It's not very often that I come into a Friday morning with ABSOLUTELY no idea what I'm going to preach about. Having read the text only once, very briefly, on Thursday. My hope-against-hope, that I could recycle a sermon from three years ago, crashed and burned when I opened the file drawer to realize that, despite having been a solo preacher for five+ years, I somehow have no sermon whatsoever on Sunday's assigned text. (Which, by the way, seems like a new one to me. Is that right? Do the Lectionary People just screw with me by adding a new twist every few years? And did they have to do this on the week when I moved everything I own? Aaargh.)
I really hate heading into Saturday with no sermon ideas. So, after "brief perusal of old sermons," back-up sermon option number one, I went straight for back-up sermon option number two: "scan through all books of sermons by Barbara Brown Taylor and hope for something usable in there."
Jackpot. I love this woman.
Technically, her sermon "Last of All," a chapter in Bread of Angels, is on the Mark version of Sunday's text. Close enough. Enough to start with, anyway.
But I was listening to a great episode of This American Life on my ipod while driving this morning - "The Devil Inside," I think it was called, about all the little voices in our heads which try to convince us to do dumb/thoughtless/prejudiced/destructive things, and now the prominent voice in my head (nicknamed 'Grandma,' for its constant tendency toward worrying and guilt-producing) is wagging its little finger about plagarism. Are you ripping off someone's sermon? asks Grandma. Because that's just wrong, you know. And you'll be in church. Lying. In the pulpit. On behalf of the good Lord. Isn't this breaking the rules? Lying in church?
To quote the great Todd Flanders, brother of Rod and son of Ned, "Lies make baby Jesus cry."
I don't actually intend to lie. I always reference as much as possible and appropriate, and I will certainly be clear about anything directly attributable to Pastor Brown Taylor.
But sometimes, you have a crazy week and you have to dip into the reserves. Maybe your reserves; maybe someone else's. All you can do is be as honest as possible and plan for better next week. At least I'm not at square one anymore.
Even if the voice of Ira Glass will be taunting me all afternoon.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Barbara saves the day
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Wednesday, June 25, 2008
I was going to write earlier, but I seemed to have packed my energy in a brown cardboard box.
Lord, I hate moving.
To be more precise, I hate packing.
Got to Old City last Thursday and Beloved and I worked like crazy people until Monday night. The movers showed up bright and early yesterday morning - and eight hours later, voila! We watched the truck turn the corner...and watched all our worldly possessions be driven away. That is a very odd sensation. Let me just say, however, that professional movers are the BEST THING EVER and I am so thankful the church paid for that part of the process. Packing is enough work on its own. Besides, having moved into our now-nearly-former home only two years ago, our friends are still recovering and we hated to ask them to help us yet again.
We signed the papers this afternoon to close. Once the money shows up on Friday morning, we're officially house-less. The good news is that we then have money with which to buy another, undoubtedly much more expensive, house.
We are both exhausted, but in a good way. Once we actually found ourselves in the same city again, all the tensions of the past few weeks disappeared. It's a huge step to have this house sold, to know that we can live together again (there is the small detail of Beloved finding a job, but this will be easier to do once he's in New City...we believe).
For now, I'm borrowing my in-laws' computer to sneak peeks at blogs and catch up. I go back to work on Friday morning to write a sermon on...the near-sacrifice of Isaac?
Maybe some things are harder than moving.
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Tuesday, June 17, 2008
1-800-FIGHTING
Two words: moving sucks.
Oh, no, wait. Three words. Moving sucks hard.
Today Beloved and I had our first honest-to-God, knock-down, drag-out fight. We've argued before, but nobody yells. Neither one of us is a yeller. We do not come from yelling families. (We are Scandinavian and German. We do not yell, we just go silent and possibly drink beer.)
The fight was ostensibly about the process of moving. New Congregation had agreed to pay for our moving expenses, including the services of a professional mover. Since my first congregation paid for the services of a U-Haul and my dad (well, they didn't pay for my dad), this was a big step-up for me. I swear to the tips of my toes that I told Beloved we would do our own packing, as this was the compromise I reached with the personnel committee. Beloved, having grown up in a military family in which moving every few years involved the services of people who come to your house and pack all your stuff for you, swears that I never mentioned the self-packing thing. We have argued about this a few times, both acknowledging that one of us must be wrong, but neither one willing to admit which one of us that would be. (See here, how I'm still defending my version of events? This would be evidence of the aforementioned problem.)
A few weeks ago, we started the process of contacting the movers. To be specific, the chain of command goes like this: personnel committee chair talks to movers; movers come to our house and look at our stuff; movers talk to personnel committee chair about estimate; estimate turns out to be nearly five times what personnel committee guy thought; movers email estimate to me; I talk to Beloved.
This is a lot of activity between movers and Beloved. Keep in mind that this is a guy who plans everything well in advance and needs a lot of information before making a decision. As in, it took him two years to decide which barbeque to buy. TWO YEARS. I am not making this up. So, suffice it to say that Beloved has been getting frustrated with his lack of opportunity to provide input.
The truth is, the vast underestimation of the moving costs was the responsibility of the personnel committee guy. He never asked us the size of our house, or how much stuff we had. He never asked for more than one bid on the job, and now there's simply not enough time to get another one. And he has been unfailingly kind and supportive about this process, even if it's not going as quickly as anyone would like.
Now and again, I hear about people who are married but live in separate cities, and not just as a temporary thing, but simply as their way of life. Perhaps because both people have jobs which can't be moved, or one person found a job far away and the other person couldn't find a job in that city, or maybe because they just don't like living together - I don't know. The wife of one of my seminary professors lived in Hong Kong. He lived in St. Paul, Minnesota.
I used to think that was a perfectly fine thing to do if that's what you wanted, and I suppose it still is, but let me tell you this - it ain't gonna work for me. I think the main reason our fight today escalated the way it did was precisely because we were not in the same room. When you're on the phone, you can roll your eyes or make that "I could strangle you" gesture with your hands, or stop really listening and scan through your email. You can start yelling or say things you wouldn't normally say because you don't have to look the other person in the eyes while you say them.
Tonight we had a meeting at church about redesigning our website, and perhaps using more social networking stuff to help people connect with each other. In some ways, I think this is a great thing. I have made great connections with people because of what would seem to be impersonal things, like this blog: there is an intimacy to this way of communicating which surprised me. There is a safety, especially in anonymity, and there is something about this never-being-face-to-face thing which helps me say more honestly what I really feel.
But then again, I think about how Beloved and I got into this shit over the phone, and I realize how limited phones, or email, or blogs, really are. I can say anything I want here, because almost no one knows who I am. But I don't have to be particularly accountable for any of this. And for all that such freedom allows me honesty, I don't have to pay for any of it.
The thing about marriage is, at some point you have to pay for being honest. Or not being honest. And if you're not in the same room as the other person, you might dish out a little more payment than is really required. While we were arguing about moving expenses, what we were really fighting about was control, and losing control, and not being together, and the fear of not finding a job, and the fact that the Sears people are refusing to fix the waited-two-years-for-it barbeque, and everything else you can think of. It got out of control because there was no reason to stop, not when it feels like you're in the room by yourself.
Tonight we talked again, and he said at some point with a smile in his voice (you can hear that over the phone, you know), "Are you going to apologize to me?" "Well, I don't know," I said, "but I do have a lot to apologize for." "Yes, you do," he said, and then he apologized, and I said thank you. And then I apologized too. And life will go on.
Just hopefully not over the phone anymore.
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Friday, June 13, 2008
adventures in real estate, volume 2
I have decided the reason that Jesus, the Son of Man, had "nowhere to lay his head" is because he knew the real estate market is a giant pain in the ass.
It's much easier to be the buyer than the seller, so from that standpoint, we're doing well. In our area, the most motivated sellers appear to be builders whose empty homes are sitting on the market, so we've been looking at a number of new construction houses. Having talked to a few builders who are friends or family, and having gotten the following advice from both - "make an embarrassingly low offer" - that's what we did on Wednesday afternoon.
Apparently we made the offer to the only builder in town who is not willing to budge on his inflated asking price.
It's not that big of a deal. There are plenty of homes to choose from, and I have to admit that it was a bit of a power trip to scoff at the counteroffer and walk away. Pastors don't normally get to do that sort of thing. "I laugh at your ridiculous price! Ha ha! Watch me walk away!" This is empowering, in a very self-centered manner.
But it does mean that we need to find someplace else to live, and the clock is ticking. 17 days from today, we sign to turn over our current home. 11 or 12 days from today, we will pack up the truck and move our stuff. Have we started packing? Ah. No. Not really.
And, pray tell, where will all this stuff go when it arrives on this side of the state? There lies the rub.
One of these days, we'll look back at this time and wonder how we got through it all. That day can't come fast enough. For now, I'm off to drive past yet another house.
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Tuesday, June 10, 2008
sermon, redux
I have a love-hate relationship with publishing sermons. (Namely, that I love reading other people's sermons and hate publishing my own.) Actually, the main problem is that sermons are so contextual, it's hard to float them out on the internet. Oh, and that writing to be delivered orally is quite different than writing to be read visually, so I'm not always sure that sermons read very well in print.
But. That aside, I had such a great time messing around with thoughts brought up by Choralgirl (she has a great blog! Read it!) that I thought I'd throw this out there as an addition to a discussion she's got going. I made some changes as I preached it, especially the second and third times around, but of course I can't remember those at the moment, so you'll have to take the original draft.
Dear friends in Christ, grace and peace to you from God our creator, and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.
There is an old story in the Jewish tradition about the creation of the world. There are several versions of this story, but they all say something like this: that long ago, long before the world was created, there was only a holy darkness. When the world came from that darkness, it was a great ray of light. And then there was an accident. And the glass vessels containing the light of the world, the wholeness of the world, broke. And the light of the world, the wholeness and truth, was scattered into a thousand, thousand fragments which fell into all events and all people. The story says that human beings were created as a response to this accident: that we were created to put together the pieces, and to restore the wholeness of the world. This task is called “tikkum olam” in Hebrew, restoring the world, which is the task of all people who have ever been born or ever will be born. Another version of the story says that when the world was created, the truth was a giant mirror, and it was what shattered in an accident. Now each person holds a piece of the mirror, a piece of the truth, and the more pieces we put together, the closer we are to seeing a larger truth than any of us can see on our own. (1)
But if you’ve ever broken a mirror, or a piece of glass, you know that this story has danger to it. Shattered mirrors have sharp edges. You can cut yourself easily; you could hurt someone else if you wanted to. Which is also something you can do, not only with a mirror, but with a piece of the truth.
This is a beautiful image, that each of us has a little shining glint of truth, a piece to contribute. It reminds us that truth and wholeness are things none of us can figure out entirely on our own – that we need each other, or we will not be able to see much of anything at all. But it is also an image with an edge. It is not a very safe image. Then again, when it comes to the truth we hear in the gospel, safety may be overrated.
Our reading from Matthew tells three stories of healing in only a short few verses. The first does not appear to be a healing story, but a calling story: Jesus is walking along and sees a man called Matthew sitting at his tax booth, and Jesus calls him to become a disciple – which Matthew does, without hesitation or a single question. That in itself sounds like a miracle: who would walk away from their life without even a backward glance, without asking any questions? It’s partly a testimony to God’s ability to create faith, of course. But it’s also a reminder that the life Matthew was so quick to leave behind wasn’t necessarily a very good one. No one liked tax collectors, after all. When Jesus stopped and talked to Matthew, it may have been the first time in weeks, months, years, that someone didn’t leave his tax booth hating him and everything he stood for. The religious authorities take note of this right away, when they object to the company Jesus is keeping: “why does your teacher eat with tax collectors and sinners?” they ask of Jesus’ friends.
This was much more than the typical “nobody likes the IRS” sort of thing. At the time, tax collectors often preyed especially on the poor, demanding much more than they could pay. Their fellow Jews despised them for selling out their own people; and the Roman government didn’t think much of them either, though they did take the money. Perhaps Matthew followed Jesus because he felt his heart leap when Jesus called his name; and perhaps he followed because he was desperate to leave his miserable life.
Either way, the authorities object. The Pharisees get a bad rap much of the time, especially if we think they were all like the few who criticized Jesus in the gospels. But remember, the Pharisees were the churchgoing faithful of their time. They were the pastors, the altar guild members, the council committee chairs, the people who drive the van and weed the church property and know everyone’s name. They were, in other words, not so different from us, although we would like to think otherwise. They were serious about their faith, and so they studied the bible, and in the bible, they found passages like this one from Psalm 1: “Happy are those who do not follow the advice of the wicked or take the path that sinners tread.” That’s in the bible! So what is Jesus doing walking around with a bunch of cheaters and sinners? Doesn’t he read the bible? Doesn’t he understand the truth?
As Jesus is in the midst of talking to the Pharisees about this, another desperate person finds him, but this time it’s not Jesus who starts the conversation: “my daughter has just died,” says the man, “please come and lay your hand on her, so she will live.” And it’s not the man who does the following this time: it’s Jesus who gets up and follows him, out into the streets and into his grieving. The only piece of truth this man cares about is that his daughter has died and with her, the future he had always imagined. Does he know anything about who Jesus really is? Or does he rely on a few rumors he’s heard that this guy might be able to help? When you’re desperate, who cares? Jesus never asks the man anything – doesn’t ask him to prove his faith, or answer a few questions about his worship attendance, or demonstrate his faithful giving to the synagogue budget. Jesus simply follows him through the streets.
Which is when desperate person number three shows up. A woman, this time, equally as unlucky as the despised tax collector and the grieving father. She is sick, and she has been sick for twelve years. She suffers from hemorrhages, and because of the purity laws – many of which are in the bible, by the way – she is not supposed to be in public around men as long as she is bleeding. She is not only suffering a physical illness, but a social one as well: she is an outcast, and there is nowhere for her to be. She is so desperate that she has convinced herself all she has to do is touch Jesus’ cloak to be made well.
You know what we would call that? Superstition. This is a desperate woman with bad theology. Jesus isn’t a magician, after all. He’s not a superhero with a super cloak that can confer miracles onto whoever touches it – we know that. Except that, if you have ever been really desperate, waiting for a diagnosis or looking for a cure, you will understand this woman’s mindset. That’s what desperation does to you: if someone tells you there is a man in Mexico who can cure you, there might come a day when you will get on a plane and go, against all your better judgments. When you will convince yourself that if you just reach out and touch this man, maybe, just maybe, you will be healed. Everything will be okay.
Jesus does heal this woman. And he does raise the little girl. And he does call Matthew, the tax collector nobody liked. If each of them has a little piece of the truth, the truth they have known so far is this: they are on the outside. They are the people no one wants to deal with, or sit next to, or talk to, or associate with. And if Jesus is the one going around gathering little pieces of that broken mirror, helping people put the truth back together, he seems to start with the most shattered, the most jagged and dangerous pieces he can find. He is going to save people. But his way of doing it is not particularly safe.
At the time, it was thought that the way to be saved was to keep yourself apart from dangerous things, or unclean things, or uncertain things. So there were rules about who could be in the holiest places and when they could be there, about how to spend your time on certain days of the week, about who belonged where and why.
This is really easy to criticize, until we realize how much we do the same thing. To keep ourselves safe, we stay away from people who aren’t safe themselves, or who don’t seem that way: we try to keep the homeless and the hungry out of our neighborhoods; we spend most of our time with people who are basically like us. More than we would like to admit, we still divide ourselves by race or ethnic background, by religion, by education level, by language, by economic status, even by gender or age. A little bit at a time, we keep ourselves apart from people and places and events that don’t feel safe. We have good reasons for this, we tell ourselves. Safety is important. We have kids who need protection. There are a lot of dangers in the world, people who would hurt us or hurt the people we love. If we stay away from them, keep ourselves apart, we will be safe. Or safer, at least.
But Jesus didn’t especially want people to be safe. He wanted them to be saved, which was a whole other thing. When we read in the gospel today the words “made well” – the woman was “made well,” for example – the Greek word is “sozo,” which is also the word, “salvation.” This bleeding woman, and the despised tax collector, and the grieving father – these people were not especially safe. They were sick, and hated, and maybe bad luck. They were not safe, but Jesus does not have much interest in safety. What he wanted for his people was not safety but salvation, and that’s what they receive. Not only healing, but wholeness: their piece of the truth restored to the rest, their isolation turned into reconciliation.
It’s a hard question to ask ourselves: safety or salvation? What is it we seek? Jesus spent his time with all the wrong people – the tax collectors, the sinners, the poor, the women, the children, the ill and the broken and even the dead. Over and over again, he put them together, one piece at a time. To us, he gives the task of continuing that healing work. For the church to be about healing does not necessarily mean that we need to tap people on the head and tell them to stand up from wheelchairs, or that if we all get together and pray really hard, everyone in our church will be cured from cancer. When it comes to healing, Jesus has a wider vision than this.
One way of being healed is to have your illness cured. For reasons we cannot always understand, that does not always happen on this side of the grave. But the gospel is that God heals us even when a cure does not come. God heals when we are brought in from being on the outside, when we are welcomed. God heals when we stop treating each other as dangerous and start looking for the pieces of the truth in each person. God heals when we have place to bring all our brokenness and be heard, and cared for, and loved. God heals when we, in all our differences, focus instead on our unity. And we, in turn, can help heal the world when we stop worrying about keeping safe and start instead to share the joy of salvation.
(1) Story told in December 2007 on NPR series Speaking of Faith, linked here. My thanks to Choralgirl for sending me the link.
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Friday, June 06, 2008
Friday Five: The View from Here
Sally offers this Friday Five over at Rev Gals:
This week I took some time out to stop and walk and take in the view; my son Chris is studying in one of the most beautiful parts of the country, too often we simply drive up there, turn around and come home! This time Tim and I took time out to take in the view. It occurs to me that we need to do that more in life....
With that in mind I offer you this weeks Friday Five:
1. How important is the "big picture" to you, do you need a glimpse of the possibilities or are you a details person?
I would like to think of myself as a combination of the two. After serving on a "vision team" for our local Lutheran camp a few years ago, however, I discovered that I am much more of a details person. The whole "cast a big vision" thing turned out to be enormously frustrating for me. Not sure if this is a good thing for a pastor to admit, but there you go.
2. If the big picture is important to you how do you hold onto it in the nitty gritty details of life?
I'm reversing this question: since I'm more into details, how do I remember the big picture? Ummm...I'm working on this. Mostly it involves taking a lot of deep breaths and trying to slow down.
3. Name a book, poem, psalm, piece of music that transports to to another dimension ( one....what am I thinking....)
It is hard to narrow it down. But for the sake of brevity (and the sermon I should be working on), I'll mention one of my very, very favorite pieces of music: Appalachian Spring, by Aaron Copeland. Love, love, love that work.
4.Thinking of physical views, is there somewhere that inspires you, somewhere that you breathe more easily?
Holden Village. If you can't slow down and breathe and be inspired there, then you must be dead.
5. A picture opportunity...
In case you doubt my words about Holden, here's a peek at its surroundings. And yes, I totally stole this from their website here. If you have never been there, you need to go. Check out their Partners in Ministry program for a low-cost visit offered to clergy.
No, they do not pay me to say this.
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Thursday, June 05, 2008
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH
To the several older folk who have, in that peculiarly attempting-to-be-kind-yet-in-fact-totally-passive-aggressive-manner common among older Lutherans in my experience, noted that "the new pastor talks too fast":
I am doing my best to speak more slowly.
Perhaps you ought to listen quicker.
Or turn up your hearing aids.
And also, I am now informed. Please stop mentioning it to me. I'll say this slowly:
I
AM
WORKING
ON
IT.
Thank you. Carry on.
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smelly, slimy waiting room
Almost six years ago, my then-colleague, the Senior Pastor of the congregation, was diagnosed with a malignant, inoperable brain tumor. He was 45 years old at the time. He had been having a bit of trouble remembering names and words, and I think he went in for tests because his mother had a disease much like early-onset Alzheimer's, and he was worried about that. A tumor was not on anyone's radar screen.
A few days before he went in for his biopsy surgery, the bishop came and prayed with him. The day before his surgery, my colleague told me that the bishop had given him an image to consider as he prepared for the anesthetic: to think of himself as entering the belly of the whale. To think of himself as Jonah, being carried safely through the waters - in a less-than desirable waiting area, to be sure, but nevertheless safe. Waiting, said the bishop, rarely happens in comfort. Think of the Israelites wandering in the wilderness, or Noah on the ark, or Jesus in the desert - or Jonah in the belly of the whale, on hold in his smelly, slimy waiting room.
The truth is, I hate waiting. Unless the object of my so-called patience is something guaranteed to happen, like Christmas or the opening of an anticipated movie, waiting is no fun. Having been to the doctor a few times lately, it occurs to me that we like to dress up our waiting areas to make the actual reason we are there less anxiety-producing: we fill them with magazines and semi-comfortable chairs, toys for kids and coffee for the adults, piped-in, soothing music and muted colors. But waiting sucks, no matter how comfortable the room is. No matter how well-decorated and visually soothing, no matter how crisp the magazines are and how good the coffee is, it always feels like a slimy, smelly whale belly in there. It might be that you have to hang out there for awhile to get to where you're going, but let's at least stop pretending that it's anything more than a big whale gut.
Today's episode of The Writer's Almanac featured a great poem by Dan Albergotti, called "Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale." You can find it here (I'm linking rather than quoting in full since I'm not sure if there are some copyright issues here and I'd much rather use any extra money I have for lattes rather than paying fines).
The line I needed to hear today was this one:
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait.
"Swallowed with all hope." Because the belly of the whale can feel so discouraging, so dark and sometimes nauseating, because you can't see where you're going from in there, it's easy to forget that the reason for being swallowed in the first place was to save you from the storm. Sometimes waiting is like this. It's not a cool, calm, professional office where you can sip your drink and wait for your name to be called; it's not always wandering around where you can at least see the sand dunes and have a bit of warning before the clouds close in on you.
Sometimes you just have to hang out in the whale's belly, swallowed with all hope, where you can rest and wait. Thanks, Poet Albergotti, for the reminder.
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Tuesday, June 03, 2008
update
Well, Beloved interviewed on Friday and felt okay about the experience, though he didn't make the final cut for the position. He was disappointed, but bounced back very quickly and has already applied for a number of other teaching positions in the area. Thanks for the prayers!
I saw Sex and the City: The Movie yesterday, with a friend who drove over from Old City specifically so we could see it together. After reading mediocre reviews (and after the fairly disappointing experience of Indiana Jones a few weeks ago) I didn't expect much, but hey - I really liked it. Sure, it's really only for fans of the show; sure, the materialistic angle is rampant (but damn, there are some great shoes); sure, the women's lifestyles are still TOTALLY unrealistic and it's basically a rehashing of all the same romantic dramas they went through on the series - but I didn't care. It was fun and summery and enjoyable and I had two cosmopolitans beforehand, so that probably contributed to the success of the day.
Nothing theologically pertinent today. Just a Tuesday. Rainy, rainy, rainy. Off to work on the sermon...
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Thursday, May 29, 2008
repeat to self: "Today's trouble is enough for today."
How is it that good news can make me so worried? Aargh.
Good news #1: the house inspection went through, the buyers signed off on it without requesting any fixes (whoo hoo!) and now we just need to wait until closing on June 30. Because they are paying cash, we don't need to worry about the state of their financing: fantastic. And yet I worry...
And good news #2 (culminating in prayer request #426 on this blog): Beloved has a job interview tomorrow! It's for a good job which I think he'd enjoy and for which he has great, pertinent experience. It's within decent driving distance. He's excited about it. If you could pray for him today and tomorrow at, say, 2:00pm Pacific Time, I'd really, really appreciate it. Might as well pray for me too, since all this good news sends me into yet even more worry...
Repeat to self:
Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? So why do you worry about tomorrow? Tomorrow will bring worries of its own (preach it, Jesus). Today's trouble is enough for today.
Deep breath.
Amen.
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Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Daily Dose of Procrastination
I should be working on something more important, undoubtedly, but I got really curious after reading the meme below on J's blog. So I blame her. (Not really.)
My Life as a Soundtrack
The Rules:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc)
2. Put it on shuffle.
3. Press play.
4. For every question, type the song that's playing.
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button.
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool.
Opening Credits: Rhapsody for Jazz Ensemble (sorry, no composer on this one - it's from a recording by my alma mater music program at the opening of the new music building on campus. Great song.)
First Day At School: Music, Maestro, Please (Harry Connick Jr)
Falling In Love: My Funny Valentine (Miles Davis) (I am not making this up - good choice, ipod.)
Breaking Up: Rejoice, Greatly, O Daughter of Zion (Handel’s Messiah) (This is my favorite. Unusual choice, certainly, but still - "Rejoice Greatly, O Daughter of Zion! Thy horrible boyfriend hast been smoted!" Or whatever.)
1st date: Spring is Here (Nat King Cole)
Prom: You Learn (Alanis Morissette)
Life's OK: Don’t Be That Way (Benny Goodman)
Driving: Death of the First Born, from Prince of Egypt (Hans Zimmer) (I do listen to a lot of soundtracks. And I do like to sing along to a few Prince of Egypt tunes in the car. Probably not this one, though.)
Flashback: Too Young (Natalie Cole)
Getting Back Together: Forgotten (Storyhill)
Wedding: Can’t Run But (Paul Simon)
Final Battle: Why Georgia (John Mayer)
Death Scene: Mudd Island Chase from The Firm (Dave Grusin)
Funeral Song: Jimi Thing (Dave Matthews Band)
End Credits: How We Operate (Gomez)
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Wednesday, May 21, 2008
in which Chorus tags me for a meme
Before this, I was a meme-tagged virgin: so thanks, Chorus, for being the first. (Now that I read that sentence, it sounds kind of creepy. Not intended that way. Still post-high-school-retreat-tired.)
Rules:
The rules of the game get posted at the beginning.
Each player answers the questions about himself or herself.
At the end of the post, the player then tags five people and posts their names, then goes to their blogs and leaves them a comment, letting them know they’ve been tagged and asking them to read your blog.
Yadayadayada
Ten years ago:
I was finishing up my year-long internship year of seminary, oddly enough in a town only about ten miles away from where I'm serving today. I was single, living in an apartment furnished in a very refugee-fleeing-my-homeland sort of way, and starting to adjust to pastoral life. I had such a great internship - a huge blessing.
Five things on today's "to do" list:
1. Work out a basic outline of the sermon.
2. Call our real estate agent to set up house visits for this weekend when Beloved is here.
3. Buy a train ticket to visit Beloved for a few days in a nearby city where he'll be coaching kids in the state tennis tournament.
4. Write a 'congratulations' card to one of my very, very favorite high schoolers from my previous congregation who sent me a graduation announcement yesterday.
5. Lead the bible study for retired folks in - oh, about eight minutes.
Things I'd do if I was a billionaire:
Buy a house here in New City.
Pay off student loans.
Fix whatever the hell is ailing the Seattle Mariners (though I fear money will not accomplish this...)
Do whatever is medically necessary for us to have a baby.
Three bad habits:
1. I am addicted to coffee.
2. I read the People magazine website. Still.
3. I swear at bad drivers in the car. A lot.
Five places I've lived:
Seattle
Minneapolis
Iserlohn, Germany (for a summer)
Tacoma
Spokane
Five jobs I've had:
Pastor
Catering Manager (in college)
Library page
Grocery store bag lady ("can I carry those out for you?")
Barista (everyone in Seattle has to do this job at some point. It's in the city code.)
Five People I'm Tagging
MoreCows
Nachfolge
The Kitchen Door
Swandive
Rebel Without a Pew
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Shalom
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10:46 AM
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in between the times
Only time for a quick update this morning:
- returned from a tiring but wonderful youth retreat this weekend and finding that it really does take longer to recuperate from those at age 35 than it did ten years ago...
- the inspection on our (hopefully) former home is tomorrow and we're eagerly waiting for the conclusion of the ten-day in-between period shortly afterward...
- and you know how sometimes the gospel reading for a particular Sunday seems to have been written just for you, just for your exact moment in life right now? "Do you think that by worrying you can add a single hour to your span of life?" Ah. Good point. I will be repeating that as my mantra this week.
- and last, I'm housesitting this week for a dear couple at church who are, as we speak, in China meeting their adopted daughter for the first time. They'll bring her home next Thursday. So much fun to help that happen, even in a small way.
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Shalom
at
10:27 AM
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Friday, May 16, 2008
adventures in real estate
So...
...after hours of discussion, debating how much our house is worth in this particular market, and the value of a bird in the hand...
...after a very long night in which Beloved wanted to "sleep on it" but in which neither one of us got much actual sleep...
...after a few choruses sung in my head of, "The More You Love Someone, the More You Want to Kill Them"... (a gem of a song from the Broadway show Avenue Q)
...and after a WHOLE LOT of prayer...
...we signed the offer this morning. It's a little less than we really wanted, but it's enough to help us move on. It will be official in 10 days, after their inspection (about which we're fairly confident, having bought the house only two years ago after a thorough inspection then).
Thank you for your prayers! You know, if I never have to sell another house again, I'll be delighted. But for now, it's looking good.
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Shalom
at
1:04 PM
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Thursday, May 15, 2008
please pray...
Our real estate agent called this morning to say that we are getting an offer on our house this evening.
Please, God, may it be good enough to say yes to...
And if you have an extra second in your day, please pray for us!
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Shalom
at
11:19 AM
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Wednesday, May 14, 2008
in which this pastor gets totally flummoxed
Just hung up from having the following phone conversation:
Me: "Can I help you?"
Caller: "Yes, well, I wanted to talk to a pastor about something."
Me: "Okay. What would you like to talk about?"
Caller: "Well, I grew up Lutheran and I was wondering - do you think it would be a sin for me to marry a Hindu?"
LONG PAUSE.
[Here, let me insert that I do not think this would be a sin. At all. But let me also say that having this sort of conversation in the abstract - say, when a seminary professor tells you that this sort of thing might one day come up in the parish and you imagine all the thoughtful, intelligent, gracious and profound things you will say - this is totally different than when someone calls you at 4:15 on a Wednesday and you are trying to send a email about confirmation, contact your husband about a showing of your house because if he goes home he'll run into these people and WHY ISN'T HE ANSWERING HIS CELL PHONE OF ALL BLOODY DAYS NOT TO ANSWER and fielding questions about how to recognize the Sunday School teachers without offending people by not naming all of them...
...all that profound shit just flies right out of your head. Gone, baby, gone.]
So, we did have a good conversation about honoring each other's differences and finding the similiarities, and about how God might work through many different religions. It was the sort of conversation you actually dream about having as a pastor, where someone is asking the big questions of life - and yet these happen so relatively seldom that when they do occur, it's like you can't remember how to think beyond your own nose.
Anyway. Back to the Sunday School teachers...
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Shalom
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4:10 PM
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folic acid, given for you
As of today, I have only six pre-natal vitamins left in my economy-size bottle. I started with 225 pills.
Actually, I started two bottles ago. Which means I have consumed nearly 600 pre-natal vitamins over the past 29 months: two economy-sized bottles, one smaller bottle, and many days of "screw this, why even take these damn things." 600 pre-natal vitamins and no natal condition to show for it. On the plus side, my fingernails are exceptionally strong.
I've just finished reading Take This Bread, an amazing and wonderful story of faith from Sara Miles. I'll be out of town next Monday, completely unable to access a computer, so I'm really sad to miss the discussion on the book at Rev Gals - and especially a chance to 'meet' the author during that time.
But, largely because of the book, and also because I just helped lead a confirmation retreat on the sacraments, I've been thinking sacramentally quite a lot lately. It's Miles' theology that God, present in the meal of communion, is equally present whenever we eat with one another - and particularly whenver our tables are filled with the hungry, the outcast, the ignored, and the generally-overlooked. I don't think this is Miles' position alone, of course. It's biblical in a million ways. Eating is an act of community, and of generosity, and of dependence. When we cook for one another we are expressing real care for real human bodies. We are engaging creation when we eat well: when we consider how deeply connected we are to one another and to the earth.
Miles writes about her own conversion experience, which came at the communion table and shocked her to the core. She writes this about her growing sense of what that meal means:
I didn't deserve communion myself now. I wasn't getting it because I was good. I wasn't getting it because I was special. I certainly didn't get to pick who else was good enough, holy enough, deserving enough, to share it. It wasn't a private meal. The bread on that Table had to be shared with everyone in order for me to really taste it. And sharing it meant I was going to be touching Christ's body at St. Gregory's, through Donald and Rick and the angry older deacon with the clenched jaw. Looking into Christ's eyes outside of church, through the cheery athiest yuppie with the sports car and the veiled Muslim clerk at Walgreens. Listening to Christ's voice in other churches, through the middle-aged woman with the annoying nasal whine, and the self-righteous homophobic radio evangelist, and the conservative African bishop. I was not going to get to sit by myself and think loftily about how much Jesus loved me in particular. I was not going to get to have dinner, eternally, with people just like me. I was going to get communion, whether I wanted it or not, with people I didn't necessarily like. People I didn't choose. People such as my parents or the strangers who fed me: the people God chose for me.
Then she writes this:
Conversion, isn't, after all, a moment: it's a process, and it keeps happening, with cycles of acceptance and resistance, epiphany and doubt.
What I loved about this book, besides the great writing and her wide-open view of communion, was the encouragment I found to think sacramentally, even beyond the sacraments themselves. I tried to express this a bit to the confirmation students at our retreat: that, in addition to all the other great things we receive during communion and baptism, perhaps God is also trying to give us another way to see the world. A way in which all things are gifts and God can work through the most ordinary of moments, events, people, and things. That if we practice seeing God in bread, wine, and water, perhaps after awhile we will be able to see God at work in other meals and other waters - and then in other places altogether. In books, in random conversations over coffee, in strangers at the airport, in parents waiting to adopt a child. Everywhere.
In 600 pre-natal vitamins.
In addition to everything else communion is, it's a meal of hope. We get a foretaste of the feast to come: a small, sometimes infitessimal, glimpse of the kingdom feasts Jesus envisions in the gospels. Everyone around the table, full of good things, without regard for economic status or education level or bad deeds or good deeds or deeds of any kind.
I take a pre-natal vitamin every day not because I think I might be pregnant, or even because I have any real reason to hope that pregnancy might happen naturally for us. In fact, I take that vitamin (nearly) every day in spite of the reality that a surprise pregnancy is simply not in the cards for us. And I do this not out of my inherant Scandinavian stubbornness, or unrealistic idealism, but as a sort of sacrament. I take that vitamin because, when I swallow it, I am acting out of hope rather than reality, out of the future rather than the past. Out of wholeness instead of brokenness.
Is it foolish to prepare your body for something that may never happen? Damn right it is. Sacramental foolishness. Holy imprudence. As foolish as it is to trust that a tiny, tasteless wafer and a small sip of fairly-cheap wine has anything to do with the very body of God or the presence of the divine in the world. But to think sacramentally, I believe, is to act more out of what we hope for than out of what we are told to expect. It is sheer idiocy to do this, except that it might also be the only way to flourish, when all is said and done.
This is why I am going to buy another bottle of pre-natal vitamins on my way home today. I am going to stand in the pharmacy aisle and close my eyes and remember the taste of the bread and the smell of the wine and the feel of a cross made of water on my head, and I am going to pick up that bottle of generic vitamins and trust in that which I cannot yet see.
Communion, conversion, and hope are, as Miles might say, all about process, and they keep happening, with cycles of acceptance and resistance, epiphany and doubt. Every time I eat that bread, drink that wine, see a beloved child splashed with that water, I participate in a way of life breaking into the world, telling us all that the table is so much bigger than we thought, and that the host simply can't stop inviting people to come and eat. Take in hope, right into your stomach and veins and muscles. You are what you eat, right?
In which case, I'm getting the biggest bottle they have.
Posted by
Shalom
at
11:50 AM
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Thursday, May 08, 2008
maybe baby
So, all these months (29, but who's counting?) of trying to get pregnant, we've been assuming it was Beloved with the problem. "The boys," as we refer to them (euphemisms and humor are necessary for surviving infertility) are the wrong shape; or, at least 97% of them are. Technically, we didn't discover this until month 14 or so. And then another 9 months went by before I finally made a doctor appointment to find out what that meant - which, it turned out, was one quick verdict: "You have to do in-vitro fertilization."
Okay. So then we decided to accept this new call, and then it was Christmas, and then I moved to New City and Beloved stayed in Old City to finish the school year. Which means we're in a holding pattern when it comes to pregnancy because, although I guess Beloved and I don't even have to be in the same room (much less in the same bed) in order for me to get pregnant, it would be nice if we were in the same city. Especially if injections, wildly raging hormomes due to medications, and episodic bouts of weeping over Hallmark commercials were to result.
But I figured that I might as well get a second opinion while we're waiting around, and here in New City we have many, many more hospitals and doctors, not to mention fertility specialists, so it seemed like a good plan. When I made my first fertility appointment some nine months ago, it took nearly ten weeks for me to even get in to the office. Here, it only took ten days.
I assumed that my new doctor would most likely agree with the previous diagnosis and advice. After all, when only 3% of the boys are normal, it's not hard to figure out what's going on, right? I just wanted another opinion, and I figured that, having switched insurance plans so that diagnostics would be covered, I had nothing to lose.
Famous last words.
It turns out that the 'girls' have issues of their own. Essentially, I probably have endometriosis, so not being pregnant is as much my body's problem as it is Beloved's. I feel a bit relieved about this, actually. I'm taking it as a good sign that we found and married each other, because at least we're not married to other perfectly normal people and spreading the infertility problem around. And it also turns out that my diagnosis, oddly, could be good news for us: we might be able to get pregnant by dealing surgically with the ovarian cysts, and then trying a few cycles of insemination. And don't underestimate the fact that 'endometriosis' is the magic word for insurance companies - it means they cover everything!
I'm not sure if I feel better now, or slightly worse, or just different - or just unsettled. I had come to terms with the very bleak prediction of "IVF only." I'm still okay with that plan, but the idea that there might be any way around it is definitely a spark of hope. When you're trying to sell one house and buy another and your spouse is trying to find a new job, the potential of paying $500 to get pregnant via insemination versus $15,000 for IVF is a big stinking deal.
It's funny, though, how fragile this hope feels. Real, but fragile (and the person who used that phrase first will definitely understand). But real.
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Shalom
at
12:08 PM
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Friday, May 02, 2008
Friday Five: Wait and Pray
Sally at Rev Gals offers this Friday Five, which is timely for me (this has been happening a lot lately with the Friday Five: one on signs of hope, another on moving, this one on waiting...)
Part of the Ascension Day Scripture from Acts 11 contains this promise from Jesus;
"But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.”
Then he was taken from their sight into the clouds, two angels appeared and instructed the probably bewildered disciples to go back to Jerusalem, where they began to wait and to pray for the gift Jesus had promised.
Prayer is a joy to some of us, and a chore to others, waiting likewise can be filled with anticipation or anxiety....
So how do you wait and pray?
1. How do you pray best, alone or with others?
Honestly, with others. I'm suffering from a combination of laziness and frustration in my prayer life lately, and so I find that mostly I pray during worship or in moments with other people. It's good discipline for me. It would be very easy to give up praying if I only prayed on my own, which is one of the reasons worship is so important to me.
2. Do you enjoy the discipline of waiting, is it a time of anticipation or anxiety?
I like waiting for things if I know they are going to happen: waiting for Christmas, or for Beloved to visit this weekend, or for a family celebration. I don't like waiting when it's completely open-ended and unsure as to how long I will need to wait, or whether the thing I'm waiting for will ever happen. Lots of anxiety around those things for me.
3. Is there a time when you have waited upon God for a specific promise?
Ah. Yes. Still waiting. (I suppose there's no direct promise to me that we will have a child. But God does seem to be fond of babies who show up after a long time of waiting, so I'm counting on that.)
4. Do you prefer stillness or action?
Depends. I'm better at action. I could use some lessons about stillness, except that I don't generally enjoy them when they come.
5. If ( and this is slightly tongue in cheek) you were promised one gift spiritual or otherwise what would you choose to receive?
I really can't answer that. I would like to say "patience," except that I'm tired of being patient, so truthfully, I don't really want that gift. I'm not sure.
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Shalom
at
9:38 AM
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Thursday, May 01, 2008
no words
Scott at Nachfolge linked today to an amazing post on Real Live Preacher. Just yesterday I was in a bible study on the lectionary texts and we ended up in a theodicy discussion, centering around exactly the questions and problems this post so heartbreakingly and accurately identifies.
Read it.
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Shalom
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10:57 AM
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