can be harder to work our way out of dark places, but I believe joy remains the key. It is the spirit of resurrection.

Tell us about five people, places, or things that have brought surprising, healing joy into your life.

1. Ducks. Okay, this one requires some explanation. We moved into a new house (new to us) last summer, and it has a smallish pond in the back. Frankly, the pond has been a giant pain in the proverbial butt, but it is quite pretty. Requires a lot of upkeep, though. Lately, however, our newest pond problem is a duck couple who have decided that our pond would make a nice summer home, sort of a small-place-in-the-Hamptons option. And our pond professional tells us that, as cute as the ducks are, they will make a huge mess in the pond.

But they are stubborn, these ducks, and apparently they've already put a down payment on this whole thing, because they are hard to chase off. So we have an official duck-chasing-off-piece-of-cardboard on our back porch which, combined with the official duck-chasing-off-broom next to it, are our tools of the trade. This morning we were out there in our bathrobes, in the 32 degree morning air, chasing off ducks - four times. What could be frustrating has turned into a hilarious dance. My husband is home today, and is taking his turn at DUCK PATROL. Very surprising joy, those ducks.

2. Joy By Podcast. I have a fairly long commute - 70 miles round trip every day - and have discovered the joy of podcasts, particularly of This American Life. What I especially appreciate about that show is its ability to find fascination in the smallest details, in what most of us overlook all the time. As much as I enjoy the stories, I also appreciate that lesson.

3. Baby Girl S. S is the one-year old daughter of a close friend, a smiling, giggly, just-starting-to-walk redhead who never fails to bring me joy. I think we have a secret connection because I got to be one of the first people to hold her in the hospital, the morning after she was born. She is joy personified. (And easy for me, since mom and dad get to deal with her when she's crying and miserable - I just get to see the fun parts.)

4. Answered Prayer...Finally. We've been through a long process in our congregation which has finally led to offering a new position in music to a fantastic, amazing candidate. Lots and lots of bumps along the road, including one this January, when the first candidate who had accepted the job got home and changed her mind. And though I'm not a big believer in God the Puppeteer, in the idea that God is manipulating every tiny event to bring us to some certain point, I do believe that God makes all things work out...eventually. So yesterday, our fantastic - and sought-after - candidate accepted our offer. Alleluia indeed!

5. Spring. We had a long winter, and the appearance of bright spring green is wonderful. Additionally, we are constantly being surprised by what grows in our yard, since this is our first spring in the house. "There's another hosta!" "What is that thing?" "I think that's a Lenten rose!" It's different every day, and I love watching it all appear.

For Virginia Tech

One of the writers who regularly feeds my soul is Barbara Brown Taylor (though Leaving Church is something of an exemption, in parts). God in Pain, a book of sermons, addresses the question of suffering: ours, God's, and most certainly the suffering of Christ. Copyright questions aside, one passage in this book speaks to me this day.

At the end of "The Silence of God," her sermon for Good Friday, is a story from Shusaku Endo's Silence. A summary of her summary: a seventeenth-century Portuguese missionary, Rodrigues, goes to Japan to save souls. His inspiration is the face of Christ, portraying courage, serenity, wisdom, and faith. It is a noble but silent image, offering him neither guidance nor consolation.

When he arrives in Japan, he is jailed in the midst of a national uprising against Christians. In his cell, he hears only muffled sounds, a snuffling which he believes to be the snoring of the guards. The next morning, he learns those sounds are the cries of his fellow prisoners, crucified upside down, their faces half buried in pits of excrement. Before him, the guards put a choice: renounce Christ, or his fellow prisoners die.

They bring in a metal image of Christ, and tell him to trample on it as sign of his renunciation. Shall he betray Christ or the Christians? Turning his back on one necessitates the pain of the other.

To quote Brown Taylor directly now...

Torn between his loyalty to [Christ] and his loyalty to those who are snuffling in the dark, he is hung between the two when he hears the voice of Christ, coming to him from the image at his feet. "Trample! Trample! I more than anyone know of the pain in your foot. Trample! It was to be trampled on by men that I was born into this world."

The silence of God is broken. Christ speaks, not from some safe place outside human suffering but from the very heart of it. He is the trampled one, the crushed and soiled one whose loyalty to humankind leads him to endure all that we endure - right up to and including the silence of God. When Jesus howls his last question from the cross, it is God who howls - protesting the pain, opposing it with his last breath. Only this is no defeat. This is, contrary to all appearances, a triumph over suffering. By refusing to avoid it or to lie about it in any way, the crucified one opens a way through it.

He hallows it by engaging it. He shows us how. We are not supposed to love suffering. We are allowed to hate it and to do everything in our power to bring it to an end, only we may not avoid it. That is not one of our choices. Today we look on the one whom we have pierced. More important, we listen. To the silence. To the howl. What is the gospel, in the land at the foot of the cross? When God is silent, people of faith cry out. When people of faith cry out, it is God who speaks.



Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Amen, Amen.

What I'm Reading

Some stuff I am, or should be, reading at the moment...what's on your list?

Dreams from my Father, by Barack Obama (for a book club)
Provoking the Gospel of Luke: A Storyteller's Commentary, by Richard Swanson
The Good German, by Joseph Kanon
Reclaiming the Great Commission, by Bishop Claude Payne and Hamilton Beazley (this is the one I "should" be reading, but haven't started yet...)

And, for a continuing education project:
A Commentary on Colossians and Philemon, by Marianne Meye Thompson
Public Theology and Political Economy: Christian Stewardship in Modern Society, by Max Stackhouse.

Friday Five: Dental Edition

From Rev Gals: Cheesehead and I are both laid up this week with various tooth maladies. This one's in honor of us:

1. Are you a regular patron of dentists' offices? Or, do you go
a) faithfully, as long as you have insurance, or
b) every few years or so, whether you need it or not, or
c) dentist? what is this "dentist" thing you speak of?
Every six months - I'm a regular. However, I did entirely forget to go to the dentist for the first three years post-seminary, until I realized that my mother was no longer making appointments for me and I really should get myself to a dentist's office pronto.
Rather unusually, I've always liked going to the dentist, because our dentist was a family friend. Plus, I have really good teeth, so my experience with the actual dentist goes like this:

Dentist, poking around with metal stick: "These look great."
Me, mumbling to respond: "Thanks."
Dentist: "Keep up the good work."
Me: "Okay."
End scene.

My dental visits are much more about the hygienist than the dentist.

2. Whatever became of your wisdom teeth?
They were removed during Christmas break of my freshman year of college, resulting in huge swelling and horrible bruises. But, as I remember slightly through the haze of pain medication, I did get to watch a whole bunch of movie musicals while I recovered.

3. Favorite thing to eat that's BAAAAAD for your teeth.
Dots and/or Mike & Ike's. Pure sugar, baby. (Jellybeans, along the same sugar line, are how I lost part of a molar.)

4. Ever had oral surgery? Commiserate with me.
See comments on #2 - I hope never to do this again. Not fun.

5. "I'd rather have a root canal than _________________."
Undergo another church conflict.

Bonus: Does your dentist recommend Trident?
Nope. But he does give me a flower at each visit. Pretty, and tooth-friendly.

Of Wax, Artists, and Mellancamp

Easter was wonderful this year - sun shining (after a freak snowstorm on Monday), children laughing, hymns played and sung well, and a profusion of tissue paper butterflies on the Good Friday cross. Great day.

I realize it's Doubting Thomas Sunday this week, but I think a more appropriate post-Easter (or post-Christmas) reading, at least for me, would be the story of Jesus' transfiguration. More specifically, the walk back down the mountain - back to daily life after the high of a light-filled festival. Back to daily life, where we constantly confront the question of what real difference the celebration makes in the midst of the mundane.

This year was our third Easter vigil, and the first time we actually got to start outside, having endured pouring rain for the past two years. So we had a roaring new fire and lit the paschal candle. The candle is very tall, so though we did put it out after the vigil was over, once we lit it again on Sunday morning, it was easier to let it burn all morning than try to re-light it for the second service. Herein lies the only real problem with young acolytes: too short for the paschal candle.

But the problem with letting the candle burn all morning is that, if you didn't put the little gold cap on just right, it will drip wax all over everything: down the candle itself, all over the font, all over the candle stand, onto the floor. (The floor part is no great loss; I'd do anything to get rid of the pink carpet, including a little paschal sabotage now and then.)

So I found myself on Wednesday afternoon, having taken Monday and Tuesday off for a little rejuvenation, carefully picking wax out of the candle, off the gold cap, off the font, up off the floor. Trying not to break the candle with my frustrating attempts to remove the little gold cap and set it back on correctly. And I thought to myself - something about this little, boring, mundane act is reflective of the post-Easter struggle. Is this it? Jesus died and rose again...so that I could pick wax off the paschal candle? Shouldn't there be more to it than this?

But then I met yesterday with an artist who is creating a mural for our entryway. At the moment, the theme is "Living Water," and the visual is centered on a waterfall, dancing around rocks and leaves and through light and darkness. She and I talked about how to help people understand that, though not explicitly religious, the symbolism of water still conveys something crucial to our faith. "I think people need to learn how to see God in the every day," she said, "as Luther said - 'God in, with, and under' - everything."

Then, in the car on the way to work this morning, I hear the gospel according to John Mellancamp:

Your life is now
your life is now
your life is now;
in this undiscovered moment
lift your head up above the crowd
we could shake this world
if you would only show us how
your life is now

Easter is still now, of course, quite literally - seven Sundays, not simply one. But it is not only the lilies and butterflies, the 200 extra people who show up a few times a year, the procession and the breakfast and the hoopla. It is also picking wax off the candle, listening to a brokenhearted friend, hoping for new life, choosing hymns for next week, interviewing the organist, going to the high school tennis match. Everyday life, ordinary life, infused with grace, one step at a time.

In The Details

I love the Easter Vigil. It's one of my favorite services of the year, probably because it's inherently dramatic, it's so unlike anything other worship service, and it involves no sermon; three lovely realities for a pastor.

But then there's the Easter Proclamation, that unbelievably long chant which goes on and on and on and on, and if you the singer end up on a note anywhere close to the one you started on, you're either profoundly lucky or damn good.

This thing scares the life out of our regular assisting ministers, so I'm still singing it three years into our attempt at the Vigil. I can sing, but I've never had any formal training, and when I start to practice this chant, my lack of training comes back to bite me. Hard.

I suppose you could read it instead, but somehow that would sap some of the mystery out of the experience (even if the mystery at the moment is, "how is the pastor going to get through this? and how long is it, anyway?"). Chant done badly is painful; chant done perfectly is amazing; but I'm aiming for chant-done-reasonably-well, the JCPenney of chant - not Nordstrom, but not Wal-Mart either. Right down the middle. Not distractingly bad, not heaven-shakingly good. Confident enough so that no one has to spend the whole time wondering if I'll make it through.

So I've been practicing, and every year, this is when I start to doubt the wisdom of the Vigil. Little choruses in my head chant their own refrain: I cannot stay anywhere close to G, the note I start on. Who can actually sing, 'Oh, how wonderful the condescension of your lovingkindness! Oh, how inestimable the goodness of your love...'? Condescension? Inestimable? These are not words which lend themselves naturally to lyric form. You never hear these words on American Idol, and there's a reason. Your tongue trips over them.

On the other hand, there's something about the hard work of making this chant sound even passable which seems appropriate for the night. Ah, these words are strange - and so is the story they tell. Yes, the syllables are awkward, painful - and so is the body whose suffering we remember. Can I learn to sing this refrain? Can any of us really learn to hear it? Can we tune our ears to hear the truth which "inestimable," "condescension," "paschal," and "vanquish" would tell us?

Oh, but then there are the bees. The bees make it all worthwhile. They have their very own line:

We sing the glories of this pillar of fire, the brightness of which is not diminished, even when its light is divided and borrowed. For it is fed by the melting wax which the bees, your servants, have made for the substance of this candle.

For most of the chant, I am focusing so hard on the notes, trying to stay in the right key, trying to move the notes on the syllables correctly, that I hardly hear the words themselves, much less the meaning. But for one brief second, when it is time for the bees, it changes. I can see a hive of them, buzzing in and out, busily creating that from which this candle will one day be made. It only lasts a second, but it's enough.

Perhaps that's all the Vigil, or any worship service, can hope for; a second or two, maybe more if you're lucky, when you catch a glimpse of the astounding truth we claim. "God is in the details," wrote Ludwig Mies van der Rohe (such an architect thing to say). In the bees, in the wax, in the chant, in the gathering, in the darkness, as we light the candle one more time.

And we pray, O Lord, rule, govern, and preserve with your continual protection your whole Church,
giving us peace in this time of our paschal rejoicing;
through the same Lord, Jesus Christ, your Son, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Friday Five: Holy Week, Batman!

Well, the Clergy Superbowl is almost upon us, and so, I offer up this Friday Five (with apologies for the irreverent title):

1. Will this Sunday be Palms only, Passion only, or hyphenated?
Palms only. I've gone both ways, but I still have the sneaking feeling that Palm Sunday deserves a day of its own, and if you tell the whole Passion story then, you're usurping a huge part of the Holy Week pattern. I can be fairly pitiless when it comes to liturgical order: if you're too lazy to come to Good Friday worship, then that's your problem. At any rate, I'm not going to give you an excuse by telling the whole story this Sunday.

2. Maundy Thursday Footwashing: Discuss.
We do a Seder meal. As this is my first call congregation, I've only helped with a footwashing service once, on my internship. Can't say I miss it too much, though I do love the image.

3. Share a particularly meaningful Good Friday worship experience.
I'm almost always moved by Good Friday. That said, I can't pick out one particular worship service, but what I like most about them all is the leaving in silence. It's so different from ordinary worship, and so appropriate to me.

4. Easter Sunrise Services--choose one:
a) "Resurrection tradition par excellence!"
b) "Eh. As long as it's sunrise with coffee, I can live with it."
c) "[Yawn] Can't Jesus stay in the tomb just five more minutes, Mom?!?"
C, no question. Here's what I always wanted to say (and didn't) when we had a Sunrise service: "Even Jesus isn't up yet! Why are we here???"

5. Complete this sentence: It just isn't Easter without...
The processional singing of "Jesus Christ is Risen Today," complete with pull-out-all-the-stops pipe organ.

Bonus: Any Easter Vigil aficionados out there? Please share.
Absolutely. This will be our third annual Vigil (we gave up the Sunrise service in favor of the Vigil - alleluia indeed). I love the whole thing. It's the best service of the year, hands down. A friend's congregation even uses champagne for communion during the Vigil; they pop the cork as they invite everyone forward. It's fantastic. Some year I'm going to steal that idea.

I Didn't Think You'd Notice

Yesterday, I was having lunch with a parishioner who is also the wife of my colleague, and a friend. It's been a rocky friendship in some ways, the details of which are long and a bit too personal for this venue, but we've come to a good spot together and I'm always glad for her refreshing honesty.

The first part of lunch - the majority of it, actually - was a familiar pastoral one for me: she talked, I listened. She vented, I tried to empathize. The line between "parishioner" and "friend" can be such a tricky one, don't you think? There are those pastors who will tell you, in good When Harry Met Sally fashion, that pastors and parishioners cannot be friends. And they have a good point: there are some boundaries that you really can't cross with parishioners, even when they are friends, even when they are good friends.

But there are always going to be those parishioners - perhaps not in every church, but still - with whom you feel a natural kinship, and who you know could be your friends if you had met under different circumstances. I'm fortunate to have made a few non-church connections over the years, and to live a city large enough that I can be pretty anonymous when I want, and even I still appreciate those friend-folk in the congregation. I'm sure it's even trickier in a small town.

Yet I find that, most of the time, my friendships with parishioners stay in the pastor zone. I'm always aware of my role in the congregation. I'm always aware that I will have to get up there on Sunday morning and be able to face them, and say something meaningful. I'm always aware that a good friendship requires mutual vulnerability, and that if I treat parishioners in that way, I could be messing with their need for me to be their pastor at some significant moment in life. I'm also aware that some of the issues have more to do with me than with them.

So the first part of lunch was definitely conversation between friends, but it was much more about her vulnerability and my listening. And I was fine with that. It felt normal.

Until, toward the end of an hour, she leaned into the table and said quietly, "I want to ask you something." She said this in the sort of voice that made me instantly nervous. "I don't want you to feel like you have to talk about it, but if I can pray for you in the best way...I've noticed, over the past few months, that there have been more prayers than usual for families looking to adopt or trying to have children. Is that something you're dealing with? And if you don't want to talk about it, just tell me."

This is a very observant woman who knows me well. And truthfully, I have only mentioned the word "infertility" in the prayers twice since December, so it's not as though it's been a huge theme. But it brings up some important questions for me: how vulnerable can a pastor be with his or her congregation? And, at the same time, how much vulnerability is necessary for the sake of honesty in ministry?

I remember the first time I wanted to say the word "infertility" in the prayers. Normally, the assisting minister, a lay person, writes and gives the prayers, so I don't have a lot of control over it. They use some common prayers produced by our larger church, and I encourage them to add others as they feel are appropriate. So the Thanksgiving Eve service was one of the few times when I was writing the prayers, and would be praying them during worship.

It was also the night that marked the one-year anniversary of trying to have a baby. My period arrived, perfectly on schedule, about two hours before the service. I had let myself get far too hopeful that cycle, and I was completely devastated. All those haunting statistics and definitions - infertility is defined as 12 months of unprotected sex without conception - were all I could think of. The very last thing I wanted to do in the world was lead a worship service about being thankful, of all things.

I wanted the word said out loud, not just for me, but for anyone who has sat in church and watched kids and parents and thought, "I wish that was me." I wanted someone to say the word of my worst fear during worship, to start taking the unspoken horror out of it. "Infertility" was my personal "Lord Voldemort." If you don't say it, it won't be true.

But if no one says it, you have no sense of bearing. While I'm no fan of "barren," at least the bible does bring up the heartache: "So it went on year by year; as often as Hannah went up to the house of the Lord, [her rival] used to provoke her. Therefore Hannah wept and would not eat. Her husband Elkanah said to her, 'Hannah, why do you weep? Why is your heart sad? Am I not more to you than ten sons?'"

There's a whole other post in there about the infinitesimally complicated relationship between men and women, husbands and wives, when it comes to fertility, but we'll save that for later. There's also the acknowledgment that being honest about this struggle is not just my story to share, and I deeply respect my husband's vulnerability here too. At any rate, even if I completely disagree with some of what the bible implies or says about why these women can't have children, at least it's a topic. Someone acknowledges it. Someone says it out loud.

I just didn't think that anyone would listen, I guess. I thought they would assign the word to someone else, to a desire that we pray for families of all shapes and sizes. I tried to camouflage it with other problems - loneliness, divorce, separation - or with possible solutions - adoption, friendships, peace. But she still heard it, all too well.

So I feel mightily vulnerable (there's an interesting turn of phrase) today. I did talk about it with her, knowing among other things that this is a woman who has faced enormous difficulties, and who is unusually willing to talk about those. I know she will keep confidence, and I know she would never use my vulnerability against me.

But did anyone else make the leap she did? Are they all out there, pitying me, guessing that something must be wrong because, after all, we've been married long enough by now? I don't want to know.

There is no answer, I suspect. You have to be vulnerable enough in ministry to help people understand that the gospel comes in clay vessels - and yet, let's face it, you can't be so vulnerable that the whole enterprise becomes about satisfying your needs. So, as usual, I find myself stuck in the middle. Hoping that not too many people will notice.

Friday Five: Rivers in the Desert

I am about to do a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? I will make a way in the wilderness and rivers in the desert. Isaiah 43:19, NRSV

As we near the end of the long journey toward Easter, a busy time for pastors and layfolk alike, I ponder the words of Isaiah and the relief and refreshment of a river in the desert.

For this Friday Five, name five practices, activities, people or _____ (feel free to fill in something I may be forgetting) that for you are rivers in the desert.

A well-timed set of questions...

1. A Day Off.
Part of the struggle of Lent, although it is one of my favorite seasons of the year, is always the busy schedule which inevitably comes along with it. I always know that it will come to an end, so that helps, but it's the one time of the year in which my normally stoic resolve to take a regular day off starts to evaporate. And, believe me, I notice it in myself. For various reasons, some good and some not-so-good, this has been a particularly busy Lent, and I know that my lack of sabbath days has contributed significantly to my slightly cranky attitude at the moment. So I am working on that.

2. A Little Piano Playing.
Yesterday afternoon I had a very stressful meeting planned, one that had been coming for about a month, and I was completely (naturally) distracted by that impending thing all day. About half an hour before it was scheduled to start, I went into the sanctuary and played a particularly beautiful arrangement of "Tallis Canon," which I know as "All Praise to You, My God, This Night." There is something about playing the piano which calms me. My mom says that she could often tell how I was feeling during my teenage years, not because I would tell her directly, but by the music I chose to play after my official "piano practice" time was over. This is why I was completely traumatized by the movie, The Piano: the idea of losing a finger, and thus losing your ability to play, is like the idea of having your tongue cut out. Sometimes expressing yourself artistically is a river in the desert.

3. Talking with Spouse.
This is still a fairly new one for me, having been married about two and a half years; I used to talk to the cat a lot, and he was a good listener, but he rarely gave good feedback. I know how very fortunate I am to have a spouse who really is a good listener, who is extraordinarily calm when I am freaking out, and who will say what he thinks in a constructive way. Don't get me wrong: the man is not perfect, and sometimes I think that my Catholic friends might have the priest/celibacy thing right, but on so many other days I am tremendously grateful for a friend in the house, someone to keep me from driving myself insane.

4. Brain Candy.
Sometimes I just like a little Desperate Housewives/Grey's Anatomy/Sex & the City/insert-junk-entertainment-program-here (excluding American Idol and all reality television, with the exception of Project Runway). It's good to laugh. It's nice to get caught up in someone else's made-up drama, the resolution of which is someone else's responsibility. This is a pretty shallow river - more like a creek - but it's nice to have a little of it once in awhile.

5. Worship.
So I could have listed this one first, but saved it for last. Not because it's always best, but simply because it's always there. I have a hard time with personal devotions, and working on that is a constant struggle for me, but worship - yes, I'm paid to be there, but it's something I need apart from the paycheck. That's the joy of all the Lenten busy-ness; so much of it has to do with worship that it's not as draining as a lot of busy-ness tends to be.

Others that didn't quite make the cut but deserve a mention: a good cup of coffee, a good glass of wine, a nap, a really good book, reading some of my favorite blogs, a conversation with a great friend, and, when all else fails during this particular time of year, Cadbury's Mini-Eggs.

The Ick Factor

I stole this title from an episode of "Sex and the City," which I've been watching regularly since receiving the box set for my birthday. (Side note: yippee!) But it applies to something altogether different than Carrie Bradshaw's typical problem.

I posted awhile ago about a former staff member who is angry that her position was, to be blunt, eliminated in a consolidation of all the part-time music positions into one full-time position. You can guess that this is unlikely to be a painless process, and that is most certainly true in our case. One position was vacant at the time; one person was glad to give up her temporary position; and two others were, shall we say, cranky about the whole thing.

So, long - extremely long - story short, this staff person wrote a letter to me and to the council, and we talked about it, and tonight we met with her and some council members and two people from our staff support committee. And it was pretty much as ugly as I had thought. Ick.

It occurred to me that the reading from last week's lectionary epistle assignment was particularly apropos for the night, so we started off with that: "for we have been entrusted with the message of reconciliation." Easier said than done.

No need to go into the details of it. It is enough to say that the meeting accomplished its most basic goal: to make sure that she was heard, both for her own sake and for the sake of the church leadership, who now cannot be accused of ignoring her. She said some fairly inappropriate things, including a crack about my age ("I was doing this job when you were in high school") which were hurtful, and I'm thankful that I and the church leadership did not respond in kind. Even though I REALLY REALLY wanted to. There are some honest things I wanted to say to her that I didn't, only because it felt like speaking at the time would make the whole situation worse. Consequently, however, I'm left with the sneaking suspicion that we took on more responsibility for the situation than we deserved, and she left without hearing how her actions had hurt a lot of people too. As you can see, I don't think that real, true reconciliation is coming anytime soon. But, on the other hand, it's never possible to rule it out entirely.

Now I'm left with the ick factor: that feeling after a conflict that makes you want to drink a glass of wine, or take a shower, or possibly both at the same time, if you can accomplish that. This too shall heal. I'm glad we did what we did. But it was icky, for lack of a better theological term. And I hope we can all start to move on.

The very greatest gift in all this was handed to me two nights ago by a most unexpected council member. After reading the letter sent by said staff member, the council sat in silence for a moment. One person said something. And then another person, the kind of person whose face is very hard to read, and who seems to support me at one moment and then not the next, said something like this: "Well, Pastor, I hope you don't think this is your fault. Your job here is to preach and teach and we need to handle the adminstrative stuff, and it's not fair for you to get thrown under the bus just because you're up in the front." He kept going for a little while, and I thanked him both then and afterward, but all he really needed to say was the first bit: "I hope you don't think this is your fault." Actually, I can be somewhat objective and think of some things I could have done differently. But I felt a load rise off my shoulders when he spoke. Every Sunday I speak the words of absolution to the congregation, and I love doing that, but it also means that I very rarely hear them spoken to me. He gave me that, and it is no small gift. So there are some non-ick factors here too.

It will be better in the morning - it always is. But, O gracious and forgiving God, heal your church in every place. Mend our wounds, self-inflicted and otherwise. Curb our pride. Teach us to speak honestly and at the right time. How often we hurt each other because we are suffering, and know not what else to do. Loosen our hands and hearts to let go of grudges, to forgive one another, to see a good future ahead. And, if possible, O God, hurry up about it. Amen.

Friday Five: Watcha doin'?

Name five things you plan to do today...


Today is a fun day to write this list, since I (miracle of miracles) actually finished the sermon yesterday. Normally, that is definitely a Friday to-do.

1. Dog-sit. My husband is allergic to dogs, so we are a pet-free home. But some friends are out of town, and that means I'm in charge of their lovely, charming, chocolate lab for the weekend. And since my husband is also out of town for a few days, we're keeping each other company. It's my dog fix.

2. Chick-flick extravaganza. This one highly depends on the absence of husband, as mentioned above. I think I'm going for the Dixie Chicks' documentary, Shut Up and Sing, and The Holiday.

3. Meet with the stewardship committee. This is certainly a "have to," but it's also something I'm looking forward to. Our stewardship committee has been defunct for awhile, and I'm eager to see how they might re-invent themselves. There's some new energy around this - good energy, not "Holy crap, we're out of money" energy (although giving was down this month) - so that's exciting.

4. Go home early. Not that early, but hopefully by 4:00pm or so. We'll see how that one works out.

5. Stay up late, because I can sleep in tomorrow. Husband is a morning person; I am a night person. And though I miss him when he travels - which isn't that often - I also cherish two things about that: one, the whole bed to myself (we have confessed to each other that we both enjoy this from time to time); and two, uninterrupted sleeping-in. His idea of sleeping in is about 8:00am; I like to stretch it to at least 9:00. The dog might complicate this, but at least it's a possibility.

This is not a particularly ambitious list, but it's nice to have those once in awhile too.

Prodigal Repeat

In looking for some sermon ideas on a well-loved, well-known text, I ran across my sermon from three years ago. I don't think I can preach it again (I'll save it for the next congregation) but it was fun the first time around. And long, by the way - fair warning.

_________________________________________

It started like any fight they had had over the past few years, like a hundred thousand fights which mothers have had with teenaged daughters since the beginning of time. Marlene rolled her eyes as Tina screamed her typical list of complaints: you never let me do anything, you’re no fair, everyone else gets to… Marlene wondered sometimes if her daughter had a book in her room called “How To Fight With Your Mom,” and simply took her scripts straight from it.

There was no arguing that their relationship had begun to deteriorate more quickly over the past few months. Marlene remembered how beautiful Tina had been as a baby, how well behaved, how everyone at church smiled at her sleeping through the sermons and playing quietly in the pew. “Such a good baby!” they had said. “Look at her now,” thought Marlene. Where had that good baby gone? Disappeared under layers of resentment and anger and eye shadow, apparently. It was if Tina had turned into another person altogether.

Marlene loved her daughter. But the screaming, the crying, the doors slamming shut, staying out too late, coming home smelling of something odd – things were not good. She didn’t really know what to do. For the thousandth time, she wondered if things would have been easier if Tina’s father hadn’t left when Tina was three years old. But she’d never know; no use thinking about it now. Tina was still yelling, starting to cry and rant and rave when the final – predictable – shout came: “I wish you were dead!” she screamed, and ran down the hallway to her room. Marlene heard the door slam shut. She sat down on the couch, exhausted. Nothing to do now but wait.

Hours went by and Marlene finally went to bed. All was quiet from Tina’s room. Marlene guessed she’d simply worn herself out with yelling and had fallen asleep. In the morning, Marlene knocked on her door. No answer. She knocked again, with a little irritation in her voice: “get up, Tina,” she said. “Time for school.” No answer. Slowly, she opened the door. On the neatly made bed was an envelope marked, “Marlene.” Not “mom,” she thought, as she crossed the room to pick it up. She sat down on Tina’s bed, noticing that the closet doors were open and clothes were missing. So was Tina’s teddy bear, which she had cherished since childhood. Marlene read the note with a sinking heart. She realized that her 14-year old daughter was now a statistic: a runaway. One of thousands of kids who left home every year. Some came back, some simply disappeared forever.

Marlene called the police, then sat down at the kitchen table and put her head on top of her folded hands. She wept for the wasted years, for the endless fighting, the misunderstanding, for her utter hopelessness at what to do with this child. “Watch over her, God,” Marlene prayed. The doorbell rang. Marlene answered it, and saw a young policeman at the door. She smiled through her tears; she could almost hear Tina whispering in her ear, “he’s cute, Mom.” With a heavy heart, she answered the policeman’s questions. “We’ll do our best, ma’am,” he said as he left. “Thank you,” she replied.

At church on Sunday the congregation prayed for Tina, and people wept with Marlene, offering her hot dishes and cups of coffee. But as the weeks went by, people stopped asking as often if she’d heard from her daughter. Marlene began to feel people looking at her with pity, but not talking to her. She supposed they didn’t know what to say. Her closest friends still asked, but they knew the inevitable answer: “no word yet,” Marlene would say. Tina’s name remained on the prayer list, but after three years, no one asked at all anymore. When her birthday would pass, Marlene would wonder: was she still alive? Was she okay? Did she ever think about her mother? Would anyone make her a birthday cake?

Every Sunday Marlene prayed at church for Tina’s return, and for her safety. Sometimes she returned home in tears, sometimes numb, sometimes angry. Until one Sunday in June when she pulled into the driveway and noticed a scruffy young boy sitting on the front step, with a backpack in his lap. Probably wants money, she thought with frustration. Good grief.

She opened the door and grabbed her purse, shut the car door and turned around, and looked again at this boy. Was it a boy? Short hair, but the same strawberry blond as Tina – just dirtier. The boy stared at the ground until Marlene began to walk toward him. He looked at her, just as Marlene realized this was not a boy, dropped her purse on the ground and ran to the steps. She threw herself on the ground in her very best church clothes, and wrapped her arms around this dirty, skinny, hungry seventeen-year old girl. Her daughter. Marlene could hardly speak with joy and wonder. Where had she been? What had happened to her, that she was so thin, so dirty, so…afraid? Marlene held her daughter and felt as if she would break her fragile bones, she squeezed so hard.

“Mom?” came a quiet voice, uncertain, trembling.

“It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter,” Marlene said over and over. “You’re home.”

“But there is something…” Tina began.

“It doesn’t matter,” sobbed Marlene.

“I think it does,” said Tina, and pulled away. She looked down at what Marlene had first assumed was a backpack. Not a backpack. A wrapped-up blanket, dirty and torn, and inside, a baby. Probably six months old. Tina looked at her mother. “I guess you don’t want,” she started, but Marlene cut her off. “You’re home, Tina,” she said with some shaking in her voice. “You’re both home.”

The baby’s name was Peter, after his father, Marlene gathered. Marlene’s friends called and visited, and cried and laughed with joy at Tina’s return. They smiled over the baby and took turns holding him. They brought old clothes of their children’s and strollers and diapers and offered to baby-sit. Tina grew stronger and began to smile again, though some days were better than others. They visited the pastor and scheduled a baptism for the next month. The Sunday after Tina’s return, many people rushed up to her at church and welcomed her back. “We prayed for you,” they said, and Marlene smiled. During the hymns, she reached over to touch her daughter’s hand, just to make sure she was still there. It hardly seemed real.

A month later, it was time for the baptism. Marlene stopped at church on her way home from the grocery store that Saturday, to put a rose on the altar. The church door was open, as Marlene had thought it would be, since she recognized some of her friends’ cars in the parking lot. “Probably setting up communion,” she thought. The sanctuary door was open, so she walked in with the rose in a small bud vase. She heard voices coming from the room at the back – whispers, gossiping. Marlene grinned at the idea, wondering who the topic of discussion was today. As she put the vase down onto the altar, the voices grew louder. She could hear the whole conversation now.

“I’m telling you, it’s just not right,” said one. “I mean, baptism is a special thing. It’s a sign of God’s approval. And I just don’t think we should be putting our approval on the baby of a runaway teenager who caused her mother that much grief.”

“I know,” said the other voice. “I mean, for Pete’s sake, what does that say to our kids? Go ahead, run away, do anything you like, and then when you come back it’s all fine? Kids need to learn about consequences. Forgiveness is one thing, but this is taking it a bit too far, in my opinion. If the church doesn’t stand up for good morals, who will?”

“And you know,” said the first voice, “Marlene never even punished that girl. Three years she was gone! Three years Marlene wondered where on earth she was, if she was even alive, and then she just shows up one day on the front porch and it’s like nothing happened. Doesn’t she worry about her running away again? Finding some other boyfriend and having another kid? That girl needs to learn some discipline.”

“I just know Marlene’s going to end up raising that baby herself,” said the second voice. “Happens all the time. Happened to a friend of mine in Michigan. Her daughter had a baby, ran off afterward, and my friend is still raising it. Should be enjoying her retirement, and instead she’s changing diapers. No sense of responsibility at all, that girl.”

“But what really bothers me,” said the first voice, “is that the church is saying this is all okay. I mean, shouldn’t we say something about it? Make sure people understand that having a baby like this is not a good idea? And then there will be a huge party at Marlene’s afterward – did you hear about that? She’s having a baptism party. Sandwiches and cake and everything. As if there’s nothing wrong with this situation at all – as if this is perfectly normal.”

“That’s just poor taste,” said the second voice. “I guess it’s one thing to welcome Tina back home – I’d probably do the same thing if one of my kids ran off. But to give a party for her illegitimate baby? It’s ridiculous. It’s really inappropriate. I suppose she expects us to bring gifts. What about all those people who do the right thing? You know, get married, and then have kids – don’t they get a reward anymore? Now the party is for anybody, no matter what they did.”

“I don’t know what this world is coming to,” said the first voice.

The organist walked in to practice, thought neither Marlene nor the two women in the sacristy saw him. Marlene stood frozen to the spot, listening to her friends gossip about her daughter. Was the party inappropriate? She had been so glad to see her daughter, so thankful to have her home again, that she just wanted to share her joy with her friends. She hadn’t even thought about whether people would approve. Was it a bad idea to have this child baptized? Was everyone in church whispering about her like this?

The organist began to practice the hymns for Sunday. “Hi Marlene,” he called out as he turned the organ on, but she didn’t hear him. She stood at the altar until she heard the notes begin to chime.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me; I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.

Marlene could hear the words in her head. “Amazing Grace,” she tried to sing, but her voice broke with tears. The second verse began.

‘Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, and grace my fears relieved; how precious did that grace appear, the hour I first believed.

Now she was singing, and the third verse began just as her friends walked out of the sacristy.

Through many dangers, toils and snares I have already come; ‘tis grace has brought me safe thus far, and grace will lead me home.

Marlene finished the verse, singing at the top of her lungs, and smiled at her friends who stood staring at her with the look of kids caught peeking in the cookie jar. Their cheeks blushed bright red, and one began to speak. “I…don’t…I mean…”

“Don’t you just love that hymn?” Marlene asked them. “I once was lost, but now am found. Great song.” She put the rose down on the altar. “See you at church tomorrow. Oh – and I hope you can be at the party afterward.”

Then the father said to his elder son, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.”

Friday Five: Matters of Taste

After two weeks of sporadic traveling/retreat leading, I'm finally settling back into the office (and gearing up to face a mountain of laundry this weekend). The Friday Five seems a good way to start...

Name five things you like a lot that some close relative or significant other did/does not like. This could be food, movies, hobbies, music, sports or whatever springs to mind.

1. Tuna noodle casserole. This is my favorite comfort food, and my husband just doesn't like it. So I bake it whenever he's out of town (which isn't that often) and eat it for days. It's a very specific recipe, centering around the use of cream of mushroom soup. And peas. Now I'm hungry.

2. Symphony concerts. Again, not my husband's cup of tea; he's a basketball guy. But we keep learning to appreciate each other's passions, and I think the symphony is growing on him. We're starting off with pops concerts, mostly. Symphony lite.

3. Super Spicy Thai Food. Now this one husband and I fully agree on; it's my parents who aren't into the spicy stuff. For years, my brothers and I believed it was my dad whose taste buds preferred the bland, but we now suspect it might actually be our mom, who sort of blamed dad. Either way, I was delighted to marry someone who loves to bring on the red pepper flakes.

4. Reruns. I love to read and/or watch things over and over and over again. I'm not sure why this is (insert your psychological interpretation here). There's something comforting about it to me. So, for example, I can watch the same episode of certain shows - Sex & the City, Friends, or The Simpsons - a hundred times and still think they're hilarious. Husband does not get this. He thinks it's boring, and I'm sure he's not the only one. Perhaps I am too easily entertained. It works for books, too. I love to read certain favorites many times: Anne of Green Gables, anything by Agatha Christie (I usually go a few years inbetween readings so I forget who done it), and a few others.

5. Cleaning the bathroom. Most people hate this job. And it's not exactly my favorite use of free time, but there's something really satisfying about cleaning the bathroom. Of all the rooms in the house, it looks and smells the most "clean" when I'm done. That appeals to me. Again, I might be too easily entertained.

Joy to the World

About six months ago, I got a very nice email from a person in our synod office asking if I would be interested in leading a retreat on joy. This is a retreat for church staff people - not pastors, but anyone else who works on a church staff (and Lord knows, anyone who works with pastors needs to get away every once in awhile). At the time, I was on sabbatical, and drunk with joy most of the time, so I said yes to this kind request.

And six months went by, and I had gone back to work, and some crap hit the fan, and then all of a sudden it was past time to prepare for this retreat, and - oh man - then it was only a few days away, and I still wasn't sure what on earth to say about joy, other than my observation that joy seems a lot like sex: more fun to engage in than to talk about. But I wasn't sure if I could get away with that as my opening statement.

So now I'm at this retreat, and yes - in fact - it has been very joyful, and the session went just fine, mostly because this turns out to be a group of 40 women who could talk all day amongst themselves, and that makes for much easier small group discussion time.

At the suggestion of a wonderful professor whom I am privileged to know, I looked into joy in, of all biblical books, Ecclesiastes. Did you know that Ecclesiastes is sometimes called the Preacher of Joy? I've read Ecclesiastes before, and honestly, "joy" is not the emotion I would have associated with this book, but it turns out to be a fantastic resource. For one thing, it's very honest about the unfair and often seemingly random nature of human life. The righteous perish and the wicked flourish - what's with that? I work like a dog all my life, just to hand everything to my kids - and who's to say they won't bet it all at the track?

You could take this as a "Life's a bitch and then you die" sort of attitude, which is about how I'd read Ecclesiastes before. (It's pretty hard to keep typing Ecclesiastes, by the way. Just so you know.) But underneath all the lamenting is a worthy exhortation: go out and be joyful - eat, drink, and be merry - because ordinary life is the only place to find joy anyway.

As someone who has never had many mountaintop faith experiences, this was a freeing word for me. Joy is not just the spiritual highs, but can be found in the mundane, the ordinary, the seemingly meaningless bits of life. More importantly, if we spend all our lives trying to find some other source of joy, we are likely as not to stop paying real attention to our daily lives and realize, at the end, that all the ordinary stuff was what mattered most anyway.

God's gift to us is our ordinary lives. It's not easy to remember this, and it certainly doesn't meant that every single second of those ordinary lives is, by definition, a gift from God. But joy is our companion along the way. And if we wait until the big moments to look for it, we'll probably miss a thousand joyful seconds along the way.

Friday Five: Artsy Crafty

OK, here goes...

1. Would you call yourself "creative"? Why or why not?
Yes, I think I'm creative. I'm also a person who likes routine, so that's an odd combination. But I love to mess around with liturgical art and cooking (not liturgical cooking, just cooking), and painting. I think I might also be a secretly frustrated interior designer.

2. Share a creative or artistic pursuit you currently do that you'd like to develop further.
I learned to knit while I was on sabbatical - one of my primary goals - and I'd like to keep getting better at it. So far, I'm knitting baby stuff, which is mostly because those are small and hence quickly finished. I have about two-thirds of the sleeve of a sweater for me done too, but that's going slowly.

3. Share a creative or artistic pursuit you have never done but would like to try.
I've tried a little tiny bit of oil painting before, but never anything large. I'd love to try some kind of abstract oil painting.

4. Complete this sentence: "I am in awe of people who can _____________."
...be architects. I love to look at great architecture, but I can't get my mind around all the engineering involved. Them architects is smart.

5. Share about a person who has encouraged your creativity, who has "called you to your best self." (I'm pretty sure that's from the Gospel of Oprah.)
I really can't stand Oprah. But nevertheless, my mom is definitely the person who has encouraged my creativity the most. She's very creative herself, even though she always plays it down. What I love most about her is her total belief that she can do anything she tries. I think that's been one of her greatest gifts to me.

Damn Sinners

Disclaimer: I'm just bitching.

I realize that the church is, among other things, a gathering of sinners. And sinners tend to sin. And sometimes their sin gets in the way of being community. I have never been deceived about this, and I have never been overly romantic about the church; a lifetime of being in the church will teach you otherwise. So I get all that. But still...

Why don't people just freaking talk to you when they have a problem? Why do they sit on their concerns and get madder and madder, and fume silently - or complain to fifty other people - but never actually come to you and say, "hey pastor, I have a problem, let's talk about it"? Am I that unapproachable? Is the council, or the committee in question here, full of people that intimidating?

A certain person in my congregation feels that some changes in staff positions were not adequately explained to her. She has dealt with this by: 1.) Acting as if everything was fine when I talked to her, then 2.) Expressing her anger at me and the council to a few others who 3.) sort of indicated to me that she was a little upset but then 4.) she stopped talking to me altogether and now 5.) has left the congregation without ever saying what the problem was and 6.) has just written a letter that arrived on my desk this morning (hence this post) in which she complains that the church did not communicate directly with her.

First, I acknowledge that mistakes were made. I made some of them. But there were so many times when she could have said something to me. I talked to her, she said everything was fine. Believe it or not, "mindreading" is not a class offered in seminary. If you have a problem, you have to come and talk to me or I may never know about it. And then, when I don't act on it, it may not be because I am the queen bitch of all time - it may be because I don't freaking know about it.

It occurs to me that other organizations have similar problems, but that the church is a uniquely shitty place in which to deal with them. And today is one of the days when that is particularly true.

Yuck. I feel like I need an exorcism of these feelings. Perhaps this post will help; a whole lot of prayer is going to be the next thing I do.

What do you do when people are so deceptive? Because the other problem for me right now is that several times over the past two years, I've had what I believed to be private, pastoral conversations with people, in which I understood what they told me to be confidential. And then they went out and completely misrepresented what I said, or twisted it, or inaccurately reported it. So now I don't really trust being able to talk to people one-on-one about this stuff. I've been burned too many times, and frankly, that is a really uncomfortable feeling. Anyone have suggestions?