No Turkey Yet: Depressing But Important Information

On the epidemic of rape in the Congo, and what we can do about it. Read this.

Bishop Laura's Interview, Parts IV and V: Me, Miscellaneous

4. How do you like to relax during your down time?

If you will read the first paragraph of the sermon posted earlier today, you will learn about one of the great passion of the Magdalene-Ex family: we do love the movies. My children are connoisseurs of films of nearly every genre and era. How many fifteen year old girls can quote extensively from "All About Eve"? How many twenty year old males (I want to call him a boy, and I know I shouldn't) know entire David Mamet scripts by heart? And have opinions on different film versions of Shakespeare plays? It's kind of an obsession, the films. We do love them so.

I, like a lot of my readers, have found the internet takes up more and more of my time... blog reading, certainly. I think I have bookmarked over a hundred blogs, and it does take time to get to them all! I also love to read, and normally have a pile with about 10 books in it next to my bed. Last night I checked, and I have, among other things:

Without Sin: The Life and Death of the Oneida Community (I have a friend who is a descendant of the notorious leader)
Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith by Babara Brown Taylor
The Birth of Christianity: What Happened in the Years Immediately After the Execution of Jesus by John Dominic Crossan
Bastard Out of Carolina by Dorothy Allison

I knit. (But not like some.) I walk, because I love the outdoors and the trees and the scents of this time of year in particular. I volunteer with one art group (Rude and Bold Women) and one peace group (CodePink). I sing, every chance I can get. Most recently my daughter and I had a gig together at one of our downtown gallery nights, and we'll be convening a little group to carol in December. I write some songs... not so many. But every once in a while the muse grabs me by the ear.

My favorite Sunday afternoon activity (Sunday afternoon coming after Sunday morning, when I have what I consider the highlight of my week, work-wise, and also the day that takes the most out of me): reading the newspapers (local and New York Times) while listening to jazz, until I fall into a cozy nap.

5. Any pets in childhood? Any in your house now?

The earliest pet I can recall is a Weimaraner named Gretl. When I was born she was about 12, and she lived to be 16. I remember her as being very gentle and tolerant, looking off sadly into the distance when I would try to ride her like a horse. My mother considered Gretl to be a kind of best friend, and drove around town with the dog in the front seat of the car. This caused many a neighbor to ask, "Who was that lady with the long grey hair riding around with you in the car?"

At the same time as Gretl there was a Tom cat named Sammy, Jammy, Sam-sam-bo-bam. Sam thought my chubby little calves were irresistible. He would hide behind the furniture and jump out as I walked by to scratch and bite me. He also was a terrific mouser and birder, and was so good with the birds that my mother, tired of having little trophies deposited on her front stoop, tied a bell to his collar to give the birds fair warning. It didn't matter. Sammy got them anyway. Once I had a canary for about a week. When we would go out we locked the canary in the bathroom. The canary left under extremely suspicious circumstances. I wasn't allowed in the bathroom for a while after the... departure.

Later came Max, a sweet, fierce German Shepherd, and then Rommel, a Rottweiler. For 11 and a half years I had a dear, troubled mixed breed named Michael. He was on Clomipramine for his anxiety. He died October 18, 2006 of complications from heart failure.

Think About These Things: A Sermon on Philippians 4:4-9

I clicked over to Songbird's blog, and realized that, not only do we have the same sermon title, we use the same device of scripture as a refrain! I like hers better.

I had a hard time with this sermon. Petra saved my bacon by reminding me about "Pieces of April," and she didn't even know what my sermon was about (except, generally, Thanksgiving).

Those readers of this blog who always catch the sermons I post will realize the first paragraph is very similar to a paragraph the last Sunday in June.

“Think About These Things”
Philippians 4:1-9
November 18, 2007

Have I mentioned that my family and I are avid filmgoers? Some of the members of the Pastor Nominating Committee have already heard about this. And they might agree that calling us “avid filmgoers” is putting it too mildly. We are film nuts. We read about them, we wait for them to come out, we watch them, and after we see them we debate their finer qualities and defects and even argue about them. We plan themed film festivals, and right now we are planning what to watch on Thanksgiving, in between stuffing the bird and stirring the gravy. As luck would have it, some of my very favorite films take place at Thanksgiving: the sweetly sentimental “Miracle on 34th Street”; the slightly outrageous “Hannah and Her Sisters”: and even the bleak study of isolation that is “The Ice Storm.” These would all be on my short list for viewing. But my all-time favorite Thanksgiving film has to be “Pieces of April.”

April is a twentysomething, pink-haired hipster, living for the past year in a funky East Village apartment with her boyfriend Tyrone. April is estranged from her family, who live somewhere in far-off suburbia. Things are particularly strained between April and her mother, who is undergoing chemotherapy for breast cancer, and who’s feeling some urgency about mending the relationship. To mark her first year of independence, and, in part, to prove that she can do it, April decides to invite her family for Thanksgiving dinner, which she will cook. What follows is often hilarious, at times shocking, and always thought-provoking. One of the best scenes in the film takes place in an apartment in April’s building, the home of a recently arrived Chinese family. April struggles to explain the origins of Thanksgiving to her neighbors, for whom it is an unfamiliar celebration.

April starts, “Once there were people here called Indians, Native Americans, whatever. Then a big boat came called the Mayflower, it landed on a big rock, carrying people just like me. And the first year on their own was hard. It was really, really hard.” At this moment we see April’s face take on a look that tells us, she has just realized something, made a connection. She has had a moment of clarity. She stops, and starts her story again.

I wonder if you’ve ever experienced it: a moment of clarity, in which suddenly, everything fell into place—your priorities, or your plans, or even your problems. I think I have experienced this a few times in my life. I can’t help reading this morning’s passage—actually, the entire letter to the Philippians—as one of those decisive moments, a moment of clarity, for Paul, the author. Writing from prison in Rome, under the watch of the Praetorian Guard, Paul is most likely awaiting his death. He has words for an anxious community, a community he founded, a community that is facing the prospect of life without its leader. With beautiful simplicity and clarity, Paul tells them how to deal with their anxiety. He tells them to focus on joy and thanksgiving.

Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. ~ Philippians 4:8

I can just imagine Paul’s community receiving this letter. They are hurting. They are scared. They are facing a newfound independence for which they may or may not be ready. And they, like we, are in a society that doesn’t place much stock in the gentle values Paul raises up. They, like we, are in a society focused on other things. Ours is a culture that encourages us to be restless and dissatisfied with what we have, how we look, who we are. Even a day such as Thanksgiving, whose reason for existing would seem to be prayer of gratitude, is subject to a kind of consumerism-inspired angst. I imagine we all have images of the ideal Thanksgiving celebration in our heads, whether they’re informed by the famous Norman Rockwell painting, or by pictures in magazines, or by the movies, or by our own wonderful or painful memories. All these images, swirling around, can lead us right down a path of forgetfulness. All these pressures to be, to have, to do, can lead us away from what truly matters.

Paul offers a radical alternative. The act of giving thanks for who we are and what we have right now is radical. It is countercultural. Paul tells us that, to contemplate our current condition with eyes sharpened by gratitude, is to open the door that leads to peace.

Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

What a wonderful Thanksgiving exercise: to contemplate everything and everyone in our lives, or in the world around us, that resonates with these words. What a wonderful daily or nightly prayer practice for every Christian to undertake. Let’s do this with respect to our lives right here at Our Church. Let’s do it right now. Let’s embark on the radical and countercultural course of giving thanks. Let me name just a few things that I have experienced in the 11 weeks since I stepped into this pulpit as your designated pastor, things that ring true for me as I contemplate Paul’s sage advice.

Every Sunday that I have been here, someone has volunteered to act as liturgist, sharing the leadership for our time of worship; and a choir has shown up, with their voices and hearts tuned for singing; and volunteers have staffed our nursery so that families can experience worship without anxiety about their children. Greeters have welcomed our visitors and made them feel at home, and ushers have taken up the collection and presented it with dignity and solemnity. Most Sundays, a team of incredible bakers and cooks have provided us with a tempting coffee hour, offering their hospitality to us as we meet and mingle following the service. And every once in a while, we get to experience what one of our elders has called "candy": our bell choir! All this, the entire beautiful and well-oiled machine that goes into our Sunday morning liturgy, is the work of the people, the work of Christ’s church.

Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just…if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

From my first days in the office, I have noticed the church’s generous use of its physical plant to welcome in various members of our community. I have heard the voices of children singing in their classes at the Pre-School as I typed up the bulletin. I have met with the dedicated staff of the Local Religious Counseling Center as they shared coffee after their worship and staff meeting, one of just a handful of places in Our County where the uninsured and the underinsured can turn for mental health services. I’ve seen the folks from TOPS, striving to live healthier lives. I’ve seen the big crowds brought in by the AARP for their monthly meetings. Opening our doors to the community is a ministry, and it is evangelism: these activities are all a part of the vital work of Christ’s church.

Whatever…is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

I soon met members of our congregation who were bravely battling grave challenges to their health. I also met members of our congregation who are generally well, though homebound. As I would visit each person, whether in home or in hospital, I would inevitably meet members of this congregation, sons and daughters of this congregation, on their way in or out from a visit themselves, carrying flowers, carrying cards, carrying a casserole or plate of cookies. This caring ministry of visitation, which is claimed and undertaken by the members of this church, is a vital part of the work of Christ’s church.

Whatever is true, whatever is honorable…if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

We would hardly be able to consider ourselves a Presbyterian Church if we didn’t have boards and committees. Every week the library or the fellowship hall echoes with the voices of individuals, deacons, elders, congregation members, doing the work of the church—the unglamorous stuff, the number-crunching, the getting of bids for sealing the parking lot, the planning for a visit by an Ethiopian peacemaker, the details of Rally Day for our Sunday school. The behind the scenes attention to the basics, the administrative and other details of our lives together, are part of our ministry: they are a vital part of the work of Christ’s church.

Whatever… is just… whatever is commendable… if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.

There is so much more. So much that is true, honorable, just, that is pure, pleasing and commendable. So many actions, small and large, that speak of kindness and good-heartedness, things most excellent and worthy of praise. Things that happened before my arrival, like the stunning generosity and hard work that went into flood relief, both locally and on the Gulf Coast. Things that happened because someone’s mind was powerfully focused, because many people’s hearts came together in a great moment of clarity.

And let me tell you about the love of this congregation. I’ve witnessed small children going from shy to gregarious under its influence, I’ve seen teenagers stifle their natural inclination to hide out under their MP3 players and give their time and talent for the church and for those who hunger. I’ve seen adults in midlife fitting in bringing meals to neighbors while juggling full schedules of work and family commitments, and I’ve seen members in their 70’s and 80’s taking the active roles usually expected of those in their 30’s and 40’s. I have seen many hearts beating as one, coming together in a great moment of clarity. This is the ministry, the vital work of Christ’s church.

Toward the end of “Pieces of April,” April is still struggling to explain Thanksgiving. On her second attempt she starts to tell of the real plight of Native Americans, only to stop once again, because that’s not what she wants to say either. At last, this is what she tells her neighbors, “Once there was this one day where everybody seemed to know they needed each other, this one day when they knew for certain that they couldn’t do it alone.”

A moment of clarity: we need each other. We can’t do it alone. When we contemplate the ministry of God’s church in this time and place, we recognize the truth of these simple words. Together we are able to do in ministry what none of us can do alone. Together we can do in service what none of us can do alone. Together, we can share in love what none of us can manage alone. And what is more true, more honorable or just; what is more pure, or pleasing or commendable than this?

Think about these things… and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. Thanks be to God. Amen.

About the Tree

I did a Google Image search, and snatched it from the Whispering Crane Institute. It is a "Green Industry Think Tank," a blog for landscapers and their friends and fans.

Bishop Laura's Interview, Part III: A Confession, and Some Recommendations

3. What kind of personal prayer/spiritual practices do you find most nourishing?

According to Bishop Laura, we now are into "geeky spiritual director" territory! Here's where these damned feet of clay slip out from under my nice preaching robe for all the world to see. WHEN I engage in prayer/ spiritual practices, I am deeply, deeply nourished. For me, the things that work are: daily scripture reading, saying the daily office, and using other fairly structured helps.

Daily scripture reading is something I almost always do. However, it is often utilitarian in purpose, as I am preparing a sermon. In 2006 I used the One Year Bible and made it all the way through, for the first time in my life. This is not the ideal way to read scripture, in my opinion. It makes it more of a challenge, an obstacle to overcome. I definitely had this idea that I "had" to get through it. Scripture is powerful enough, of course, that it broke through that mindset often enough. But I prefer to read in a way that is more like Lectio Divina. This takes me out of my goal-oriented way of reading, and allows me to savor scripture, even get to a place beyond meaning and interpretation. My favorite line on how to read scripture comes from Macrina Wiederhehr, who said, "When God comes in the first verse, why go on to the second?"

It's wonderful, potent, mind-altering. When I do it.

I also love saying the Daily Office. The Presbyterian Book of Common Worship Daily Prayer book has a format for this that is very like the traditional Roman Catholic Breviary, or the Episcopal/ Anglican Book of Common Prayer. I recently discovered that Bishop Laura has written a "Sophia Psalter" and version of Compline (night time prayer) in which she uses feminine language for naming God. For someone like me, whose tradition is "not there" yet in terms of the language we use in public worship, using this privately can be a powerful and healing experience. Leave her a comment if you want a copy. I opened up the file and nearly swooned, it is that good.

Here is what happens to me when I pray in this way. Immediately upon saying the opening sentences of scripture... "O Lord, open my lips, and my mouth shall declare your praise," I am taken into another kind of consciousness. As I pray, I experience a kind of pleasure... I am sure it's a neurological response... that I feel in the top of my head, towards the forehead. My breathing slows, and I experience a sense of being connected with God which is, if I'm honest, pretty damned scary. I don't do it often. It is the kind of thing that could take over.

Part of this is that saying the Daily Office connects me with my earliest experiences of deep prayer and spiritual searching when I was 13, 14 years old. At that time a fantastic priest, Father J H, presented me with two books, Praise Him! and Bless the Lord! The former is for "ordinary time," and offers a kind of beginners' daily prayer (from a Roman Catholic perspective); the latter is similarly simple, and covers Advent, Christmas, Lent and Eastertide. They wer both written by William G. Storey. [When I typed his name into Amazon to search for the books, I discovered that he has more recently written A Book of Prayer: for Gay and Lesbian Christians.] The gift of these books taught me to pray; I can't say much more than that.

I have also used another book, A Prayer Book for Remembering the Women: Morning and Evening Prayer for an Inclusive Church by J. Frank Henderson, with hymn texts by Mary Louise Bringle. [Henderson has also complied Remembering the Women, an important lectionary resource that every minister and priest should have, in my humble opinion. This compilation offers alternative passages for every Sunday of the three-year lectionary cycle, passages that either tell women's stories, use feminine images for God, passages that used imagery based on the physical experiences of women, or passages that refer to the female figure of Holy Wisdom.]

As I have already said, I do best with the structure these resources provide. They are all grounded in scripture, and I thrive when I am able to immerse myself in that world. All is well.

So why don't I do it consistently? The other morning I took part in a conference call. The person who led devotions read to us from Barbara Brown Taylor's book, Leaving Church. This is a book that is on the tall pile next to my bed, a pile that hasn't been getting shorter. I have yet to crack it. Am I afraid? I'm sure I am. When one of the "dozen best preachers in the English language" has to leave pastoral ministry because she burns out, damn right it makes me afraid.

My colleague read to us a selection about Taylor's knowledge that she had tools at her disposal-- prayer, scripture, meditation-- to nurture herself in her ministry, and her total inability to do so. "I pecked God on the cheek, like I pecked my husband, and slowly died inside from lack of making love."

Hear, O church. Hear, O ministers. Hear, O Magdalene. This is the Word of the Lord.

I leave you with a tidbit from A Prayerbook for Remembering the Women. It is one of Bringle's hymn texts, from the week-long cycle on Holy Wisdom. It can be sung to any hymn tune in Common Meter, 86.86. (Examples of this are Forest Green and Amazing Grace.)

Through silver veils of morning mist
break rays of golden sun.
In amethyst and ruby skies
a new day has begun.

More treasured yet than silver, gold,
or any precious gem,
God's wisdom breaks upon the earth
and wakes our morning hymn.

A radiant and unfading light
now shines before our eyes,
with insight for all minds that seek
and truth to make us wise.

Sophia calls us to the feast
of wine and living bread,
where fruits of grace and peace abound
where hungry hearts are fed.

With Huldah, Hannah, Miriam,
and womenfolk unnamed,
we cherish our inheritance
of prophecy proclaimed:

The needy shall be lifted up.
The weak shall be made strong.
And Wisdom's flowering tree of life
shall blossom in our song.

PS: I love trees.

Bishop Laura's Interview, Part II: A Rapture

2. What do you love most and find most challenging in your vocation as a pastor?

Well. I love just about everything there is about worship. I love creating worship services, I love crafting sermons, I love presiding and praying with the congregation. I love singing my heart out. I love the sacraments... more than I can say, more even than I know, I think. I love the way they take you by surprise: the baby squeezes your finger, or an elder looks into your eyes in the most poignant way when he takes communion from your hand.

I think worship is a relationship. I love the way in which I am related to everyone in a worship service, whether I am presiding or not. I love that worship informs our relationships across the table at a session meeting or a potluck, or when we pack Thanksgiving baskets for families in our community for whom it would be an otherwise slim holiday season. I love that I get to love all these people, and they get to love me... and we get to disappoint one another and frustrate one another and drive each other crazy. And then, on Sunday, on Christmas Eve, on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday, we get to participate in something and be in relationship with SomeOne who takes us out of our little selves and into a place where the air is clearer, the light is brighter, the colors richer, the chords more lovely. We get to be our very best selves together, because the One who loves us into wholeness already sees our perfection, even though we are not there yet.

I find most challenging the moments when convictions or ideals come into conflict with relationships or feelings. This is very hard for me. I bitterly disappointed someone this week because I am encouraging a new way of doing nominating, which pays more attention to boundary issues, to diversity and representation. This means a husband and wife will not serve on the same board. This hurt someone. She wept at the end of our session meeting last night, and told me she needs a week or so to consider whether she will resign. She was not being manipulative. She was genuinely grieving. I turned myself into a human pretzel to try to convince her that this has nothing to do with her or her husband's gifts, years of service, status as beloved pillars in the congregation. But the bottom line is, my way of doing things... new to this congregation... hurt someone. I absolutely hate these moments. And because I am an ENFP on the Myers-Briggs scale, it's an enormous challenge to me to hold firm. I want to make it better. I want to preserve the relationship.

But I do love it all.

Bishop Laura's Interview, Part I: A Rant

At my request Bishop Laura of Junia's Daughter has given me several questions to answer. They are all so probing and insightful, I feel a bit overwhelmed at the prospect of trying to answer them in a single post. So I shall answer them one at a time, as I am able. Here goes...

1. What do you see as the most pressing issues facing the Christian Church today?

I have recently been reading some Brian MacLaren, I can often be found reading Marcus Borg, and I aspire to read more than I can reasonably get to. But I have been thinking a lot about what I think is "the problem" with much of the church today, and I will see if I can state it succinctly: I think we largely miss the boat where Jesus is concerned.

I think that much of the Christian church is more concerned with "believing in Jesus" than "believing Jesus." As in: Jesus has given us some rather radical instructions, and an even more radical example. As in the following quotes from roughly five chapters of the gospel of Luke:

“The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor.” (4:18)

“Be silent, and come out of him!” (4:35)

“I must proclaim the good news of the kingdom of God … for I was sent for this purpose.” (4:43)

“Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.” (5:4)

“Do not be afraid; from now on you will be catching people.” (5:10)

“I do choose. Be made clean.” (5:13)

“Friend, your sins are forgiven you.” (5:20)

“Follow me.” (5:27)

“Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick.” (5:31)

“…new wine must be put into fresh wineskins.” (5:38)

“The Son of Man is lord of the sabbath.” (6:5)

“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. (6:20)

“…love your enemies, do good, and lend, expecting nothing in return.” (6:35)

“Do not judge, and you will not be judged; do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven; give, and it will be given to you.” (6:37-38)

“Do not weep…Young man, I say to you, rise!” (7:13-14)

“Your faith has saved you; go in peace.” (7:50)

“My mother and my brothers are those who hear the word of God and do it.” (8:21)

“Where is your faith?” (8:25)

“What is your name?” (8:30)

“Return to your home, and declare how much God has done for you.” (8:39)

“Who touched me?” (8:45)

“Daughter, your faith has made you well; go in peace.” (8:48)

“Do not fear. Only believe, and she will be saved.” (8:50)

“Do not weep; for she is not dead but sleeping.” (8:52)

“Child, get up!” (8:54)

“You give them something to eat.” (9:13)

“Who do the crowds say that I am?” (9:18)

“But who do you say that I am?” (9:20)*

* If this rings a bell, you can peek back at February 18.

It seems to me if we believed Jesus, we would be spending all our time in trying to heal people, in throwing wonderful dinners and welcoming absolutely everybody to them, in forgiving radically, in giving radically. We'd be standing in solidarity with the poor, the imprisoned, the proverbial "least"of our sisters and brothers. We would not be confusing faith with patriotism or citizenship (these are always, always, in radical opposition in the gospels). We would probably not own as much stuff, be as obsessed with appearance, or be as willing to trash our environment.

Tonight a really bright woman at a bible study said: "I don't know why we would bother believing in God and Jesus if we didn't believe in heaven and hell." Her point was, religion makes sense in a context of earning credits and erasing debits, in a context of reward and punishment. This is straight out of the "believing in Jesus" theology. I think this is a total misreading of the gospels. I believe in Jesus, but I also believe Jesus... and this would not change if he appeared in my den right this minute to inform me that, yes, the Jews had it right, and after death there is basically, Sheol, nothingness, or, to spin it as well as possible, the bosom of Abraham. Heaven and hell are abstractions that may or may not exists. I don't actually think it matters if they do or don't. They have nothing to do with why I believe.

Christianity has to be able to hold up without the afterlife carrot. Otherwise, it's no different from anything else in our capitalist, reward/ punishment society. I happen to think it's damned different. It's about doing what's right whether or not you get a cookie at the end. Doing what is right is its own reward. Living with a Kingdom mentality requires going beyond what will benefit us, even in eternity.

Does this make any sense?

Building: A Stewardship Sermon on Haggai 1:15b-2:9

“Building”
Haggai 1:15b-2:9
November 11, 2007

Only a handful are living, but there are still a few men for whom the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month has great personal meaning: veterans of the First World War. It was decided that that particular hour would mark the formal end of hostilities in that great and terrible war, a war in which warfare itself was changed forever by the introduction of technologies from aircraft to mustard gas to the machine gun to the tank. In the end, the destruction was awful, and possibly past our ability to imagine: an entire generation of young men, lost to the fields of Flanders and the Somme and Gallipoli: ten million dead, nearly eight million missing, and 20 million wounded, many maimed for life. So traumatic was the war and its aftermath, those who lived through it became known as the Lost Generation. It took decades for nations to recover; many individuals never did. And all of it came to a halt, at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month, exactly 89 years ago.

We have a scripture reading this morning that is dated nearly that precisely: “In the second year of King Darius, in the seventh month, on the twenty-first day of the month, the word of the Lord came by the prophet Haggai” (Haggai 2:1). Translating from the Hebrew dating, and taking into account the historical record concerning the reign of Darius, we know that Haggai received his revelation on October 20, in the year 520 BCE. Let me tell you what was going on in the world at that time. This was 67 years after the beginning of one of the most traumatic events in the life of God’s chosen people of Israel: the Babylonian Exile.

The story of the Babylonian exile and return has been called one of the great defining stories for the people of Israel, a story that even today gives Jews a sense of their identity.[i] It’s important to understand that, before the exile, the remnant of God’s people lived in Judah, in the shadow of the great Temple of Jerusalem. King Solomon had built the Temple more than four hundred years earlier under the direct supervision of God, according to scripture. It was a place of unimaginable splendor to the people of its time. It was understood to be the literal house of God, the dwelling place of God here on earth. The people came to the temple to offer their sacrifices, and the priests entered the Holy of Holies on their behalf, that hidden, screened off area where the presence of God was thought to dwell. God and human beings interacted directly in the temple; heaven touched earth.

So imagine the devastation when Judah fell to an invading army: the year 587 brought Nebuchadnezzar’s display of irresistible force, the carrying off of political and religious and intellectual leaders, and the splitting up and relocation of families in a foreign land. The Temple was destroyed, reduced to rubble, desecrated. Like the survivors of the First World War, survivors of the Babylonian exile felt lost, relocated to a place and time separate from the world in which they had previously lived. Psalm 137 is thought to have been written during the time of the exile:

By the rivers of Babylon— there we sat down
and there we wept when we remembered Zion.
On the willows there we hung up our harps.
For there our captors asked us for songs,
and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion!”
How could we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land? ~ Psalm 137:1-4

But now it is 67 years later, when Haggai speaks the Word of the Lord to the people. Exiles are beginning to return home to the land of Judah, and its capitol Jerusalem. The people have been instructed to rebuild the temple—the authorities have given their permission, and building has actually begun. But some in the community are not happy about the reconstruction project. Some in the community are critical of the new temple. It seems that those whose memories are longer, some of the older members of the community, remember the gorgeous edifice that Solomon had constructed. Now, as they return to an occupied Jerusalem and the new Temple is being built on a more modest scale, they can’t abide the difference between their cherished memories and the current reality. God tells Haggai to ask the people, “Who is left among you that saw this house in its former glory? How does it look to you now? Is it not in your sight as nothing?” God puts the ugly truth right out there for all to hear. The new temple just doesn’t measure up to their memories. The people are not impressed. They are bitter and they are disappointed.

Does any of this sound familiar? This passage actually describes a very common dynamic abroad in mainline Protestant churches today, for congregations who remember days of splendor not too long ago. I have heard that under one minister about thirty years ago, the congregation of Our Church swelled by an additional 500 members. The Sunday school probably had 100 or more students. I think it might be a very natural reaction for those of you with good and long memories to feel some anxiety, some depression or sense of loss when you look around the sanctuary to see 75 or 85 people on a Sunday morning. When we look around us and all that we see is colored by powerful emotional memories of the past, we can lose the ability to see the blessings that are right here in our midst today. We can lose sight of the fact that, right now, we are building.

This is a time of building here at Our Church. I’m not speaking of building a physical space, like a sanctuary or a Temple or an education wing. I’m speaking of building as Paul describes it in the letter to the Corinthians. “For we are God’s servants, working together. You are God’s field, God’s building” (1 Corinthians 3:9). Paul is speaking, not of a structure of stone, but of the church that is found in the people. He is speaking of the building up that is done, not with bricks and mortar, but through intentional engagement with the Word of God. Paul is talking about discipleship.

We are building up, not a building, but the body of Christ here at Our Church. How are we doing that? For the last several weeks I have been meeting with several folks who are contemplating joining our ranks, and last week I handed out to them a couple of pages copied from the denominational Book of Order. It is a section called, “Membership as Ministry.” As a refresher for those of you who joined some time ago I will read the first part of this passage.

A faithful member accepts Christ’s call to be involved responsibly in the ministry of his [or her] church. Such involvement includes:

~ proclaiming the good news.
~ taking part in the common life and worship of a particular church.
~ praying and studying scripture and the faith of the Christian church.
~ supporting the work of the church through the giving of money, time and talents.[ii]

There’s more… much more, including statements about how our church membership calls us to service in the world, to transforming society according to the way of Jesus. Membership in the church is a tall order. But I want to focus, for today, on these first four essential building blocks in our faith formation.

Did you know that, as members, you are called upon to proclaim the good news? Don’t panic: not everyone is called to preach sermons from the pulpit, though some are. But we are all called to proclaim the good news of God’s love for us in the course of our everyday lives. God’s love for us: we are called to let it inform the conversations we have with friends, family, co-workers, fellow students. Every member of the church is called to proclaim the good news in that way. We build up our own faith and one another’s every time we allow the good news to inform our day-to-day lives and conversations.

Taking part in the common life and worship of a church seems pretty obvious. As members of the church, it stands to reason that we would worship in that church regularly. But I believe worship is the cornerstone of our lives together, even more deeply than we can imagine. Everything we do should grow out of this experience of gathering around the Word of God, hearing it proclaimed in words, music and actions, and bearing that Word out again into the world: we are bearers of the Word! It is here that we are refueled for our lives of service and witness. It is here that we forge our common and yet distinctive identity as Christians. It is here that we receive the spiritual nourishment that helps us to get through another week. Every member of the church is called to take part in the life and worship of the church. We build up our own faith, and one another’s, every time we do it.

Because being a Christian isn’t a one day-a-week (or even a one hour-a-week) enterprise, we are also called upon to study scripture and pray at times other than Sunday morning. Here at Our Church we try to offer opportunities to do just that… the Women’s monthly bible study, which takes place tomorrow evening, is a wonderful opportunity to participate in some really thoughtful conversation about scripture. Beginning the first Sunday of Advent, I will be offering a bible study designed to take us through that season. It has been suggested that a book group would also be welcome. I think a great goal for us would be that every member of Our Church has an option for small group study and prayer. Every member of the church is called to pray and study our scripture and faith. We build up our faith and one another’s when we let the stories of our own lives and the stories of scripture come together.

At last, we come to the three T’s: Treasure, Time and Talent. Though the Book of Order is a little more direct: it says, “money.” I briefly considered calling this “The Money Sermon,” because I knew we would get to this moment eventually. We are in the midst of our stewardship campaign: members of our Finance and Endowment committee have been working hard to present you with materials designed to prompt you, inspire you, even enlighten you into giving generously to Our Church so that we might be able to, not simply maintain the ministry we currently have, but to grow it.

I’d like to offer one little thought about giving. I’ve heard it said that some people give time and talent, and other people give in dollars and cents. Actually, that’s not true. According to all the research, money follows time and talent. In other words, the people who are most generous with their time and talent are usually the people who are most generous with their money as well.

I’d like to offer another little thought about giving: we are one body. That means we are committed to one another’s well-being, in and out of the church. Pledging can be scary for some people, because life is uncertain. This has been a week in which nearly every major economic indicator is pointing to trouble. For those who have very real concerns about how the economic climate will affect their families, who may be facing layoffs or job changes, I want to say this: pledging conveys your intention to give. It is not a binding contract; it does not lock you in. If your economic circumstances change for the worse, of course, you can and should adjust your giving accordingly. And, if your economic circumstances change for the better, of course, you can and should do the same. We are all called to give, money, time and talent for the mission of the church. Whenever we do so, we are building up, not only our own faith, but also one another’s and the well-being of the whole church.

The prophet Haggai speaks to people who have been traumatized by the loss of everything they held dear, everything that spoke to them of their relationship with God: the Temple, their leaders, their homes and homeland, their families. Haggai brings them these words from God: “…take courage, all you people of the land, says the Lord; work, for I am with you, says the Lord of hosts…My spirit abides among you; do not fear…” We are building, here at Our Church. We are building up our faith through our lives together. We are building through our worship, through our proclamation of the good news, through our pastoral care of one another, through our study and prayer together, through our service of God and God’s world. And God’s word to us is this: Take courage. Work. Do not fear. I am with you. Thanks be to God. Amen.

~~~~~
[i] Marcus Borg, Meeting Jesus Again for the First Time.
[ii] G-5.0102, a-d, The Book of Order of the Presbyterian Church (USA), 2005.

What Is Stewardship, Anyway?

Responding to a comment of Wyld's, it does occur to me that not everyone who reads this blog is either a pastor or someone intimately familiar with the concept. I offer my definition. Other churchy-types, feel free to chime in.

Stewardship is a concept that has its roots, I think, in the first creation story of Genesis.

So God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them; male and female he created them. God blessed them, and God said to them, “Be fruitful and multiply, and fill the earth and subdue it; and have dominion over the fish of the sea and over the birds of the air and over every living thing that moves upon the earth.”

God said, “See, I have given you every plant yielding seed that is upon the face of all the earth, and every tree with seed in its fruit; you shall have them for food. And to every beast of the earth, and to every bird of the air, and to everything that creeps on the earth, everything that has the breath of life, I have given every green plant for food.” And it was so.
~ Genesis 1:27-30

That idea of "having dominion" over the earth is often interpreted as being equivalent with "dominating." But my understanding is that it is really about being good stewards... being caretakers of these astounding gifts that God has gives us.

Translated into the life of the church, it has to do with how we care for the assets of the church: buildings, grounds, staff, programs. To be good stewards means that we have to care for these gifts, whether by giving of our time, our talents, and /or our cold, hard cash (often called "treasure," for those who love alliteration).

There are other ways to care for our gifts as well. Sometimes we do that in more unexpected, radical ways... like the dying church not too far from me that decided they didn't want to end their time as a congregation spending all their money to care for an aging building. Rather, they decided to spread their assets around: they sold the building, gave the money to a youth program in the city, and rented space to worship. Oddly, they ended up being completely re-vitalized by their decision. Their act of generosity attracted people to them, gave them a new sense of mission. They considered themselves "stewards" not just of a building, but of the gospel. And that made all the difference.

It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!

Who loves Stewardship time? No, seriously?

I graduated seminary with a serious aversion to this magical time of year. I couldn't imagine how, as a person paid by the money that comes out of the pockets of the congregation, I would ever be able to stand up in the pulpit and, it felt to me, shill for my salary.

I got over it. Here's how.

First, I worked with a guy who had a serious... well, crude metaphors come to mind. Suffice to say, he loved stewardship. He lurved it. He loaved it. He preached-- wait for it-- six stewardships sermons throughout the fall! No, scratch that: he preached four and I, who couldn't imagine preaching one, preached two. And I caught some of his enthusiasm. It had to do with genuine love of the church. It had to do with calling people into being the best, most dedicated, giving people they could be... not for our salaries (though you still can't get away from that little detail), but for the spreading of the gospel. I was hooked. I started seeing stewardship as a challenge that I might, just might, be able to rise to.

Second, the model for stewardship at that congregation was very much driven by the work of the members. We did our six sermons (which, in all honesty, I do think was overkill), but they did six minutes for mission. And I truly believe that their work-- their testimony-- was more powerful than our sermons.

And finally, I went to an institute for newly minted ministers of my denomination, in which we were offered a workshop of Stewardship. Now, many of my classmates fell asleep during this workshop. And it's true. We were inundated with information in a way that was not entirely helpful. Except: we were given a thick take-home packet at the end. It included sample brochures created by various congregations. And the little tiny design geek that's inside me... the one who used to get a charge out of creating a newsletter for the youth group when I was a director of Christian Ed... found another way to play with stewardship time: creating cool narrative budgets, complete with awesome pie charts and beautiful, carefully-chosen verses from scripture.

So this is it! We're doing it! Who's with me?

Daughter Update

Petra is writing a novel. Its protagonists are named Julian and Caroline, and it's set in the Regency period, inspired by the novels of Jane Austen.

Its' NaNoWriMo-- National Novel Writing Month-- and at this time last year, Petra watched with amusement and curiosity as I made my first swipe at writing a novel (I fell short of the event's 50,000 word goal. I also fell short of my own standards artistically, but that's kind of the nature of trying to crank out 1700 words/ day). She is a Jane Austen heroine herself, in my opinion, but perhaps I am biased.

Last Saturday I traveled many miles for denominational obligations, and then many more to hear Petra sing in a chorus made up of students from schools across a wide geographic area. What is it about young people singing? Practically as the conductor brought down her hands to mark the first beat of the first measure, I began to weep. It is the sound, surely, of those beautiful young voices. It is the sentiments of the songs they were given to sing... songs about peace, one song in an African dialect, one heartfelt folksong from the British Isles, and so on. It is the look on their faces: the complete focus, the innocence (I don't care how many of them are smoking doobies and/or having sex... these are still innocent children). The tears slid down my face as I listened, rapt, to the beautiful and somehow incredibly sad sound of all our children singing their hearts out.

And I think I am still here: in that place where I see my children as they were, as they are, and as they will be... separate, whole without me, lovely and soaring.

Oh, that's Petra as Janis Joplin on Halloween.

10 Random Things

Wyldth1ng tagged me! Here goes:

1. When I was in first grade I wore a rosary on my belt, I was that serious about my spiritual life.

2. As a child, I saw the move The Sound of Music 13 times in the theater (do you sense a theme emerging?).

3. I wanted to be a Poor Clare (that is, a cloistered contemplative nun) after reading "A Right To Be Merry" by Sister Mary Frances. The title is from a quote of St. Francis of Assisi, who said, "My poor ladies have as great a right to be merry as anyone in the world." This was in response to someone criticizing Poor Clares because they permitted laughter as an exception to the rule of silence. I wrote to Sr. Mary F's monastery (in Roswell, NM) and got her to assign a postulant to be my penpal (like I said...). For her consecration I sent her 20 yards of unbleached muslin for her habit.

4. When I was 15 I fell seriously in love with a (gay) boy, discovered my hormones, and back-burnered the whole celibate thing for a while.

5. I started college as a pre-med.

6. I ended college as a philosophy major.

7. Naturally, the next step for me was to sell insurance.

8. I had my call to ministry while driving down Route 128 (outside Boston), listening to the Amy Grant song, "Lead Me On." I kid you not.

9. From call to ordination: 14 years. (This had something to do with the whole Roman Catholic thing).

10. When I was in college I acted on stage opposite Gordon Macrae in Camelot. He was a sweetie pie.

Not nearly as interesting as some I've read... but they're my random things, this afternoon.

PS: I tag Diane, Barbara B., Milton, Jan and Bishop Laura.

To Know and Be Known: Sermon on Luke 19:1-10

“To Know and Be Known”
Luke 19:1-10
November 4, 2007

Here’s how it happens. You are just doing what you always do. Maybe you are walking down the street, hurrying on your way to work. Maybe you are loading up the dishwasher after a rushed breakfast, getting your children off to school. Maybe you are walking into a room where it has been your custom to show up for many, many years… a member of the board, the church, the local chapter of the AARP, dependable. Maybe you are hurrying out of the house, because you can’t stand it in there one more minute. Maybe you are walking into a bar, one where everybody knows your name, or no one knows it, no one at all. You are just doing what you do, without much thought, without much reflection, without a plan beyond the next 5 minutes or so.

Here’s the thing. You don’t like your life. You are not happy at the way things have turned out. The status quo is killing you. The work is killing you. The expectations of the people you love are killing you; the constant, nagging sense of disappointment is killing you. The opinions of your so-called friends and neighbors are killing you. You are surrounded by beautiful but ultimately untouchable and inanimate things, things you thought would define you and give you meaning and impact but which, in the end, only fill you with sadness. You can’t conceive how you managed to find yourself painted into this exquisite corner, but here you are. And you don’t like it. Some days you hate it, and even the love of your nearest and dearest has to hack its way through a dense and elaborate thicket in order to penetrate your rapidly hardening heart.

Let’s talk about your heart. Once upon a time, a long time ago, it was a living, beating thing… a soft animal, open, vulnerable, inquisitive, ready for what life had to offer you, ready for the next adventure. But something happened to your heart. Maybe it grew too accustomed to the ticking of the clock, and it began to think of itself as just another timepiece, a place to punch in and out of your many obligations, your many situations. Maybe it was ignored, and it got used to its solitary existence, peering out from between leaves of gold and rust, at a remove from the world. Maybe it was badly in need of protection after becoming scarred, bruised, or broken, and so you built a beautiful and strong fortress for it, to keep it safe, never to be hurt again, never to be touched again. But left alone to tick, or left alone to brood, or even left alone to heal, your heart took on an unexpected outer crust, a layer of thorns, briars, a dense forest of protection. That is the heart you carry around inside you. Hidden, seldom seen, seldom heard from. That is what beats inside you, as you move through your days.

So there you are, just doing what you always do, carrying around this heart, showing up here or there, or running away from this place or that person. And then, in an instant, you meet someone while you are hurrying down that street. Someone you’ve never seen before, some person with whom there is really no reason for you to interact, no reason that you know of, anyway. Maybe the name is familiar; maybe not. But there he is, this new person, and he’s looking at you. There he is, his eyes penetrating, even though you tried to glance away when you saw his glance coming. There he is, seeing you, even though you had tried to blend into the landscape, back into the cupboard, melt into the crowd, scramble up a tree. There he is. And there is no escaping it: the encounter.

What would you say about the encounter? Would you say that it’s like a sudden gust of icy wind that clears away an accumulated pile of sodden leaves? Would you say that it’s like the unexpected sensation of a patch of ice under your foot, simultaneously thrilling and terrifying? Would you say that it’s like the sharp scent of something new in the air? A new season? A new location, like getting off a plane into the unfamiliar sensations of a foreign land?

There he is, looking at you, and the icy wind is rushing through you and your foot is slipping and your mind is trying feverishly to place the face, the scent, the sensation. And he speaks. And he says the most absurd thing to you. He says, “Magdalene. Hurry up. Come here. Come down out of that tree, come out from behind that cabinet, come away from that dessert table, come away from that crowd. I need to come to your house today.”

And in the aftermath of the wind and the ice and the sensation, there is suddenly a great and potent silence. And you can hear your heart thudding, for the first time in a long, long time. You can hear your heart, as if it were once again a part of you, a living animal with its ears pricked up, listening. You can hear it in the silence, and feel it trying to explode from your chest with the most unfamiliar of all sensations: joy.

It’s joy. This person has looked at you, and, by God, he’s seen you. He’s seen you, and, in the name of everything that’s holy, he knows you. How is this possible? He knows you. He knows it all. He knows the crushing disappointments and the broken, fractured, fragmented heart. He knows the disappointing relationships, the rift with the children, the co-worker you can’t stand. He knows about the work that no longer excites you, and he knows about the dreams you’ve squashed in order to keep getting up morning after morning, in order to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He knows. He knows. And for you to understand that, to know that you are known, brings a rush of relief and joy so unexpected, so piercing, it makes you dizzy. It brings tears to your eyes. It makes you stagger, just a bit, to find your footing. It makes you laugh out loud.

He wants to come to your house. He wants to come to your house. And so you scramble down out of the sycamore, you brush the leaves and twigs off your tweed jacket and pick the bark out of your stockings and your hair. You are still laughing. You are laughing at the absurdity of it. You are laughing at the shriveled lettuce and the marginal cheese and the partial six-pack of beer you know you will find in the refrigerator, because you know that lettuce and cheese and beer are his favorite foods! You simply know this. You are laughing because the last time you had anyone over to your house you cleaned for 3 hours, and you still ended up throwing things into a closet at the last minute, and the whole experience nearly put you in a neck-brace as you tried and tried to affect casual, carefree hospitality. And you are about to welcome this stranger… this penetrating, knowing stranger… you’re about to welcome him into your house and you’re happy to do it, you are thrilled. Because he already knows you. He knows you and he still wants to come. He knows you and it is evidently your lettuce and cheese and beer he wants to eat and drink. He knows you, and he wants nothing more than to be at home with you.

And you are laughing because now you see the looks on the neighbors faces, their… puzzlement, their attempts at politeness, while you know they are hissing under their breath, “Look. Look at that. Look at who he’s going with. Is he kidding?” And you know that, last month or last week or even ten minutes ago, you would have twisted your hands together with anxiety over their stares, over their disapproval. You know that you would have clenched your fists in anger over the hissing and the rudeness. But now, your hands are strangely… open.

Your hands are open. They are open and they are light. You feel that you never want to clench them together, that you never want to twist them together like that again. They are open. And they are inclined, not to hang on, but to let go. As you walk toward your house… your house, so filled with beautiful, disappointing things… you think of letting go. Just, letting go. You think of letting go, and it occurs to you: it’s easy. It’s easy, because now, everything has changed. You have been seen. You have been known. That icy wind has blown through you, and it’s shaken the crust off your heart. Your heart is beating, and you are wide awake and wondering. You turn to him, and you say, “My hands are open now. What can I give? Who needs something?” And he laughs, and you laugh together. And he says, “Oh, it is a day of joy in your house. Truly, you are a beloved child of God.”

And you walk along to your house, discussing the particulars… of what you can give with your newly open hands. The newly open hands of a beloved child of God. And when you arrive at your house… what do you know? There are the friends and neighbors, the loved ones. And suddenly you forget. You forget the disappointments and the pettiness. You forget the crushed hopes and the squashed dreams. You forget it all, because today there is a radiance abroad, in all these people, and it occurs to you: They too are beloved children of God! And now the laughter starts again, and it is hard to contain it. A feast has somehow arrived and been served. A banquet has somehow been provided, and here you were thinking you were the host. But you’re not the host. You’re the guest. All you need to do is to receive it, into your newly open hands and heart. And everywhere you hear the laughter that is pure joy And you think, yes. This is it. Beloved child of God, this is it. What joy: know and be known. Thanks be to God. Amen.

Late Night Thoughts About My Week

I've done little blogging this week other than linking to other people's articles and thoughts. So, not a lot of creativity chez Magdalene. I think I may be making up for that in my sermon, however. It's a departure for me, stylistically very different from anything I've ever done before. Ever. Anywhere. Actually, it's kind of scaring me, as it has taken on a life of its own. MoreCows has just suggested it's the perfect kind of sermon to memorize, so... oy. I guess I know how I can stay busy at tomorrow's denominational meet-up).

I've spent much of this week at the hospital with a dear member, well into her nineties, who has been ill, with they knew not what for several days. Tonight she is resting (I pray) following successful surgery to untangle her intestines. She has had a rough week, lost a lot of blood early on, and she isn't out of the woods quite yet.

I have spent much of my time with her next of kin. D. doesn't have children, and her husband died about 30 years ago. But she is a kind of "aunt" to two women, twin sisters, who have been by her side constantly. They were raised by their grandparents, who happen to have been dear friends of D. They have adopted her as their own as fully and fiercely as you can imagine. They are with her virtually every moment, advocating for her, deciphering her slurred speech, catching her jokes (she is still making jokes, even in extremis, as she is. She is wry and hilarious. Today when another of her friends said "I'll call your neighbors with an update," she rolled her eyes. "You can tell them where to go," she said. She is in pain and not to be trifled with.)

I met D. in September, nearly as soon as I began working at New Church. I went to bring her Communion, along with a Deacon, after I'd been there about 10 days. She was sprightly, on a schedule, eager to tell me about her days as treasurer of New Church. She told me then who her friends were, the same women who have been standing vigil with her this week. She reminded me of my mother-in-law, now deceased. There was something in her delivery of lines... that humor I mentioned. Also, a slightly gravelly quality that may have come from just a little bit of smoking once upon a time. What a contrast to how I've seen her this week: so close, hovering near the veil that parts the worlds.

And this is what it is to be a pastor this week: the best laid plans of writing text for the narrative budget... out the window. Maybe I'll get to it Monday morning. Preparation for my new member class... Sunday morning. Practicing guitar to play with the youth choir... also Sunday morning. Memorizing sermon... we'll see.

One of the twins called me on the phone this morning to tell me what time D.'s surgery was scheduled for. She told me, "D. said to us last night, 'If something happens to me, call Magdalene. I want it to be her.'" I hope what happens to her is that she gets to sip some clear liquids tomorrow, and then to have some Jell-O and crackers on Sunday, and maybe a bit of chicken soup on Monday. I like her. I hope she sticks around.

More Distressing Things About the State of the Nation

... can be found here.

I care. But I feel powerless. I feel like I am no longer a citizen of the country I grew up in.

A Legal Victory of Doubtful Effectiveness

From this morning's New York Times...

Marine Father Victor in Suit Over Protests

BALTIMORE, Oct. 31 (AP) — The father of a marine killed in Iraq was awarded nearly $11 million in damages on Wednesday. A jury found leaders of a fundamentalist church had invaded the family’s privacy and inflicted emotional distress when they picketed the marine’s funeral.

The jury first awarded $2.9 million in compensatory damages. Later, it awarded $6 million in punitive damages for invasion of privacy and $2 million for causing emotional distress to the father, Albert Snyder of York, Pa.

Mr. Snyder sued the Westboro Baptist Church of Topeka, Kan., for unspecified monetary damages after its members demonstrated in March at the funeral of his son, Lance Cpl. Matthew Snyder, in Westminster, Md.

The defense said it would appeal. A church leader, Shirley Phelps-Roper, said members would still picket the funerals. Church members say American deaths in Iraq are punishment for tolerating homosexuality.

Before the jury deliberated punitive damages, Judge Richard D. Bennett of Federal District Court in Baltimore said the compensatory award “far exceeds the net worth of the defendants,” according to financial statements.

The suit named the church; the Rev. Fred Phelps, its founder; and his daughters, Ms. Phelps-Roper and Rebecca Phelps-Davis.

No one I know views the members of this church as anything other than members of the lunatic fringe, an extraordinarily ugly manifestation of the way in which Christianity can be warped and twisted into an unrecognizable form. That said, I'm not sure this is the answer.

I feel for this family. To lose a child-- or parent, or spouse-- in war must be a devastation I can only begin to imagine. To have the religious and civic services associated with bringing closure to that loss marred by crazy ugliness sucks beyond all comprehension.

The jury in this case concluded that the activities of this "church" transgressed the bounds of allowable free speech. I'm glad they concluded that. I hope this muzzles these wack-jobs once and for all. But this monetary award will almost certainly be overturned. US-ans love to throw money at problems, as if that will solve everything. This is phantom money, that neither Phelps nor his followers have. And judging by the response of the church so far... that they vow to continue picketing funerals of US service personnel... the judgment against them most likely only convinces them of their martyr status and stiffens their resolve.

The whole thing just leaves me feeling unspeakably hollow and sad.

I Love It

Halloween. Oh, how I love it. I love the scary music (Bach Tocatta and Fugue, anyone?). I love the scary stories. I love that my neighbors have put up a coffin, and a hanged man, and a ghost in varying positions on their lawn. I love escaping into some other identity, feeling the spookiness of it all. Just for tonight.

I read this column last night, by Cary Tennis of Salon Magazine. Someone asked a question about a teenager who wanted to dress "slutty." I wish that hadn't been the question that prompted this answer. I love this answer for other reasons. There is a time and a place to talk about young women and how they value themselves, and what it means to them to show a lot of flesh. So, for that question, I wish this hadn't been the answer, and the closer he gets to that particular issue, the less comfortable I am. But this is the answer to my other Halloween questions, my adult Halloween questions. So I share it with you here.

Dude, it's Halloween.

People wear costumes. It's pretend. It's I Think That's My Boss in the Bustier and Garters Ween. It's Hallo Hookers and Sluts Live in the Hearts of All Righteous and True Women Ween.

Let us sing a song of Halloween. An ancient incantation. Here are words for us to sing.

It's time for all that's repressed to rise from its graveyard and flout its slutty self, for everything frightening to scare us, for everything attractive to fill us with desire, for everything hidden to be seen and shared, for everything strange to seem normal once again, for everything insane to be understood, for everything unbearable to be borne, for everything unhearable to be heard.

If any lines are going to be crossed, any untoward word said, any strange vision appear, any unthinkable thought be thought, any unbreakable rule be broken, any impossible fences be climbed, any clothes be shed, any roles be exchanged, any vows be suspended, any treaties be sealed, any enemies see themselves in each other, any false friends see their falseness, let it be done on Halloween.

It's a night to praise our ancestors burned for being witches. It's a night to bless our ancestors imprisoned for being anarchists and hung for being black and tortured for being gay and sneered at for being strange and blacklisted for being communist and shunned for being lame and shut in for being blind and cursed for being devilish and frozen out for being warm. It's a night for the fucked up and fucked over and fucked around to get back and get even and get over and get well.

It's just one night. For just one night we let go of our precious, obsessional hold. We let go of the ringing cash register and the heavy, silent till. We let go of the obsessional ledger written in that obsessional, speed-freak hand. We let go of the hourly wage recorded with a clunk and a clang on endless yellow timecards. We let go of the minuscule raise that we hardly even want. We let go of our computation and our consultation and the tiny hateful things we control the rest of the year.

We Protestants let go of our righteousness and virtue, we pagans let go of our orchestrated coolness, we Catholics let go of our crushed erotic saints and we Jews let go of whatever it is that binds us and drives us into the desert. Whatever it is that won't let us sing and dance, we let go on Halloween.

For one night we stop. We stop being executives. We stop being cops. We stop being artists and we stop being salesmen. We stop being editors and we stop being kings. We stop with the puffing and the huffy huff huff. We stop with the glad-handing and back-slapping and the promises of call-backs never to be made. We stop with the tickets and stop with the bail. We stop with the judging and sending to jail. We stop our bitching and moaning and at midnight we think about death.

Death. Here it comes in costume down the street. Death as the reaper. Death as the white sheet of insubstantial memory. Death as the bloody car crash victim. Death as the maggoty corpse risen from the grave. Death as the headless horseman riding his cliché. Death in all the forms we can imagine it in save the one form that resists all our fiercest imagining, the one form in which it forever hides its truth.

Snap out of it. Sit on the curb and try to sober up. Think about death, how soon it will come. Think about your breath: How many are left? Count your coupons and your change. How many are left?

Think about your feet. Think about the night. Think about the nurses and the schoolgirls. Think about your mother and the strap. Think about the birthing and the screams. Think about the screams in the graveyard and the maternity ward. Think about the bullshit, how you'd like to rise above it. Think about being 16. Think about facing George Bush from when you were 9 to when you are 16. Can you imagine what it's like to be 16 today? What hope is there? What dreams? What possibilities? Let her dress like a slut if she wants.

That's why we do it. That's why we pretend. The real thing we can't handle. The real thing is too much. So we pretend.

Dude, it's Halloween.

Thank God! A Sermon on Luke 18:9-14

“Thank God!”
Luke 18:9-14
October 28, 2007

Oh my friends. What a double bind we find ourselves in this morning. Again, we are listening to the words of Jesus, telling us a parable. Again, Luke gives us a rather broad hint in the first verse as to the subject matter of the parable. Again, the content of the parable is prayer. Again, the two main characters of the parable are as different from one another as can be. Again, an undercurrent of justice flows through the parable, capable of bearing us away to some entirely new place! But this is a different parable, too. Let’s meet our main characters.

First, we need to say a word about Pharisees. Pharisees have the reputation, especially in Luke’s gospel, of falling into that unfortunate category of religious hypocrites. They tend to be the moneyed class, the elite religious class, and that means that they have the means to observe the law in all its complexity, down to the tiniest stroke. I have shared with you in another sermon that complete observance of the law was out of the financial reach of the poor most of the time. They poor couldn’t afford the Temple offerings to be made ritually clean after illness, after childbirth, after the normal rigors of a life of labor. Not so the Pharisees. They thought of themselves as models of holiness and righteousness[1]… something made possible, in part, by their financial status.

Next, let’s have a word about tax collectors. If Pharisees were models of holiness and righteousness, tax collectors were models of a different kind: they were mostly thought of as models of greed, uncleanness and dishonesty.[2] Imagine the poor opinion most Americans have about our own system of taxation, and then add to that the fact that the tax collector was a member of the community, a son of Israel, working on behalf of the enemy, occupying nation. They worked for the Roman Empire making themselves rich off the misery of their own people. Tax collectors were traitors.

Both these men go to the Temple to lift their voices in prayer. And what a contrast we see. The Pharisee, we are told, is standing by himself… but really, in the Greek, we read that he is “praying to himself.’ Most likely, the Pharisee was saying a “berahkah,” a Hebrew prayer of blessing. These always begin in the same way: “Baruch atah Adonai, Elokeynu, melekh ha-olam” “Blessed are you, Lord, our God, king of the universe, who has…” and then the blessing continues by naming that for which the person is giving thanks. Here, the Pharisee gives thanks that God did not make him like four different kinds of people he clearly thinks are inferior, including tax collectors… and he singles him out, maybe even points to him, that guy sitting in the back, very much alone. Instead, the Pharisee thanks God for giving him a heart for Jewish piety. He fasts. He tithes. In just these two areas he shows himself to be someone who not only obeys the law, but goes beyond it. By the tone of what he says, he reveals that he is pleased with the state of his religious observance. Thank God, he says. Thank God I’m not like other, lesser people.

Then Jesus turns our attention to the tax collector. But before we hear his words, Jesus paints a vivid picture with three brushstrokes. First the tax collector is standing far off, not at the center or front of the Temple where we assume the Pharisee stood. Second, he does not even raise his head as if to look towards heaven, but keeps it bowed. Third, he is beating his breast, an action signifying repentance. This is a snapshot of someone who is so filled with remorse or shame that he is wearing it visibly on his body. He utters just seven words. “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” There is no pride in what he says. There is no pride in what he does. He looks down on no one except himself. And, Jesus tells us, he returns home that day justified, forgiven, restored to right relationship with God. Despite being a traitor. Despite being a truly despicable person. He goes home, a beloved child of God.

It seems simple enough, doesn’t it? The clear lesson is that we should be like the tax collector and not the Pharisee? But there is a danger in this parable. The danger is this: as soon as we hold the Pharisee and the tax collector up for our examination, as soon as we come to a conclusion about which of these is truly the better human being, we begin to pass judgment. You see what I mean? It’s a double bind. If we take the parable seriously, the worst possible outcome for us is to say, “Thank God. Thank God: we’re not like the Pharisee.”

But we come to the story ready to judge the Pharisee. And, truthfully, many Pharisees were simply people who sought with their whole hearts to follow God’s law. And, if we are honest with ourselves, every last one of us has said a prayer at least a little bit like the prayer of the Pharisee. We say these prayers when we observe some human tragedy, and realize our own vulnerability to such things. After we pass a terrible accident on the highway, we might say, “Thank God: it wasn’t me.” On hearing of some misfortune, injury, death, we might be tempted to say: “Thank God, it wasn’t my family.” Which is just a millimeter away from, Thank God, it was them, thank God it was their family. Here’s the problem, as one writer expresses it vividly.

If the New Testament were like some hiss-and-boo melodrama from the Old West, the Pharisees would be the fellows in the black hats, twirling their moustaches and fingering the six-shooters on their hips. It doesn't much matter what a character like that says, we expect it to be ugly even before the man opens his mouth.

But suppose it was in a different setting. Suppose it is your sweet little old grandmother praying over the turkey dinner on Thanksgiving. "Dear God, we are grateful that we are not like other families we know: people who don't know you enough to offer thanks to you, families that have fallen apart and so they never gather around the table anymore. We rejoice that we went to church this morning to do what all people should do: render thanks to you as the Giver of all good gifts." So this is Grandma now, not the Pharisee in the black ten-gallon hat. What, if anything, keeps her prayer from falling into the error of the Pharisee? Or does nothing keep it from that error? Is it the same mistake all over again? When and how does gratitude go bad, and what can we do to make sure it doesn't happen to us?[3]

If we look again at the words, the very carefully chosen words of the parable, we begin to find a clue. Remember all the fuss I made last week about the introduction? This week, I’m liking the introduction: “[Jesus] also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt…” (Luke 18:9). I like the fact that Luke doesn’t interpret the parable for us here, as much as he tells us about the audience: they were those who trusted themselves. And remember when I was talking about the Pharisee’s prayer, that interesting little twist in the Greek: the Pharisee is “praying to himself.’ That could mean something like, “He was praying silently.” But that doesn’t seem to be what’s going on here. On the other hand, it could mean something a lot more troubling… that he is praying to himself, that God is not his prayer’s intended audience. And the words of the Pharisee are very much centered on himself: he makes claims about his character; he highlights his own admirable activities. All these things point to the fatal flaw in the Pharisee’s prayer: a prayer of Thanksgiving should focus on the goodness of God, not on our own goodness.

Every week in the prayers of the people, we give thanks for all kinds of blessings God has bestowed on us. We thank God for babies baptized and for couples joined in marriage, for people being ordained into offices of the church and for good test results. We thank God for our faith, because we believe that our faith is a great gift to be treasured. But this parable is a stern warning to us, in all our prayers, to be focused on the goodness of the Giver, not on the way in which these blessings make us such excellent people. This parable is a cautionary tale, telling us that our focus should not be on our own excellence, but rather on God’s unfathomable, immeasurable generosity.

Gratitude. Proper gratitude. For two weeks in a row we talked in the children’s message about gratitude, and you heard, I think, the kinds of things they said. They gave thanks for their excellent new shoes. They gave thanks for mothers and fathers. They gave thanks for good things to eat, and snow, because you can make snow angels in it. They gave thanks for Thanksgiving! Everything for which they gave thanks fell into the category of gifts… things and people and events over which we have no control. Things, which come to us from outside ourselves. Things, which come to us because of someone else’s love for us. Children have good instincts about gratitude. You will rarely hear a child say, “I thank you God because I was so smart in school today that I won the spelling bee.” They know that a prayer like that turns gratitude into self-congratulation. This week, somewhere in the United States, a minister wrote in his weekly newspaper column, “…Commercials for Jesus are the people like me who follow him.” Now, by quoting that, I have just become the Pharisee, by implying, “Thank God I’ve never said anything like that in my writing or sermons.” But I’m sure I have. It’s easy to slip and slide from “Thank you God for this faith I treasure” to “Thank you God for this faith, which makes me so much better than people with that faith.”

Proper gratitude helps us to be on the lookout for God’s providence, another foundational Presbyterian notion. Providence is a term that reminds us that God is very much in relationship with us, and with the world, that God continues to be our Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer.[4] Providence reminds us, in the words of the Psalm, that “The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it, the world, and those who live in it” (Psalm 24:1). If everything belongs to God, even our very lives, then we begin to understand what gratitude is.

And so we can say, with confidence, Thank God!
Thank God for our lives.
Thank God for our faith.
Thank God for Jesus, whose response to the most broken, sin-filled lives was always, unfailingly, “This is a new moment, and a new day, and you can be a new person.”
Thank God for our bodies, imperfect and vulnerable and fragile as they are.
Thank God for our minds, and all the growth and stimulation they experience over a lifetime, the fresh beauty of new ideas, the holy complexity of our ability to reason.
Thank God for our particular talents, the ability to play a Bach prelude or run a marathon or cook a fabulous meal.
Thank God for loving family and friends to stand by us when our bodies and minds and talents begin to fail us and fade away.
Thank God for new lives, for new life.
Thank God for lives changed in positive ways.
Thank God for love.
Thank God for hope.
Thank God for the Holy Spirit, who is both beyond us and ever with us, claiming us for the One who was, and is, and is to come.
Thank God for this deep mystery.
Thank God. Thanks be to God. Amen.


[1] Sharon Ringe, Luke (Louisville, KY: Westminster John Knox Press, 1995), 225.
[2] Ibid.
[3] Calvin Theological Seminary, “This Week in Preaching,” http://cep.calvinseminary.edu/thisWeek/index.php.
[4] The Rev. Martha Gillis, PhD, “We Believe: A Theological Assessment,” http://www.pcusa.org/webelieve/theoassessment.htm.

Such a Surprise

Guess there's still some Catholic girl left in this Calvinista.

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You scored as Orthodox You are Orthodox, worshiping the mystery of the Holy Trinity in the great liturgy whereby Jesus is present through the Spirit in a real yet mysterious way, a meal that is also a sacrifice. Orthodox 75% Calvin 63% Luther 56% Zwingli 44% Unitarian 13% Catholic 0%

Today

... is the fourth anniversary of my ordination.

I like very much what I wrote last year.

Of course, now I have the more recent memory of my installation to add to the memory of my ordination. But nothing (short of giving birth or finding the love of my life) beats the memory of that ordination day. My heart soared.