Is God in This Place or Not? A Sermon on Exodus 17:1-7

Yesterday I preached this with the help of a fabulous liturgist, who not only preached the "Moses" monologue... he ad-libbed great portions of it, making it so. much. better. than what you see here.

God is good.

“Is God In This Place or Not?”
Exodus 17:1-7
September 28, 2008

Have you ever noticed how different people’s memories can be of the same exact event? I first realized this when I was in my 20’s. I was talking to my mother about my childhood… maybe it was after my son was born, and we were sharing our experiences as mothers of small children. My mom mentioned to me her warm memories of those times when I became frightened in the middle of the night, and crawled into bed with her and my dad. She remembered how she would sing me to sleep.

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
You make me happy when skies are grey.
You’ll never know, dear, how much I love you!
Please don’t take my sunshine away.

As she told me the story I could see that, for my mom, this was a memory as sweet as any she could conjure about my childhood. Well, I remembered what she was talking about, but I remembered it very differently. I remembered the second verse of the song.

The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping,
I dreamed I held you in my arms.
When I awoke, dear, I was mistaken.
So I hung my head and cried.

When my mom sang that to me, I had visions of a faceless man in a trench coat carrying me down the back stairs in a brown paper bag, and stealing me. That song terrified me. Two different people. One incident. Two very different memories.

I thought of that when I read this week’s passage from the book of Exodus. We are in those days, weeks and months after the people of Israel have been led out of slavery, and they are wandering in the wilderness. And things happen there that are interpreted very differently, I believe, by the different people experiencing them.

So I am going to try something a little different today. We are going to offer you two brief monologues. One will be from the perspective of Moses, who is, of course, a major character in the story—he’s the one whom God commissioned to lead the people to freedom. The other monologue will be from the perspective of Adah… a completely fictional character, a creation of my own mind, a young woman who is one of the Israelites. I want us to think together about this incident, as related from these two different points of view.

Moses

Sometimes I think I’m too susceptible to flattery. I try to remember that day in the wilderness at Midian, the day when I looked and saw the burning bush, aflame but not consumed. I try to remember what it was that the Lord said to me that was so compelling, so enticing, that I agreed to do this crazy job. I cannot for the life of me remember. I was happy in Midian with my wife and children, tending the sheep of my father-in-law. Now I am miserable in the wilderness tending the Israelites. All I can think is that I was so flattered that the Lord would even speak to me, I must have agreed out of sheer conceit.

So here I am. Following what amounts to weather patterns through the wilderness… clouds in the day time, and fire at night, if you can imagine such a thing … I suppose that’s impressive, the fire. Following these… natural phenomena… and being followed by countless tired, hungry, thirsty, and angry former slaves who expected that freedom would mean that things got better for them, not worse.

What, in heaven or on earth, was I thinking?

I’ll tell you what I was thinking: I was thinking that the Lord would be with me, would be with us. And… I suppose he is, in his own way. But it is not what I expected. Can you understand me? This is not what I expected, this journey from slavery to a better land.

Today they blame me because there is no water. In the desert there is no water! Imagine that! One does not have to be a sage, or an astronomer, to know this… there is no water in the desert! And somehow, today, it is the fault of Moses, the Israelite foolish enough to take on this absurd task of being shepherd and nursemaid to a million souls.

Well. If the Lord is with me, I say, they blame the Lord when they blame me. Today they blamed me because there was no water. They said, “Where is your God?” (Suddenly, it is “my” God). They demanded, “Is God in this place? Or has God abandoned us?” I told them they should tell God their problems directly. And then… their anger grew, and suddenly I was afraid. I looked into the eyes of the people nearest me, and then at the faces of the crowd, as far back as I could see. Their hostility and distress were terrible to see.

Thirst does terrible things to a man. It places visions in his head, and he believes the visions and not the reality around him. It makes him angry enough to kill the one he believes to be responsible for his thirst. It makes his tongue swell up and his body ache with a pain no one should ever know. And this kind of thirst … it kills children, kills them even before we know they are ailing. I looked into the eyes of the Israelites, and I saw all this. And I threw myself on the mercy of the Lord. I feared for my life. I cried out to God for help.

And then, as he so often does… as he does each and every time… the Lord spoke to me. He told me something it’s easy for me to forget… he reminded me to take the elders with me, so that the people would see not just one leader, but many leaders. I needed to be reminded of that. Then, he told me what to do: Strike the rock, he said. And water will flow. And the people will drink and be satisfied. I did, and it did, and they did. It was as the Lord said it would be. Blessed be the Lord, the Holy One of Israel, who told me to strike the rock to make water flow, and it was done.

Now it is quiet in the camp. I sit alone, and I can see the pillar of flame settled before us for the night. And I look around at this place… this place of testing and quarreling. That’s what they should call this place… Testing Town, Quarrel City. I am tired. But I have to believe… I have to believe… that the Lord is with me.

Adah

It is terrible to hold a baby who is crying for milk… and there is no milk to give. I did not worry when there was no bread, for I thought… the little one can live on milk, bread will come soon enough. But without water… I was not able to feed my baby, for more than a day. She struggled, she screamed terrible, high-pitched screams. That was horrible enough. But what was worse was when she became too weak to scream. That was when I became frightened. That was when my husband, Yakov, stormed out of the tent to take our complaint to the leader, Moses.

All the people know that Moses talks to the Lord, and the Lord talks to Moses… so, we reasoned, why shouldn’t Moses tell the Lord our problem? Why shouldn’t God hear our complaints? I held the little one in my arms, and followed my husband out of the tent. I could see that all the tents were emptying out… we were not the only ones in distress. We could feel the fiery anger that was racing through the crowd… men surged forward, and as they did, many of them stooped to gather rocks from the ground. Some carried their walking staffs as weapons. We women gathered together with the children, murmuring, wondering what would happen. Would there be violence? Would there be bloodshed? Would someone else take over as leader?

Even as we wondered all these things, I think we all knew the futility of such actions. How would another leader find us water, if Moses couldn’t? Moses, who had the very ear of God? Then some of the men began to shout, and their voices were terrible and fierce. I could see Moses at the front, standing on an outcropping of rock in front of the mountain, just slightly elevated so that he could be seen. The mountain itself was shrouded in the familiar covering of cloud that had accompanied us the entire length of our journey. The people said, God was in that cloud.

Moses said nothing… he was like stone, like the mountain, still, listening to the shouting, which was now incoherent. I could see Yakov at the crowd’s edge, turning uncertainly to look at me. Finally the angry voices subsided and there was a sound of sheer silence. Moses surveyed the crowd, still carrying that look of stone on his face. After a long moment he turned his back to us, and lifted his head as if to gaze into the cloud, towards the mountain’s summit. He lifted his arms and cried out in a loud, anguished voice: “What shall I do with this people? They are almost ready to stone me.”

What a shock to us. What an awful moment, to hear the despair of the man who had led us out of slavery. I looked down into the face of my daughter, who was awake but too weak to cry. If I hadn’t been so thirsty myself, I would have wept. The same shudder of sorrow rippled through the people. The men dropped their rocks and lowered their staffs.

Then something happened that sent a chill through me. Moses cocked his head, as if to listen. And quickly, a dozen or so men hurried forward to crowd around him. It was clear they were standing with him… that anyone who wished to stone him would have to get through them first. And then, his shoulders raised in a shrug, and he pulled back his arm, and brought his staff down, with a crack, against the rock of the mountain.

A moment later, there was a great shudder, and bits of stone and debris began to break free. Then we could see it and hear it… a great spring of water, gushing forth… it was life. Life. God truly had brought us to the wilderness for life and not death, for hope and not despair, for joy and not sorrow. All around me people were falling to their knees, and prayers of joy and thanksgiving were issuing from their mouths:

The Lord split rocks open in the wilderness, and gave them drink abundantly as from the deep.
He made streams come out of the rock, and caused waters to flow down like rivers.
~Psalm 78: 15-16

We have seen, and we can testify. We have seen the goodness of the Lord; the desert is the land ef the living.

Now my baby sleeps the deep, contented sleep of a baby whose tummy is full. The camp is peaceful. The Lord is with us. God is in this place. We should have known all along.

*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Lipstick on My Collar-- Updated

My own--- I don't kiss anyone who wears lipstick.

I read somewhere this week that a clergy collar has one very specific meaning: it is meant to represent the chains of slavery, because clergy serve their master, Jesus Christ.

I have to admit: I did not know that.

I wear clergy shirts on Sunday mornings, and for funerals and (most) weddings, too. I wear them because they are a uniform... not a required one, to be sure. Many Presbyterian ministers opt not to wear clericals, thought I do think it is the norm to wear a robe (with or without stole) for preaching (I wear these as well). I wear a collar because it signifies a particular role I play in worship leadership. I preach, I preside at sacraments. A collar lends a kind of gravitas to my appearance, and I think that is appropriate to these functions.

But I also wear lipstick on Sunday mornings (and for funerals and weddings). Nothing about gravitas where lipstick is concerned. In fact, recently I put on my clergy shirt (and other clothing), applied my lipstick, neatened up my lipstick by running my finger along the vermilion border, and then, apparently, touched my collar again... because the next time I looked in the mirror, there was a pink smudge on the white. Not cool.

Now I am wondering about the theology of the collar, and whether I have given it due honor. Should one wear lipstick with a collar? I wonder... now that I know what it represents. Anyone? Collar wearers? Non-collar wearers? What do you think?

And also... those of you who are not clergy... what do you think when you see a collar? What associations do you have with it? Good, bad, indifferent? I'm curious...

Part of the question for me has to do with authority. I grew up in a tradition that said I was not allowed to wear the collar, and I wonder whether my embracing it is all tied up in my defiance of that tradition.

Curious.

Say Hey!

With a tip of the hat to DCup.... what a FABULOUS song for a hard week....

Quote of the Day: Extraordinary

From Bono (described in my Sojourner's email as a "rock star and anti-poverty activist"):

It's extraordinary to me that the United States can find $700 billion to save Wall Street and the entire G8 can't find $25 billion dollars to saved 25,000 children who die every day from preventable diseases.

Thanks Sojourners. That is extraordinary.

A Day in the Life

Let's see, what can I tell you about that I did yesterday?

Well, first of all, I had a long meeting about something. And it mostly went very well, until a sensitive matter arose and then it still went well. And then I learned something that, to my shock and horror, made me cry. In a meeting. With other grownups. And, really, it's not about me... (good ministry mantra: It's not about me. It's not about me. It's not about me.) And, if you want to know, I was crying for the godawful brokenness of the situation.

Then, some folks came to the church looking for cash. So we went shopping together, and they got what they needed (for a couple of days, maybe). And... so often, I don't feel particularly gracious in those situations. I fret that I am not reading people right, that I am too judgmental, that I am too prone to give because I feel middle-class-survivor guilt. But this whole interaction was kind of... fun. One of the folks has come before, and sometimes I've helped (correction: the church has helped; I've just been the means), and sometimes I've had to say no. But on this day, the banter was easy between us, I felt that, as paltry as the help we can give is, it is nevertheless genuine help. And I thought, what a privilege. To get to be there, in this situation. To get to be the one to whom all the gratitude is directed (totally undeserved as it is).

Then, I wrote a couple of letters. One: easy. One: hard. Hard one got mailed to a colleague for suggestions.

Then I started my bulletin for Sunday. Didn't get far, because...

Then we had Bible Study. We started, June 1 or thereabouts, at Genesis 1:1. Now we're at Genesis 29. Yesterday we read the heartbreaking, pathos-filled scenes wherein Jacob fools his aged, dim-eyed father Isaac into giving him the blessing. There is Jacob, covered with hot, stinking animal pelts, and Isaac saying over and over, "My son... is that you my son? Come here my son... let me smell you my son..." It's awful, because, of course, Jacob is the wrong son... Isaac think's he's tenderly blessing his first-born-hunter-outdoorsman-field-dressing-a-moose boy, Esau. But it's really the pantywaist kitchen boy Jacob. But he is his son too! It's awful. It's dreadful. It's primally painful, in the way parents and children and aim and shoot and miss completely the right way to love each other.

I get to do this for a living. I get to do this. Have I said recently how very, very grateful I am that this is what I get to do for a living?

A Complete and Total Lack of Fairness: A Sermon on Matthew 20:1-16

“A Complete and Total Lack of Fairness”
Matthew 20:1-16
September 21, 2008

You are taking turns to ride the swing on the elementary school playground. Just when it’s your turn, a big kid comes along, pushes you out of the way, and jumps on the swing. That’s not fair.

You are standing in line at the Big Box store, with your arms full of items after a lengthy shopping trip. When you look down to pull out your wallet, someone slips right in front of you, smiling that they’re sure you won’t mind, since they only have one item. That’s not fair.

A 56 year old man lives the healthiest life imaginable. Every day he strives for five servings of fruits and vegetables, he runs six miles, he drinks plenty of water, he avoids sugar and junk food like the plague. He has no previous history of cardiac disease, yet one day, after a run, he collapses and dies. That’s not fair.

High rolling Wall Street gamblers play it fast and loose with the lending industry, and private financial institutions are on the brink of collapse. When the dust settles, the bill for all this profligacy is presented to those people who are paying off their mortgages and their credit cards and medical bills… The taxpayers will foot the $700 billion tab. That doesn’t seem fair! Maybe someone can explain it to me after church.

You were up at dawn. You have been working all day long in a hot vineyard until your hands and arms and feet and legs and back are sore. You’ve been pruning vines, or harvesting grapes, or carrying bushel baskets to and fro under the sun, beating down on you. At the end of the day, you find that someone else, someone who began work just an hour before quitting time, received the same amount of pay as you. That’s not fair.

There is one rule that is so fundamental to human interactions that virtually every culture has produced it in one form or another. We call it the Golden Rule. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. That’s what’s fair.

It seems that our gospel lesson today is about a complete and total lack of fairness on the part of that landowner. At least, that appears to be the case. How do we understand this story in which Jesus appears to side with the one being so unfair?

We start with context. Where does this story occur in Matthew’s gospel? What else has been going on in the life and teachings of Jesus that might illuminate this difficult parable? Because—that’s what we have here, a parable, by which I mean: A story about everyday matters that transcends its everyday meaning, and takes the listener to another level of meaning and even questioning. It’s not unusual for the parables of Jesus to leave us with as many questions as we have answers. Where does this parable fall again? Well, it occurs at the end of a passage in which Jesus has been talking about those amazing reversals that make up life in the kingdom of heaven.

The “kingdom of heaven” is a slippery kind of idea for us to grasp. Sometimes we call it the “reign of God.” Our knee-jerk reaction is to assume it’s a reference to the afterlife… heaven, what happens to “good” people or “saved” people after they die. Well, that’s a part of it. But I would say, only a tiny part. The kingdom of heaven is God’s reign of peace and justice that is dawning right now. With the coming of Jesus… it’s here. But… as we look around us at a world where so many people are still oppressed, not to mention being tortured and killed in all sorts of conflict…the kingdom of heaven is clearly not completely accomplished. There’s always a sense of… “Here, and yet not here,” about the kingdom of heaven. Almost, but not quite.

Let me give you a flavor for the kinds of things Jesus has been saying about life in God’s reign. Jesus has upheld the dignity of women by putting forth new, stricter rules for divorce… men no longer have carte blanche, able to divorce a wife because simply because they don’t like her cooking or her wrinkles. Jesus holds everyone to a higher standard than that. Women have more value than that. Jesus has upheld the value of children… by making it clear that, unlike the temple or synagogue worship of the day, children are actually welcome to be a part of this faith community. And Jesus has upheld the dignity of work that does not have a clear monetary value, telling his followers to give their possessions away, and to follow him free of encumbrances. To top it all off, Jesus has said that those whom that society would consider most blessed—the wealthy, who appear to have lived good lives by evidence of how good God has been to them—that these folks are going to have a harder time than anyone entering the kingdom of heaven. Remember the camel fitting through the eye of the needle? That’s the image Jesus uses for a rich person trying to enter the kingdom of heaven.

This is that upside down reign of God again. Much as we like to say—much as I like to preach—that the kingdom of heaven is a place of peace and joy, where all are welcome, the truth is also that the kingdom of heaven is not like anything we have encountered in our families, our government, our institutions. It is demanding. It is hard. It challenges our notions of what is right and fair.

The parable of the workers in the vineyard, as it is often called, comes right on the heels of these hard teachings. And in it Jesus seems to be trying to be provocative… It’s so “in your face”, as my kids would say. What can possibly be the rationale behind such an outrageous, unreasonable parable?

Paying close attention to the details is always a good place to start. First, notice that the landowner is the one taking initiative, all the way through the story. The landowner gets up early, the landowner goes out to seek workers, at all hours of the day. Second, notice that the landowner and the first workers to be hired agree on the usual daily wage: a denarius was the usual amount. The first workers go into the field confident they will be fairly paid, because they have agreed on the amount with the landowner. Third, those workers only feel they have been treated unfairly when they develop a sense of entitlement to more than they agreed on. This happens when they see that others… others whom they considering undeserving… are being paid the very same wage they originally agreed upon.

The landowner says something interesting to the grumblers. In our bibles it’s translated, “Are you envious because I am generous?” In Greek the sentence reads, “Is your eye evil because I am good?” What is really going on here? Those who have been working all day believe they have been treated unfairly. In fact, what is “unfair” is the generosity of the landowner. No worker has been cheated out of their full day’s wage. Everyone will go home able to feed their family. But the generosity of the landowner to the latecomers irks those who have been working all day.

This makes sense. I think there is no doctrine of Christianity so difficult for us to bear as the truth of the overwhelming, prodigal love of God for those we feel don’t deserve it. It just doesn’t seem fair. And it’s not! It’s not fair. It’s grace.

Grace is the free gift of love and forgiveness for everyone… for those who don’t deserve it as well as for those who appear completely deserving. Notice I said, “appear” completely deserving. If you’re a Calvinist, as we Presbyterians are, you know the truth: nobody deserves it. As Paul says, “All have sinned and have fallen short of the glory of God.” Amen! We’re sinners! Every Sunday our worship service very quickly goes to a prayer of confession and an assurance of pardon, because as Presbyterians we are convinced that we are all in need of forgiveness, of grace. We don’t wallow in it. It doesn’t send us into despair. In fact, it is our great hope and joy. So we try not to be too quick to point fingers at others. But sometimes we can feel that, well, we’re not nearly as bad as those other people… whoever they are!

My daughter and I have been racing through two seasons of a TV show we have only recently discovered, “Saving Grace.” Please note: it’s a show for adults… imagine David Mamet or Stanley Kubrick or Joel and Ethan Coen producing “Touched By An Angel.” It’s about a foul-mouthed, promiscuous, hard-drinking, Oklahoma City police detective, Grace Hanadarko; she is portrayed by Holly Hunter. Grace is regularly visited by Earl, a long-haired, tobacco-chewing angel with an Oklahoma drawl—Grace’s “Last Chance Angel,” in fact. Because it’s clear: Grace needs help. The way she is going can only lead to disaster and hurt, for others as well as for herself.

In one episode, Grace has a criminal in her custody… a man who has, over many years, irreparably harmed many, many people. To her shock, she learns that this man also has Earl as his “Last Chance Angel.” She witnesses, with absolute horror, Earl assuring the man that God still loves him. Grace howls. NO. NO!!! What kind of God loves him? Not fair.

Where does this leave us? Well, it might leave us like Grace Hanadarko, the angry detective. It might leave us the early-birds, the workers who worked all day. We might be grumbling. We tried an interesting experiment with the Youth Group/ Drama Group on Friday night. We went through this story a couple of times, with the players taking different roles. Their feelings about the story were strongly influenced by which parts they were playing. When they played the workers who were hired first, they were full of indignation… angry, envious, ticked off. They felt completely wronged because the landowner had not paid them more than the latecomers. But when those same players took the part of the landowner, they felt different. They felt… generous. And they felt a little angry that their judgment had been called into question.

Maybe our reaction to this story can teach us something abut our need to be forgivers, to be extenders of grace in our own lives. We love the God whom Jesus has told us about. And this is the truth about our God. Our God does not embody fairness. Our God embodies grace. Grace is completely and totally unfair. Grace is forgiveness where it is not deserved. Grace is love despite the quality of life exhibited. Grace is not fair, it is grace. Thank God. Thanks be to God. Amen.

The Unbloggable Lightness of Being

Church stuff, first and foremost in my mind. Fancy that!

Just had a meeting with a Pillar of the Church, who is struggling with nearly crushing disappointment about Something going on here. Thinking about how I am changing and growing, from... someone whose instincts were all about pleasing people and making sure they were not disappointed/ mad/ going away; to... someone who holds these things lightly enough, recognizes that it really and truly is not about me, whose job, first and foremost, is to listen and love.

I left a meeting recently shaking my head at the change in me. I don't know why it's happening, exactly. But I am so, so grateful.

That's all.

Unconditional Welcome: A Sermon on Romans 14:1-12

“Unconditional Welcome”
Romans 14:1-12
September 14, 2008

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a young man who lived, for the most part, alone. He lived near his family, but he did everything he could to keep himself isolated from them. He refused their dinner invitations, he hid from them when they came to knock on his door. He did much the same thing with his colleagues at work and the people at his church. He went about his life as quietly and anonymously as he possibly could. People’s reactions to him ran the gamut from concern, to worry, to amusement, to shaking their heads in puzzlement. They didn’t know what to make of him. They didn’t know how to make him feel welcome in their everyday world.

One day, the young man showed up at the home of his brother and sister-in-law, smiling with excitement. He told them that he had met a young woman through the Internet, and that she was coming for a visit. Her name was Bianca, and she was a half-Brazilian, half-Danish missionary. He explained that he was anxious to make her feel welcome, particularly because she was confined to a wheelchair, and he asked his family to be sensitive to her feelings. The young man, whose name was Lars, was clearly thrilled, and his family caught the excitement from him. They readied a room for her. They set an extra place at the table. They waited with big smiles on their faces. A few hours later Lars showed up for dinner, with a life-size doll in tow. This, he proudly told his family, was Bianca.

Of course, I’m telling you the plot of the recent film, Lars and the Real Girl. This is one of those small movies you may have missed when it was in theaters. The story of Lars is a compelling one, told as much by landscape and scenery as by character and plot. The town where Lars lives is snowy and dreary; every day is a cold, grey day. You can feel his isolation, and you can feel the anxiety of those who love him. And when Bianca comes to town, you enter into everyone’s shock. What shall we do now? Shall we welcome this person Bianca—whom we’re fairly sure isn’t even really a person? Shall we have Lars committed to a mental hospital? Shall we have a knock-down, drag-out fight with Lars, to convince him of his delusion about the big silicone mail order doll? How does a community deal with something that seems almost certain to divide it?

In his letter to the Romans, Paul deals with a situation that is not quite as whimsical, and which is far more loaded. Paul is engaged in the rather tricky business of helping two very different communities figure out how to live together as one church. And he is doing so with two communities that are each certain they have God on their side. One group is focused on following rules found in traditional readings of scripture—dietary rules, rules about the Sabbath, and rules about circumcision. These people are convinced that followers of Jesus need to also adhere to all these things from Jesus’ religious tradition, which is, of course, Judaism. The other group believes that God is saying and doing a new thing. They believe that God has revealed the saving news to those outside Judaism, and so, those rules no longer apply. This group refuses to follow dietary rules or to circumcise, and has started advocating that worship be held on the first day of the week, the day of the resurrection.

How do people live together when their beliefs are different? Is it possible to be one church with two—or more—ways of believing in God? And if it is possible, how do we do it?

The key word in this portion of Paul’s letter is “welcome.” “Welcome those who are weak in faith” (Romans 14:1), Paul says, and it’s not immediately apparent to the reader from this first sentence which of the arguing groups he is calling weak. Is it those who abstain from meat, for fear it may have been ritually offered to Pagan gods? Or is it those who eat the meat, and don’t worry about it? Which group would be weak in faith? It turns out, the ones following the most stringent rules… Paul calls them weak in faith, the abstainers. And he reminds the Romans that no one in either category should judge the others, because it is God who has done the welcoming. “Who are you to pass judgment on servants of another?” Paul continues. “It is before their own lord that they stand or fall” (Romans 14:5). Because God has welcomed, we must welcome. For Paul, it’s simple. For us, it’s not always that simple.

It seems like there are always times in the life of the church when this question burns in our hearts. Who is welcome? Are all really welcome, as it says on the sign out front? Or do we put conditions on our welcome? I knew a church once where the people who favored the choir and the music program were in a constant state of conflict with those who favored the Christian Education program. Everyone had an idea of what was most important in God’s church. Everyone jealously guarded their own turf when it came to which programs were supported. These people eventually had to ask themselves, who is really welcome here?

A hundred and fifty years ago the church in the United States was influenced by the temperance movement, so much so that most mainline Protestant churches no longer serve wine, the drink preferred by Jesus according to the scriptures, but rather serve unfermented grape juice (which just happens to have been manufactured by a good Northeastern Methodist named Thomas Welch). Even after all these years, this is a hot button issue for most Protestant congregations, and yes, has even split congregations right down the middle. Churches still are asking themselves, when it comes to their ritual practices. who is welcome here?

Today our church, the Presbyterian Church (USA), is struggling with issues of sexuality. Who may serve God as ordained deacons, elders and ministers of Word and Sacrament? May gay and lesbian people serve? On both sides of this issue you will find people who love their church passionately. On both sides of this issue you will find people who are convinced that God is with them, and both sides claim the authority of scripture as they understand it. Today, this very moment, the church is asking itself: Who is welcome to serve God in the church? Who is welcome here?

And just so that we realize that these issues are not limited to church… our society is constantly struggling with this question, too. One of the burning political issues of the last 8 years has been the matter of undocumented visitors to this country. And just to make things more complicated, this intersects with issues of the economy, of global terrorism, and of human rights and dignity. On both sides of the issue are people who believe they have the best interests of the country at heart. On both sides of the issue people are grappling with that question, who is welcome here?

Paul suggests what has to have been a challenging program of unconditional welcome. All who are called by Christ are welcome. All whom God has welcomed, are welcome. And to each group, Paul gives the instructions: whatever you do, do it in honor of God. “Also those who eat, eat in honor of the Lord, since they give thanks to God; while those who abstain, abstain in honor of the Lord and give thanks to God” (Romans 14:6). Whatever we do, we should honor God in that doing.

What, you may wonder, happens with Lars? Does that community make Bianca welcome or do they haul Lars off to the nearest asylum? Lars’ family does take him to see the good town doctor, under the guise of having Bianca examined. The doctor diagnoses Bianca with low blood pressure, and asks Lars to bring her in for weekly treatments. In this way, Lars and the doctor can talk, and maybe she can gain some insights into the workings of his mind. As for Bianca? The doctor urges Lars’ family to respond to Bianca as if she were a real woman.

It is one thing for a family to go along with what clearly smacks of mental illness. It is quite another for an entire community to join in, and that is exactly what happens in this film. This little snowy town welcomes Bianca with open arms. They have her to dinner, they invite her and Lars to parties. She goes to church with Lars, and someone holds a hymnal up for her. The hairstylist gives her a makeover, and the owner of the boutique asks her to model clothing. Bianca attends school board meetings and “volunteers” at the hospital. And in the meantime, Lars, by taking Bianca to these places, suddenly has more interaction with his family and neighbors than he has in a long, long time. The welcome mat looks as if it’s been put out for Bianca. In reality, it’s Lars who is being embraced by his hometown. When this town asks itself, “Who is welcome here?” they decide that life sized silicone dolls and young men who might be seriously mentally ill are included, not excluded.

What about us? What are our boundaries for welcome? Is the welcome we extend truly unconditional? Should it be? These are questions every community has to grapple with, questions of who’s in and who’s out. The thing I think we have to remember is this: not once, anywhere in the gospels, does Jesus ever side with those who are trying to exclude someone. Not once. When the question, “Who is in and who is out?” is asked, Jesus’ answer is always, I’ll stand with the outsiders, thanks.

Paul is working as hard as he can to see that a community of unconditional welcome comes to birth in the church of the Romans. His message is clear: it is God who extends the welcome, and we who either confirm it or stand in its way. Here at our beautiful church, I believe the welcoming community is already here: it’s on the sign outside. All are welcome. So let’s catch the excitement and be ready for all the new faces that might come our way. Let’s ready rooms for them. Let’s set an extra place at the table. Let’s wait with smiles on our faces and joy in our hearts, ready to share God's unconditional welcome with them. Thanks be to God. Amen.

We Are the Same

I seem unable to let this day pass without saying something about it.

Except, today, I don't know that I have much to say. Seven years have gone by. We have been embroiled in armed conflicts in the Middle East for most of that time, though that's no longer, evidently, the thing weighing most heavily on voters' minds as we head into the last 6 weeks before the election.

I listened to women being interviewed on Democracy Now today as I picked up my lunch. BOth New Yorkers. One woman lost a brother in the Twin Towers. The other lost nineteen relatives in Afghanistan. The woman who lost a brother kept saying, "We are the same. We are the same."

I wonder, could we believe that?

I love my daughter, just as an Iraqi woman loves her daughter.

I love my father, just as an Iraqi girl loves her father.

I live in a home in which I hope to be safe, just as a Pakistani woman hopes to be safe in her home.

I hope to go on worshiping God in freedom, just as an Israeli Rabbi hopes to worship God in freedom.

In all the important ways, are we not the same?

What Were We All Thinking? Of Course... Here's Our Candidate!

Texting, Chez Magdalene

6:31 AM Best Friend J: Happy Birthday Petra!

6:32 AM Petra: Thanks J!

6:32 AM Best Friend J: Wow! Sixteen! That's ancient! Do you feel different?

6:33 AM Petra: Yeah, I nearly broke a hip coming down the stairs this morning.

The Little Ones: A Sermon on Matthew 18:1-5, 10-14

“The Little Ones”
Matthew 18:1-5, 10-14
September 7, 2008

I spent a part of my vacation on an island in Maine, just a couple of days, in which I had an opportunity to be with some little children up close for the first time in a long time. Of course, as you know, there are little children here at St. Sociable, and I do have the great fun and privilege of getting to know them as they come and go, speaking with them during children’s messages (or any time, really), occasionally playing guitar to accompany their singing during Vacation Bible School or Rally Day. But it has been quite a few years since I spent time with little ones on a daily basis, playing with them, watching them go.

There were two little ones in the house where I was staying, M. and S. M. is five and S. is three. One day their dad G. and I went to the beach with M. and S. and teenagers Petra and E. Once there, my dim memories of my own children came flooding back. There is no containing children on a beach. It’s not a playpen or even a rec room. M. and S. began by running back and forth and in circles. Then they explored the rocky coastline, until their toes hit the water. Then, enthralled, they looked back at their dad for permission, and began a long ballet of going in and out of the water… going in up to their ankles… and then running out again… then going in up to their calves… and running out again… then going in up to their knees… and running out again… then to their thighs… and running out again… then to their waists… and running out again… and finally throwing themselves in and coming up sputtering, clapping, squealing with glee. I need to add at this point that, I consider myself a polar bear, and pride myself on swimming in any temperature the Atlantic Ocean can throw at me. I couldn’t get past my knees. It was freezing.

Being with M. and S. was a trip back in time, not just to memories of my own children, but also to my own memories, of times when I was willing to immerse myself in play without wondering how many calories I was burning or whether my stroke looked good, of times when the ocean was a brand new mystery, thrilling, exciting, something my parents had to drag me out of at the point my lips were blue and my fingers were prunes, of times when time stood still because I was lost in the wonder of it all. There is nothing like childhood, nothing in the world.

And so we have Jesus this morning, who is asked a question about greatness, about social rank, to borrow a term from the current presidential campaign, about who were the “elites.” If we were to look back at how the story of Jesus and his teaching has been unfolding throughout of Matthew’s gospel, we would notice that Jesus has already done quite a lot, trying to change the way his followers look at the world. He’s been turning things upside down. His sermon on the mount is about as topsy-turvy as things get: Jesus pronounces blessings on the poor (in spirit), the mourning, the meek, the persecuted… all those people whom society completely disregards: the least, the lost. Jesus says, no. These are the leading citizens in the kingdom of heaven (Matthew 5:1-12). Jesus has spent long hours, days and nights, weeks and months, healing people whom the rest of the world has abandoned, and feeding the hungry.(Matthew 8, 12, 14). Jesus has sent his disciples out, not as conquerors, but as humble teachers, taking almost nothing with them except the gospel—which, as it turns out, is everything they need (Matthew 10). Jesus has already told the disciples what has to sound like very bad news, that anyone who wants to follow him has to be ready to take up a cross, and be prepared to lose a life (Matthew 16). In every possible way Jesus has spent the first 17 chapters of this gospel explaining to his followers that things, according to the wisdom of God, are different than their expectations. God’s kingdom doesn’t look one iota like earthly power structures, and God doesn’t look one iota like earthly rulers.

And now the disciples want to know about greatness. Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven? Is it the most faithful disciple? Is it the one who wins the most converts, or the one who suffers the most? Is it the one with the best track record for healing, or who does the best job at feeding the crowds? Once again, Jesus turns things on their heads. Instead of producing the strongest or the smartest or the most spiritual or the most stunningly mature person, Jesus calls a child, and puts her right in their midst. Here is the greatest, he says. Be like this. Be like this child.

Our modern notions of children need to be put aside so that we can fully understand what Jesus is saying here. Our society pays wonderful lip service to the idea that our children are the most important things in the world, our precious priorities. Children and childhood have been sentimentalized, and elevated in the popular imagination as perfect and innocent. Judging by the advertising aimed at parents, it is clear that children’s wants and needs have become the basis of an economy, from toys and dolls to soda and snacks, to skateboards and bikes, to iPods and video games. We have a law called “No Child Left Behind,” whose purpose is to make sure our children are educated. But as you and I both know, our actual behavior and policies do not bear that lip service out. One in ten children in the US are uninsured, and have no adequate health care, and 17% of our children… almost one in five… live below the poverty line. Of the children who live in poverty, they are statistically far less likely to have a regular bedtime and a regular mealtime than children whose families are more economically sound.

For all these troubling statistics, children today are still better off than children in Jesus’ day. Infant mortality rates were astronomical, with close to one in three children dying before weaning age. Of course, that’s close to the current infant mortality rate of one child in five in Afghanistan, which is so radically different from the current US infant mortality rate of 8 children per 1000. Parents needed children to help with the production of food, with farming or fishing processing grain. Children were looked upon as part of the labor force, and families knew better than to get too attached to them until they were five or so. In a society that was stratified with tremendous wealth and power at the top and crushing poverty, illness and hopelessness at the bottom, nearly all children lived at that bottom.

But there is something that was as true of children 2000 years ago as it is today. Little ones do not come into the world with an innate desire for status and power. The idea of a two year old wondering how to achieve greatness is absurd. Children come into the world with one job and one job only: they are wonderfully made to absorb, to take in, to learn, to acquire understanding. This, of course, is why we have to watch them so closely… they live in a state of dangerous wonder. Everything they see and touch and experience is enthralling to them… think of M. and S. running in and out of the ocean. Everything about God’s world and the thrilling experience of discovering new sensations bowls them over, delights them, sends them through the moon.

How do we achieve greatness? Not the kind of greatness that gets you elected to office, or earns you millions of dollars, but the kind of greatness that finds you a place in God’s reign. We become like children… completely oblivious to position and rank, and completely open to a “volatile mix of astonishment and terror, awe and risk, amazement and fear, adventure and exhilaration, tears and laughter, passion and anticipation, daring and enchantment.”[1]

This is not something that comes naturally to most of us. Most of us, no matter what our life’s work, are caught up in a world that evaluates us, tells us brutally when we’re successful or failing. We feel we barely have time to go through the motions of faithfulness, and then Jesus suggests this overwhelming and somewhat puzzling project of remaking ourselves in the image of four-year-olds.

As with anything else, we start where we are. Today, why not start with communion. We start with a table that has been set for us, and bread that is so much more than bread, and the fruit of the vine that becomes for us so much more than grape juice. Why not try to come to this table with childlike hearts… hearts full of wonder and anticipation. Hearts stirred to excitement, because of Who it is we are likely to meet there. Hearts, perhaps, tinged with fear, because this might just change our lives. Let’s start where we are: coming to the table with a hymn of childhood on our lips and the dangerous wonder of childlike faith in our hearts. Thanks be to God. Amen.

[1] Michael Yaconelli, Dangerous Wonder: The Adventure of Childlike Faith (Colorado Springs, CO: NavPress, 1998), 29.

Image courtesy of Emadivine at Flickr.

OK... Snarkiness Aside...

... if I can.

Two things are bugging me. First, the partisan complaint:

There is a part of me that feels so... ripped off at this moment. I really thought this was going to be the year the women really broke the glass ceiling, with its proverbial 18 million cracks. And, of course, I thought the Senator from New York would the the one causing all those shards of glass to rain down like a February snow in Buffalo. And... her limitations understood (which, for me, include a disconcerting tack to the right I've witnessed during the campaign, and the irrational hatred felt towards her by a significant minority of US citizens), she was just the right woman to do it. Smart, exquisitely educated, oodles and oodles of experience. An attorney with who fought for the rights of children and women. Someone who knows the ins and the outs of the health care system like I know the back of my hand. (Actually, once I confused the back of my hand with the back of my boyfriend's hand... perhaps a story for another day...) My friend G. said to me, as we walked along Peaks Island a couple of weeks ago, "Oh, clearly, she was head and shoulders above everyone else in the field. There was no question." There was no question.

So... now there's a woman on a major party ticket and it's not her. Not only is it the Republican nominee, but it's an anti-choice, anti-GLBT, anti-evolution, pro-gun, pro-big oil, pro-book censorship (for God's sake!!!) woman. Oh my heart. It just hurts. It rankles.

That's the partisan complaint. Now for the feminist one.

The way people are talking about this woman is making my blood boil. I have heard:

• She can't do the job of vice-president and be a good mother to five kids.
• She can't do the job of vice-president with a four month old baby with Down Syndrome.
• If she were really a Christian woman she'd be staying home with her family.
• She wears go-go boots (my honest reaction to this one? jealousy... I want some).
• She's too beautiful... how distracting.
• Do you think McCain picked her because he kind of wants to date her???

And on and on and on. This was the source of my previous brief post. And.... back to the partisan complaint for just a moment!... the same people who couldn't stop talking about the Senator from New York's voice, her pantsuits, her breasts, her sex life, her husband's peccadilloes ... DARE to cry "Foul! Sexism!!!" The people who would not cover this HC's positions on actual issues during the primaries, the people who made it about personality and family and looks, are calling out the "liberal media" for pointing out things such as ethics investigations?

I sincerely hope this is my last post on the subject. I need to write a sermon.

Heard on NPR This Morning

"The McCain camp didn't realize how hard it still was to convince voters to vote for a woman."

Oh. Really?

Holy Ground, Holy Work: A Sermon on Exodus 3:1-15

“Holy Ground, Holy Work”
Exodus 3:1-15
August 31, 2008

The world is shot through with the holy. We never know where we might encounter it. We might encounter it…

* In a sanctuary on a Sunday morning, when a particular hymn takes our breath away, or brings tears to our eyes.

* At a 12-step meeting, when a grizzled alcoholic with 20 years of hard drinking followed by another 20 years of sanity, sobriety and service, speaks the truth and we hear it and know it, deep down in our hearts.

* On a hike in the woods, when we come upon an ancient and majestic tree, and realize it has been on the earth roughly 10 times as long as we have.

* In a hospital delivery room, when a nurse places a brand new human being into our waiting arms.

* At a concert, when we hear music that makes our heart leap in our chest, and we recognize that this is true, this is real, this has something or Someone behind it that we want to know better.

* Sitting around tables, bibles open, when the words on the page take up residence in our hearts, and we know they will never leave.

* Floating in the bright, clear, cold ocean, as the rolling of the waves holds us up and we abruptly realize we are in the presence of something infinitely larger than we are, something both dangerous and thrilling, both inviting and terrifying.

You can probably name other places and times and circumstances. The world is shot through with the holy. We never know where or when or how or with whom we might encounter it.

Moses had his meeting with the Holy at a time in his life when he was, perhaps, at a low ebb. You know the famous story of his early years. How the people of Israel sought refuge in Egypt during a time of famine. How they were suddenly, under a new administration, looked upon with distrust and dismay, as if these resident aliens, these immigrants, were dangerous… and so they were taken into slavery. You know how the Pharaoh decided that all Hebrew boys should be killed at birth, but he was subverted by the clever, fast-thinking Hebrew midwives. You know how, thanks to the wily and resourceful women in his life—his mother, his sister, and even the Pharaoh’s own daughter—Moses was drawn out of the water that might have been his death, and given another chance at life.

This adoptee seems to have been raised with an acute sense of the plight of his family of origin. Though he was raised by a princess, given every advantage as her son, he was tuned in to the brutality being leveled against the Hebrews. He impulsively intervened and killed an Egyptian who was beating a Hebrew slave. Because of that action, he himself became a refugee. He ran into the wilderness, to Midian. There, like other biblical men before him, he came to a well and met his future bride. And here we find him, Moses: born to an oppressed people, raised in the household of royalty, tending flocks for his father-in-law.

We might wonder what was going on in Moses’ mind before he came upon the unearthly sight of the burning bush. Was he thinking about the home he had lost? Was he remembering his royal family? Or, perhaps, did he have vague memories of the mother who cared for him until he was weaned? Was he remembering the moment when he took the life of that Egyptian? Playing it over and over in his head, wondering if things might have turned out differently? Or was he entirely engaged with the process of shepherding? Shepherding… not a job for sissies. The original tough guys, ready to beat off lions or poachers with their staffs at a moment’s notice. The original nursemaids, tending the weakest of the flock when they were injured. The original outcasts, since they were always “unclean,” and therefore unwelcome in polite society.

Whatever his thoughts, they must have evaporated in the presence of the bush that blazed and yet was not consumed. Here is the holy, dangerous and thrilling, inviting and terrifying. And Moses did an incredibly important thing at just that moment: he stopped. He stopped to look at that holy thing, to try to understand it. That is when he heard that voice… we know it from films as the voice of Charlton Heston… that voice issuing the double call, his name, “Moses, Moses!” Occasionally, in scripture, God calls to one of God’s people, and it is particularly urgent: That moment when Abraham has the knife poised at his son’s throat. That long night when Samuel is asleep in the temple, and God wants to draft him to clean up all the corruption. This is one of those moments. It is urgent. The voice of God calls Moses’ name twice, and Moses does what all these biblical characters do: he says, “Here I am!” Which means, I am ready, and I am willing. I am ready to hear what you have to say to me, God. And I am willing to do as you say.

God tells Moses, take off your shoes, man! The place where you are standing is holy! A friend said to me this week, I wonder how many times Moses had walked by that place before? How many times had he looked at that same bush, and seen nothing but… some shrubbery? How many times have I looked at my own children and not felt the holy hand of God in my life, just impatience that I walked in after work to a sink full of dishes? How many times have I taken a dip in the ocean and not felt the touch of eternity for all my pre-occupation with the discomfort of appearing publicly in a bathing suit? How many times have I been in the presence of the holy, and simply passed on by, busy anticipating the next meeting or the next phone call or the grocery list or the to-do list?

Of course, when we do slow down enough to notice that something holy is in our midst, we run the risk of God dumping into our laps one of those completely overwhelming, impossible tasks God likes to save for his special favorites. Let my people go! Build me a temple! Go to the ends of the earth to tell people the good news! Or, maybe, Raise this child for the next 18 years, keep her safe, and help her to become a good person! Or, Time to teach Sunday School—even though you’ve never done it before! Or, Why don’t you start a soup kitchen in your community? The kinds of jobs that sometimes, make us go, Oh, God, are you kidding me?

Which is, pretty much, exactly what Moses says. You want me to go where? And to whom? And do what? Are you kidding me? Me? Who am I? I can’t start a soup kitchen… I can’t even make soup! I can’t organize a league for the Boys and Girls Club… I have no earthly idea even where to start! I can’t go to Pharaoh… remember I’m wanted for murder in Egypt? What are you thinking, Lord?

God meets Moses’ objections with the one answer that cannot be discounted or refuted or ignored. When Moses asks, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?” God doesn’t recite Moses’ resume. God doesn’t say, “Well, you were raised in the Pharaoh’s household, maybe you could use those connections to your advantage. And, hey, the Israelites are your people after all. And you were pretty brave with that Egyptian… and you’re a natural with the sheep!” God doesn’t do that. When Moses points to his own deficiencies, God points to divine sufficiency. God’s answer is simple and complete: “I will be with you.”

I will be with you. When we find ourselves walking on holy ground, and realize that God has given us holy work to do, we have the assurance that we aren’t doing it alone. God is with us. The success of the enterprise doesn’t depend on us, on our brilliance, on our strength, or on our determination. All it depends on is our willingness to hear God’s call and to respond in the affirmative. “Here I am.”

But there is something else to consider: When we find ourselves walking on holy ground, and realize that God has given us holy work to do, it is usually because God somehow requires human partners to carry out the divine plans. God chooses to work through human agents. I suppose, if God had wanted, God could have simply kept the Egyptians in a nice deep sleep and had the Israelites awaken to a new day of freedom, high-tailing it out of town. God, being God, can do that sort of thing. But that does not seem to be the way God works. God chooses human beings… often the most unlikely human beings… to be the conduits of God’s saving work. A fugitive from justice, sent to speak to most powerful and brutal ruler of the land—that’s Moses. A woman, born into slavery, who escapes and goes on thirteen separate missions to rescue more than 70 slaves—that’s the woman they called Moses, Harriet Tubman. I’m sure you can think of other examples of God choosing the unlikely, frail human to do the mighty, saving work.

The good news is: God isn’t calling most of us to rescue whole nations. But the sobering news is: God is calling us. Maybe not to the grand things that make the news, but certainly to the “Do-what-you-can-to-make-things-better” things that work quietly behind the scenes. Maybe you and I can’t solve the problem of oppressed people singlehandedly. But we can sign a petition, get involved with a reputable organization. Maybe we can’t solve world hunger or even local hunger on our own—but we can faithfully bring a couple of cans for CHOW every week, and volunteer at one of the local soup kitchens, while we’re at it. I invite you to ask yourself: what is the holy work to which God is calling me?

The world is shot through with holiness. The earth, along with everything that is in it, is God’s. Every tree. Every person. Opportunities to experience the holiness of God’s handiwork are, literally, waiting for us on every corner, each time we meet another human being, every time we look out our windows or take a breath. And the world, as I know you’ve heard me say many times, is both beautiful and broken. God is calling us… every minute of every day. God is calling us to take part in the work of mending creation, healing that brokenness. We who walk the holy ground are called to God’s holy work. Are you ready? Thanks be to God. Amen.

Image: "Burning Bush" Quilt by Gwen Jones, at Professional Art Quilt Alliance

A Hair Tale

When I was in the sixth grade my hair was so long I could sit on it. And I sometimes did! It was also heavy and hot and not exactly easy combing after a shampoo.

Near the end of that year, I began getting headaches. My mom began to suspect the headaches were related to the hair, the sitting on of which happened occasionally. I did not disabuse her of this notion. I'd been trying for something other than long, long hair since the second grade, but she had not budged.

There were other possibilities for the headaches as well. For example, my mom let me know in sixth grade that I was expected to take home the "General Excellence" award when I graduated from my elementary school. Which was in three years, at the end of eighth grade. Stress and anxiety were a possibility.

One day my mom, rather tight-lipped, said, "Alright. Let's get your hair cut." And we went to the salon next door, and they lopped off about fifteen inches, giving me a cut that was below the shoulders... still rather long-ish, but lighter, more fun.

In years to come, my mother pointed to that hair cut as the moment when all the troubles began. She said, my personality changed. I was not the same daughter she'd had. And she was frank about the fact that she didn't like me as much.

I think we can all figure out what else was going on in my life that year. Hormones were involved. I wasn't a little girl any longer; I was an adolescent. And, evidently, that was pretty hard on my mom. She was very jealous of my friends.... she did her best to break up my closest friendships (a project that lasted through my wedding, shockingly enough).

So I imagine I come to the issue of hair somewhat... fraught.

This weekend Petra went to an appointment (which I scheduled at her request) to have-- can you guess?-- fifteen inches of her hair lopped off for "Locks of Love," an organization that provides wigs for low income kids who lose their hair because of illness. Her dad took her; she's with him this weekend. At 11:20 this morning, as I sat in my office waiting for the commencement of a funeral luncheon, I received a text with the picture from my last post. Later, the picture above showed up on Petra's Facebook profile. (For a reminder of the hair that was cut, see this lovely shot from Table Rock on Peaks Island, ME).

It's gorgeous, it's hip. It gives me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I am not my mother. I love this girl, and I don't need to play out my childhood psychodramas on her. Right?

Right!

Who's That Girl???

Because, sometimes a girl needs a new look. That's why!

Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU!!!

Because we people who voted for the senator from New York in the primaries cannot tell the difference between a woman

• with 30 years' experience in public service and policy;
• who in the Senate serves on the Health, Education, Labor and Pensions Committee, the Environment and Public Works Committee, and the Senate Armed Services Committee;
• who is consistently in favor of women's productive freedom;
• who is consistently in favor of tough handgun regulation;
  
• who had a front row seat for the policy-making for two presidential terms;

And a woman

• who, after serving as mayor of a town of under 10,000, has completed less than half a term as governor;
• who is a lifelong member of the NRA;
• and who is anti-choice.

I can't tell the difference, can you???

OK, I'm done. But... did he really think we would fall for this?

"We Are a Better Country than This."

So... it has finally come to pass. Another barrier broken down, another way in which we citizens of the US are just a little more... free tonight.

It has been an interesting Democratic Convention. Like many women of my generation and slightly older, I misted up at the sight of Hillary Rodham Clinton and gave a couple of whoops at various points during her speech. Ted Kennedy, on the other hand, completely undid me... the history behind that man's life of public service.

Joe Biden charmed me all over again with that brilliant smile of his... did any vice presidential candidate ever look like he was having so much fun?

But the week, and of course, the night, belonged to the Senator from Illinois. From the gracious gestures by which he sought to heal the rifts in the democratic party (including having the Senator from New York call for his nomination by acclamation-- beautiful) to his words upon accepting his nomination tonight, the man did what he needed to do. He showed that he has what it takes to lead, not only this country, but this nation.

The words that will stay with me for a long time are these:
You know, this country of ours has more wealth than any nation, but that's not what makes us rich. We have the most powerful military on Earth, but that's not what makes us strong. Our universities and our culture are the envy of the world, but that's not what keeps the world coming to our shores.
Instead, it is that American spirit, that American promise, that pushes us forward even when the path is uncertain; that binds us together in spite of our differences; that makes us fix our eye not on what is seen, but what is unseen, that better place around the bend.

The leaders and the policies of the last 8 years have not called us to be the best we can be. They have appealed to the lowest common denominators of human nature... and, friends, I'm a Calvinist. That stuff ain't pretty. Finally. Finally, we have someone willing and ready to articulate a possibility of generosity and not every one for himself in an ugly zero-sum game. A possibility of unity and not a cynical exploitation of us-vs-them. A possibility that we don't need to conform to one narrow definition of "patriot" or "citizen" in order to have some value in this land. My good sweet Lord, it is about time. High time.

Image: Todd Heisler, The New York Times

Aw, Mom, Do I HAVE To Go Back to Work Today???

That's how I'm feeling this morning. I'm heading back to the office one year minus one day from the day I preached for the call at St. Sociable. (First three posts... actually, last three posts, August 26, 26 and 25... from last August tell all about it). And... a lot has happened in a year.

Last year on this day, I was the preacher they hoped they might like. Today, I'm their pastor. I've gotten to baptize their kids and welcome them as members and marry them and stand at their sickbeds and over their graves. I've attended, oh, probably more than a hundred meetings with them, and done close to that many home communions. Last year all was hope and expectation. Today, all is "much to be done" and some measure of reality.

I still think there is a honeymoon aspect to our lives together, but maybe with a good match you still hear people saying they love you a year later. I'm not sure. This is my first practically permanent pastorate (they'll vote on that at some point), so I don't know exactly how these things go. But the feeling's mutual. Good friend MoreCows named her blog "You've Really Got to Love Your People," and that's a good mantra to carry around in the doings of my days.

So what gives? Why am I so... whiny today? I have been approaching the end of my vacation with funereal gloom. I feel bummed not to have more time. But, then, I went and re-read those posts from last August... remembered the delicious anticipation of the newness of the call. That was a wonderful thing to do. I feel again the joy of finding and being found, the thrill of being chosen. I am ready. Philippians 4:13 darling!!!

My prayer for today:

Author of all my blessings... my life, my loves, my children, my abilities, my call... Come upon me now. Fill me with the newness of each day, each challenge. Teach me to love my people. Teach me to meet the joys, the sorrows, the hornet's nests and the tastes of honey with equanimity and gratitude for it all. Grant me this one extraordinary privilege: that I may show, in some way, the enormity of your love. In your holy and unpronounceable name I pray. Amen.