Election Years
Last night we were with friends awaiting Election Results together. We were all together in 2008, with Steve and were reminded of his reflections that he had emailed to us.
Here are his thoughts then:
I was struck again by the thought, and this is true of theology and
> politics, that no one person or party can see the whole. Each side is
> seeing the light refracted from a certain angle, and in paying close
> attention to that particular ray, are not able to see everything else.
> For example, think about what each side (conservative/liberal) thinks of as
> evil. The conservatives/republicans fear "LUST". And therefore they speak
> to a great number of private morality issues, and of course, believe the
> liberals to be evil for not sharing their fear. They would consider them
> amoral. But this is not true.
> The liberal/democrats fear GREED. Therefore they are speaking to a great
> number of social morality issues. And, of course, believe the conservatives
> to be evil for not sharing their fear.
> Both would use government to reign in the other. Both are trying to
> regulate evil, and behavior. And both are seeing a ray of refracted light.
> But neither sees the whole. And this is where polarization comes from.
> Each side in a debate believes that they have the whole figured out, when
> they really only represent a sliver of the pie. (It is "Free Markets" vs.
> "Free Bedrooms".)
> Recognizing that you are speaking to a part, and not the whole, should bring
> humility. One could speak with great passion, but would also listen with
> great passion. And would honor the light in the other. (Maybe this is why
> the country as a whole- the masses- are increasingly moving to the
> center...maybe the people know something more intuitively than the parties.)
>
> Noewen says, "something evil has attached itself to the underside of my
> virtue". There is no good idea in me that is not limited at least (by my
> limits), or tainted and twisted at worst (by my sin). That does not mean
> there is no good. It's just that it always has a parasite (Mother Maria).
> As soon as I believe I am right (that my system of thought is THE system),
> evil has attached itself. The need to be right kills love. Evil is closing
> your heart to the other. I can hold on to my own, and still listen to the
> other (MBW).
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Monday, November 5, 2012
Anti-Welcome
Here is a sermon of Steve's. I can hear his voice preaching it.
Anti-Welcome
There’s a book going around like a fever called Blue Like Jazz. One of the ideas that caught my attention late in the book was that in any given conversation, there are actually two conversations going on. There may be the exchange of words, but there is something going on under the surface too. On the surface, there is what is actually being said. Underneath there is something more subtle, but real none the less. There is a lot more being said than simply what is said. If you talk to a person, they may be speaking words to you, but their posture and body are telling you as much, or may be telling your something different. You know that if you ask your wife how she is, and she says, “Fine!”, but crosses her arms and scowls at you, that things are not fine.
That idea has shaped us a good bit in our church, or at least made us more aware of the atmosphere we create. We can say certain things up front that are very welcoming, we can put it in our “vision statements”, but there is a subtler conversation going on underneath. People can sense whether they are really welcome, whether our words are empty.
Miss Irene helped our church a good bit when we first got off the ground. She was the one who welcomed our volunteers into a local, poor housing community. She loves people who come, but she said, “don’t bring people with fear in their eyes.” The eyes tell the story. You can tell by them whether someone really wants to be there or not. Two conversations. They say that dogs can smell fear. People can too. They can smell self-protection. They know when they really aren’t welcome.
What do people sense when they walk into a church? Or a nation, or a business, or an institution, or a home? Or when they meet an individual? Here’s Christine Pohl again: “When we offer hospitality to strangers, we welcome them into a place to which we are somehow connected – a space that has meaning and value to us. This is often our home, but it also includes a church, a community, a nation and various other institutions.”
Any human organization can offer welcome or not. It can offer hospitality or not.
Here’s a politically charged example. We’re familiar with the Statue of Liberty. Her motto reads, “Give me your poor, your tired, and your hungry.” (My daughter adds “and your sleepy.”) She has always been the sign of welcome to our country. She greets so many at the door. Our country’s history is full of welcoming strangers. The U.S. was built to say, “send us your refugees, your poor, your persecuted, your struggling…Come in! Come home!” But lately, that has become dangerous. I think countries should have borders, and should watch them. But can you become suddenly so defensive about your borders that welcome dies?
I know of a Mexican woman who crossed the border illegally when she was 17. She was pregnant, and her father threatened to kill her. So, she slipped out of the house and into the U.S. This was 25 years ago. She has raised two children here (both U.S. citizens) and owns a business. She married a man in the states who then abandoned and divorced her years later. He had told her that he had “taken care of” her citizenship papers. But in the divorce proceeding it was discovered that she did not have legal status. Immigration came after her. Thankfully, her church and her new husband have rallied and been able to get her legal help. But, for the last six years she has had to wade through courts to keep from being deported. She has been treated with hostility at every turn. And she is still in limbo. Her children have never been to Mexico. She did come illegally, but as a scared, pregnant teenager. I know there are not easy answers here (though our political parties think there are). And I know that there is danger too. But what happened to “Give me your poor, your tired, your hungry?”
An atmosphere can become hard and hostile and closed. Anti-welcome. There are examples of this in the Bible.
In the gospel of Luke is the story of a religious leader named Simon. Some of the local preacher-types are getting together for dinner at Simon’s and they invite Jesus to come. The famous part of the story is when a “woman of the city who had led a sinful life” crashes the party. She comes and weeps at Jesus’ feet, and pours really expensive lotion on them. Simon is not real happy about it.
Jesus says, “Simon, when I came in you gave me no kiss. You did not anoint my head with oil. You did not give me water to wash my feet.” What did he mean by that?
So I invite you over to a dinner party. You knock on the door. I open it and say, "Oh. It's you." (the opposite of “thank God you’ve come). You extend your hand. I put mine behind my back. You ask if you can wash up before dinner. I say no. At dinner, I move around refilling glasses with a choice beverage. You hold out your glass. I pass you by. The other guests are looking at you, whispering and then chuckling. Feeling welcome so far? "You gave me no water for my feet. You gave me no kiss. You did not anoint my head with oil." It's the same thing. I had invited you. But the atmosphere said, “you’re not welcome here.” Simon is one of "God's men". He is an influential religious leader. He is held in high regard by the people. He is very moral. And he keeps the forms. He even set a table. But it is clear that Simon doesn't like Jesus very much.
One of the most famous New Testament churches is the church at Ephesus. The ruins of it can still be found on the coast of Turkey. They were the first recipients of one of Paul’s letters.
The church was born out of some pretty fierce opposition and yet is really growing and flourishing. It’s changing the whole city! Acts 19 and 20 tell the story. Everywhere that Paul goes to start a church, a band of people follow. They come in behind him and try to undo what he has worked for and to stir up trouble. Paul is about to leave Ephesus, and he knows these guys are coming. So, he calls the elders together and leaves them with these words: “I know that after my departure fierce wolves will come in among you, not sparing the flock. And from among your own selves will arise men speaking twisted things to draw away disciples after them. Be on your guard!!” There are those who would shred the church to bits, and they are supposed to watch out.
You meet this church again at the end of the Bible. In Revelation 2 they are addressed in the “seven letters to seven churches”. Jesus dictates this to the Apostle John for the Ephesians: “I know your works, your toil and your patient endurance and how you can’t bear with those who are evil but have tested those who call themselves apostles and are not and found them to be false. I know you’re enduring patiently and bearing up for my namesake and you’ve not grown weary.” It seems they have done what Paul told them to do. They are fighting for truth. But then Jesus says this: “I have this against you- you have abandoned the love that you had at first.” Fighting and defending had become the hallmark of the church. But they had become such fighters that it changed who they were. In fighting for the gospel, they had stabbed the gospel in the heart. The need to be right kills off love.
A church (even a whole denomination) can so identify itself with being defenders of the truth that it becomes harsh and intolerant. They create an environment with Christian words but filled with suspicion and fear, where if someone is different, or they don’t agree with every doctrine down the line, they feel like outsiders. It can bring a lot of shame.
My other example is from a very obscure letter in the New Testament, 3rd John. (Did you know there was a 3rd John?) It’s a short little letter written to an individual elder named Gaius. John contrasts Gaius to another elder in his church. Gaius is known for taking care of strangers, for showing hospitality. “It is a faithful thing you do in all your efforts for these brothers, strangers as they are…” Gaius welcomes.
But there is also a man named Diotrophes. “He likes to put himself first…and not content with that, he refuses to welcome the brothers and also stops those who want to and puts them out of the church.” That’s pretty over the top! I’ll bet their elder’s meetings were a real ball. Gaius and Diotrophes are in the same church.
In all three of those examples (Simon and his cronies, the Ephesian elders, Diotrophes) it is the leadership, even the orthodox leadership, that exhibits the hostility. Remember Psalm 23? The shepherds are to be hosts. They are to create a safe environment where people can flourish. They are supposed to make room for others, but in each case have created anti-welcome and the church becomes harsh.
Cultivating Welcome
The church in the beginning of Acts, the Pentacost church, is alluring. They are meeting each other’s needs. They have a one-mindedness as Jesus knits their lives together (even though they come from diverse backgrounds). And there is an intense sharing of life. “They break bread in each other’s homes with glad and generous hearts.” Hospitality. Welcome.
Eugene Peterson says this:
“It is hard to believe that this marvelous word of salvation is presently taking place in our neighborhoods, in our families, in our governments, in our schools and businesses, in our hospitals, on the roads we drive and down the corridors we walk, among people whose names we know. It is basic to the Christian faith that Jesus is, in actual fact, God among us…. Jesus keeps our feet on the ground, attentive to children, in conversation with ordinary people, sharing meals with friends and strangers, touching the sick and wounded, praying simply and unselfconsciously. Jesus insists that we deal with God right here and now, in the place we find ourselves and with the people we are with. Jesus is God here and now.”
This isn’t some 2000 year old story about the Spirit coming to some distant group of people. It’s the story about living Pentacost over and over and over in the places we live. The same story is being written on our streets that was started on the streets of Jerusalem. It all begins in the glory and shame of our lives.
When people are joining Red Mountain Church, we say it is sort of like a marriage. When you get married, you don’t marry marriage. You marry Joe. That’s the shock of it. You thought you married an idea and you come home with Joe. It’s the same thing with a church. You don’t marry the concept of the church, the ideal, you marry Red Mountain Church. The people in these chairs, in this neighborhood, in this city. We don’t practice welcome “someplace else”. We do it here, with our “feet on the ground”, this ground. Jesus has come in the guise of these people.
I recently heard Wilson Goode, the former mayor of Philadelphia, speak. He has started an organization called Amachi which works with children. He says the name is from a Nigerian phrase that goes like this: “Who knows what God has brought to us through this child?” There is an anticipation in the word that every child that crosses the threshold brings a gift from God. Beautiful.
Dr. Goode also relayed a greeting he learned from the Masai Tribe. In the South we say, “Hey!”. These tribesmen ask, “How are the children?” That seems a little odd, but they are on to something. If the children are flourishing, then we are all flourishing. If the children suffer, we all suffer.
We long to make room for children and help them flourish in the room we have made. But we can extend the definitions. To anyone who crosses the threshold, we can wonder, “who knows what God has brought to us through this person.” We can also ask, “How are the poor?” “How are the women?” “How are the marginalized?” “How are the lonely?” Because in God’s economy, if they flourish, we flourish. If they suffer, we suffer.
Have you seen the bumper sticker that says, “If you’re not mad, you’re not paying attention”? It’s true. The world is not working like it was made to. And you can get pretty overwhelmed by the brokenness of it all. If you think you are supposed to swallow it all yourself, or if you think you are responsible for all the darkness in the world, you will be paralyzed with fear.
One old saint says, “make small steps into the darkness”. Baby steps. Wilson Goode told the story of a father who’s young son wanted to play. To buy a little time to finish a project, he found a picture of a world map and cut it into pieces. “Go put this back together, and when you’re done we’ll play.” The son was back in 5 minutes. The father was surprised and asked how he did it so fast. “Well, on the back of the picture of the world, there was a picture of a man. If you put the man back together, you put the world back together.” Pretty clever.
Jim Houston says that everyone can cultivate a signature prayer. Just like your signature is unique to you alone, your prayers can become unique as well. I think that we can say the same thing about welcome and hospitality. Each church or person has unique gifts and resources. We can each pray, “God, what is the signature way that I/we can make room for others and help them to flourish in the room that we have made?” What are the ways we can bring the two conversations into sync, our words and our atmosphere?
“Welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you.”
Anti-Welcome
There’s a book going around like a fever called Blue Like Jazz. One of the ideas that caught my attention late in the book was that in any given conversation, there are actually two conversations going on. There may be the exchange of words, but there is something going on under the surface too. On the surface, there is what is actually being said. Underneath there is something more subtle, but real none the less. There is a lot more being said than simply what is said. If you talk to a person, they may be speaking words to you, but their posture and body are telling you as much, or may be telling your something different. You know that if you ask your wife how she is, and she says, “Fine!”, but crosses her arms and scowls at you, that things are not fine.
That idea has shaped us a good bit in our church, or at least made us more aware of the atmosphere we create. We can say certain things up front that are very welcoming, we can put it in our “vision statements”, but there is a subtler conversation going on underneath. People can sense whether they are really welcome, whether our words are empty.
Miss Irene helped our church a good bit when we first got off the ground. She was the one who welcomed our volunteers into a local, poor housing community. She loves people who come, but she said, “don’t bring people with fear in their eyes.” The eyes tell the story. You can tell by them whether someone really wants to be there or not. Two conversations. They say that dogs can smell fear. People can too. They can smell self-protection. They know when they really aren’t welcome.
What do people sense when they walk into a church? Or a nation, or a business, or an institution, or a home? Or when they meet an individual? Here’s Christine Pohl again: “When we offer hospitality to strangers, we welcome them into a place to which we are somehow connected – a space that has meaning and value to us. This is often our home, but it also includes a church, a community, a nation and various other institutions.”
Any human organization can offer welcome or not. It can offer hospitality or not.
Here’s a politically charged example. We’re familiar with the Statue of Liberty. Her motto reads, “Give me your poor, your tired, and your hungry.” (My daughter adds “and your sleepy.”) She has always been the sign of welcome to our country. She greets so many at the door. Our country’s history is full of welcoming strangers. The U.S. was built to say, “send us your refugees, your poor, your persecuted, your struggling…Come in! Come home!” But lately, that has become dangerous. I think countries should have borders, and should watch them. But can you become suddenly so defensive about your borders that welcome dies?
I know of a Mexican woman who crossed the border illegally when she was 17. She was pregnant, and her father threatened to kill her. So, she slipped out of the house and into the U.S. This was 25 years ago. She has raised two children here (both U.S. citizens) and owns a business. She married a man in the states who then abandoned and divorced her years later. He had told her that he had “taken care of” her citizenship papers. But in the divorce proceeding it was discovered that she did not have legal status. Immigration came after her. Thankfully, her church and her new husband have rallied and been able to get her legal help. But, for the last six years she has had to wade through courts to keep from being deported. She has been treated with hostility at every turn. And she is still in limbo. Her children have never been to Mexico. She did come illegally, but as a scared, pregnant teenager. I know there are not easy answers here (though our political parties think there are). And I know that there is danger too. But what happened to “Give me your poor, your tired, your hungry?”
An atmosphere can become hard and hostile and closed. Anti-welcome. There are examples of this in the Bible.
In the gospel of Luke is the story of a religious leader named Simon. Some of the local preacher-types are getting together for dinner at Simon’s and they invite Jesus to come. The famous part of the story is when a “woman of the city who had led a sinful life” crashes the party. She comes and weeps at Jesus’ feet, and pours really expensive lotion on them. Simon is not real happy about it.
Jesus says, “Simon, when I came in you gave me no kiss. You did not anoint my head with oil. You did not give me water to wash my feet.” What did he mean by that?
So I invite you over to a dinner party. You knock on the door. I open it and say, "Oh. It's you." (the opposite of “thank God you’ve come). You extend your hand. I put mine behind my back. You ask if you can wash up before dinner. I say no. At dinner, I move around refilling glasses with a choice beverage. You hold out your glass. I pass you by. The other guests are looking at you, whispering and then chuckling. Feeling welcome so far? "You gave me no water for my feet. You gave me no kiss. You did not anoint my head with oil." It's the same thing. I had invited you. But the atmosphere said, “you’re not welcome here.” Simon is one of "God's men". He is an influential religious leader. He is held in high regard by the people. He is very moral. And he keeps the forms. He even set a table. But it is clear that Simon doesn't like Jesus very much.
One of the most famous New Testament churches is the church at Ephesus. The ruins of it can still be found on the coast of Turkey. They were the first recipients of one of Paul’s letters.
The church was born out of some pretty fierce opposition and yet is really growing and flourishing. It’s changing the whole city! Acts 19 and 20 tell the story. Everywhere that Paul goes to start a church, a band of people follow. They come in behind him and try to undo what he has worked for and to stir up trouble. Paul is about to leave Ephesus, and he knows these guys are coming. So, he calls the elders together and leaves them with these words: “I know that after my departure fierce wolves will come in among you, not sparing the flock. And from among your own selves will arise men speaking twisted things to draw away disciples after them. Be on your guard!!” There are those who would shred the church to bits, and they are supposed to watch out.
You meet this church again at the end of the Bible. In Revelation 2 they are addressed in the “seven letters to seven churches”. Jesus dictates this to the Apostle John for the Ephesians: “I know your works, your toil and your patient endurance and how you can’t bear with those who are evil but have tested those who call themselves apostles and are not and found them to be false. I know you’re enduring patiently and bearing up for my namesake and you’ve not grown weary.” It seems they have done what Paul told them to do. They are fighting for truth. But then Jesus says this: “I have this against you- you have abandoned the love that you had at first.” Fighting and defending had become the hallmark of the church. But they had become such fighters that it changed who they were. In fighting for the gospel, they had stabbed the gospel in the heart. The need to be right kills off love.
A church (even a whole denomination) can so identify itself with being defenders of the truth that it becomes harsh and intolerant. They create an environment with Christian words but filled with suspicion and fear, where if someone is different, or they don’t agree with every doctrine down the line, they feel like outsiders. It can bring a lot of shame.
My other example is from a very obscure letter in the New Testament, 3rd John. (Did you know there was a 3rd John?) It’s a short little letter written to an individual elder named Gaius. John contrasts Gaius to another elder in his church. Gaius is known for taking care of strangers, for showing hospitality. “It is a faithful thing you do in all your efforts for these brothers, strangers as they are…” Gaius welcomes.
But there is also a man named Diotrophes. “He likes to put himself first…and not content with that, he refuses to welcome the brothers and also stops those who want to and puts them out of the church.” That’s pretty over the top! I’ll bet their elder’s meetings were a real ball. Gaius and Diotrophes are in the same church.
In all three of those examples (Simon and his cronies, the Ephesian elders, Diotrophes) it is the leadership, even the orthodox leadership, that exhibits the hostility. Remember Psalm 23? The shepherds are to be hosts. They are to create a safe environment where people can flourish. They are supposed to make room for others, but in each case have created anti-welcome and the church becomes harsh.
Cultivating Welcome
The church in the beginning of Acts, the Pentacost church, is alluring. They are meeting each other’s needs. They have a one-mindedness as Jesus knits their lives together (even though they come from diverse backgrounds). And there is an intense sharing of life. “They break bread in each other’s homes with glad and generous hearts.” Hospitality. Welcome.
Eugene Peterson says this:
“It is hard to believe that this marvelous word of salvation is presently taking place in our neighborhoods, in our families, in our governments, in our schools and businesses, in our hospitals, on the roads we drive and down the corridors we walk, among people whose names we know. It is basic to the Christian faith that Jesus is, in actual fact, God among us…. Jesus keeps our feet on the ground, attentive to children, in conversation with ordinary people, sharing meals with friends and strangers, touching the sick and wounded, praying simply and unselfconsciously. Jesus insists that we deal with God right here and now, in the place we find ourselves and with the people we are with. Jesus is God here and now.”
This isn’t some 2000 year old story about the Spirit coming to some distant group of people. It’s the story about living Pentacost over and over and over in the places we live. The same story is being written on our streets that was started on the streets of Jerusalem. It all begins in the glory and shame of our lives.
When people are joining Red Mountain Church, we say it is sort of like a marriage. When you get married, you don’t marry marriage. You marry Joe. That’s the shock of it. You thought you married an idea and you come home with Joe. It’s the same thing with a church. You don’t marry the concept of the church, the ideal, you marry Red Mountain Church. The people in these chairs, in this neighborhood, in this city. We don’t practice welcome “someplace else”. We do it here, with our “feet on the ground”, this ground. Jesus has come in the guise of these people.
I recently heard Wilson Goode, the former mayor of Philadelphia, speak. He has started an organization called Amachi which works with children. He says the name is from a Nigerian phrase that goes like this: “Who knows what God has brought to us through this child?” There is an anticipation in the word that every child that crosses the threshold brings a gift from God. Beautiful.
Dr. Goode also relayed a greeting he learned from the Masai Tribe. In the South we say, “Hey!”. These tribesmen ask, “How are the children?” That seems a little odd, but they are on to something. If the children are flourishing, then we are all flourishing. If the children suffer, we all suffer.
We long to make room for children and help them flourish in the room we have made. But we can extend the definitions. To anyone who crosses the threshold, we can wonder, “who knows what God has brought to us through this person.” We can also ask, “How are the poor?” “How are the women?” “How are the marginalized?” “How are the lonely?” Because in God’s economy, if they flourish, we flourish. If they suffer, we suffer.
Have you seen the bumper sticker that says, “If you’re not mad, you’re not paying attention”? It’s true. The world is not working like it was made to. And you can get pretty overwhelmed by the brokenness of it all. If you think you are supposed to swallow it all yourself, or if you think you are responsible for all the darkness in the world, you will be paralyzed with fear.
One old saint says, “make small steps into the darkness”. Baby steps. Wilson Goode told the story of a father who’s young son wanted to play. To buy a little time to finish a project, he found a picture of a world map and cut it into pieces. “Go put this back together, and when you’re done we’ll play.” The son was back in 5 minutes. The father was surprised and asked how he did it so fast. “Well, on the back of the picture of the world, there was a picture of a man. If you put the man back together, you put the world back together.” Pretty clever.
Jim Houston says that everyone can cultivate a signature prayer. Just like your signature is unique to you alone, your prayers can become unique as well. I think that we can say the same thing about welcome and hospitality. Each church or person has unique gifts and resources. We can each pray, “God, what is the signature way that I/we can make room for others and help them to flourish in the room that we have made?” What are the ways we can bring the two conversations into sync, our words and our atmosphere?
“Welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you.”
Thursday, October 11, 2012
now i know
How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43) | ||
| by Elizabeth Barrett Browning | ||
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
| ||
Sunday, August 12, 2012
from my commonplace book
One of the accompanying losses to the loss of Steve has been the loss of the ability to sustain an extended portion of time of reading. I had coffee recently with a pre-Steve friend. She mentioned a title of a book by an author I loved, but one I had not read. Yet.
So I borrowed my mother's copy of China Court by Rumer Godden. And each day I find myself able to stay engrossed a titch longer. Two nights ago I read this:
"'Memory is the only friend of grief,' Alice, the village girl who comes as maid-companion to Tracy, writes that on one of the tombstones she designs. Alice likes ot draw tombstones for all the people she knows and Tracy colours them from her paintbox. 'Memory is the only friend of grief,' writes Alice. Tracy shows it to Mrs. Quin who says it is not true.
Even when one is stricken, much remains; often creature things; drinking good tea from a thin porcelain cup; hot baths; the smell of a wood fire, the warmth of firelight and candlelight. The sound of a stream can be consolation, thinks Mrs. Quin, or teh shape of a tree; even stricken, seh can enjoy those. To hold a skeleton leaf, see its structure, can safely lift one away fron grief for a moment, marvelling; and sunrises help, she thinks, though sunsets are dangerous, and moon and stars; they stir too much. Shells are safe, and birds and most little animals, kittens or foals especially, for they are not sentimental. Dogs sometimes know too much, though it is then, after Tracy, that she gets a new puppy, Bumble. "I have been happy in food," Mrs. Quin is able to say. How ridiculous to find consolation in food, but it is true and when one is taking those first steps back, bruised and wounded, one can read certain books, Hans Andersen, and the Psalms, Jane Austen, a few other novels. Helped by those things, life reasserts itself, as it must, even when one knows one will be stricken again: Tracy, Stace, Borowis, those are her private deepest names." (p. 79)
So I borrowed my mother's copy of China Court by Rumer Godden. And each day I find myself able to stay engrossed a titch longer. Two nights ago I read this:
"'Memory is the only friend of grief,' Alice, the village girl who comes as maid-companion to Tracy, writes that on one of the tombstones she designs. Alice likes ot draw tombstones for all the people she knows and Tracy colours them from her paintbox. 'Memory is the only friend of grief,' writes Alice. Tracy shows it to Mrs. Quin who says it is not true.
Even when one is stricken, much remains; often creature things; drinking good tea from a thin porcelain cup; hot baths; the smell of a wood fire, the warmth of firelight and candlelight. The sound of a stream can be consolation, thinks Mrs. Quin, or teh shape of a tree; even stricken, seh can enjoy those. To hold a skeleton leaf, see its structure, can safely lift one away fron grief for a moment, marvelling; and sunrises help, she thinks, though sunsets are dangerous, and moon and stars; they stir too much. Shells are safe, and birds and most little animals, kittens or foals especially, for they are not sentimental. Dogs sometimes know too much, though it is then, after Tracy, that she gets a new puppy, Bumble. "I have been happy in food," Mrs. Quin is able to say. How ridiculous to find consolation in food, but it is true and when one is taking those first steps back, bruised and wounded, one can read certain books, Hans Andersen, and the Psalms, Jane Austen, a few other novels. Helped by those things, life reasserts itself, as it must, even when one knows one will be stricken again: Tracy, Stace, Borowis, those are her private deepest names." (p. 79)
Sunday, July 22, 2012
I would have welcomed
I would have welcomed your hand in mine
as I crossed 3rd and 29th to get to my car.
Strains of our friend Charlie's banjo and his voice
in my ear.
Okra, figs, pears and blueberries
in my bag,
and vibrant oranges and pinks of zinnias and sunflowers
in my hands.
I wanted you nearer.
I imagined your height,
your side,
your face,
your gait,
your steel blue eyes.
Your affection for this street,
these farmers,
this market,
this food,
this me.
I would have welcomed your hand in mine.
as I crossed 3rd and 29th to get to my car.
Strains of our friend Charlie's banjo and his voice
in my ear.
Okra, figs, pears and blueberries
in my bag,
and vibrant oranges and pinks of zinnias and sunflowers
in my hands.
I wanted you nearer.
I imagined your height,
your side,
your face,
your gait,
your steel blue eyes.
Your affection for this street,
these farmers,
this market,
this food,
this me.
I would have welcomed your hand in mine.
Monday, July 2, 2012
the priesthood
When Steve was excommunicated he found his way to a little church in Homewood. It was funny because Steve landed there because of a friend who was a priest as well as a realtor. We used to call those people 'tentmakers' in our other life. Steve saw this man as a mentor and Mike's love for Steve healed him in many ways.
I had my own journey to this very same parish. During my months of separation and divorce I found solace in a work called 'The Catechesis of the Good Shepherd.' This is a spiritual formation way for children but it became a way for me to 'become like a little child' again and unlearn things I had heard falsely and relearn things that were true. At the time that I was going through these classes there were only 2 churches in Birmingham with Atriums. Now there are many others but at that point, I chose to attend one of the churches with the Atrium and All Saints was the one I chose.
Now when I walk in our church each Sunday I relive all of our most formative moments together - Steve's ministry of reconciliation, our confirmation, our marriage, his funeral, our weekly eucharists. Each time. The sanctuary feels dense to me. Layered. Full. I have heard that the sanctuary is built like a ship, to hold us, like an ark. Until we are taken to the other side.
A few Sundays ago I was sitting next to my mother. We listened parallel to the sermon that I am going to post here. Our home life and our growing up years offered many moments for despair or worry, but honestly, I do not remember that ever being a part of my upbringing. I whispered to her, 'You did not leave me a legacy of worry, did you?' and she said, 'No, I do not know why, but I am not a worrier.' People who know my mother are always struck by how steady and faithful and kind and generous she is. She is an avid reader, a diligent gardener, constant friend and indulgent grandmother. I have to assume that her inner life has been so fed and nurtured that she has not had much need to scramble or be frenetic in her outer one.
I have a quote by my sink that says, "Mother's love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved.' Erich Fromm. The invisible church that Steve often spoke of, that he participated in, is historically called our mother because it nourishes and protects the believer. I can honestly say that our particular, visible church is doing that as well.
I asked our priest, Glenda, if I could post her sermon here because it reminded me of one Steve could have preached. I remember sermons where Steve would talk about one's 'midnight faith.' To imagine the kind of fear Steve faced regularly and then later when making the choices he did, coupled with the faith he expressed in his ability to die well is nourishing for those of us who wait.
I had my own journey to this very same parish. During my months of separation and divorce I found solace in a work called 'The Catechesis of the Good Shepherd.' This is a spiritual formation way for children but it became a way for me to 'become like a little child' again and unlearn things I had heard falsely and relearn things that were true. At the time that I was going through these classes there were only 2 churches in Birmingham with Atriums. Now there are many others but at that point, I chose to attend one of the churches with the Atrium and All Saints was the one I chose.
Now when I walk in our church each Sunday I relive all of our most formative moments together - Steve's ministry of reconciliation, our confirmation, our marriage, his funeral, our weekly eucharists. Each time. The sanctuary feels dense to me. Layered. Full. I have heard that the sanctuary is built like a ship, to hold us, like an ark. Until we are taken to the other side.
A few Sundays ago I was sitting next to my mother. We listened parallel to the sermon that I am going to post here. Our home life and our growing up years offered many moments for despair or worry, but honestly, I do not remember that ever being a part of my upbringing. I whispered to her, 'You did not leave me a legacy of worry, did you?' and she said, 'No, I do not know why, but I am not a worrier.' People who know my mother are always struck by how steady and faithful and kind and generous she is. She is an avid reader, a diligent gardener, constant friend and indulgent grandmother. I have to assume that her inner life has been so fed and nurtured that she has not had much need to scramble or be frenetic in her outer one.
I have a quote by my sink that says, "Mother's love is peace. It need not be acquired, it need not be deserved.' Erich Fromm. The invisible church that Steve often spoke of, that he participated in, is historically called our mother because it nourishes and protects the believer. I can honestly say that our particular, visible church is doing that as well.
I asked our priest, Glenda, if I could post her sermon here because it reminded me of one Steve could have preached. I remember sermons where Steve would talk about one's 'midnight faith.' To imagine the kind of fear Steve faced regularly and then later when making the choices he did, coupled with the faith he expressed in his ability to die well is nourishing for those of us who wait.
Proper 7: yr. B, Mark 4: 35-41
Glenda Curry
June 24, 2012
I
read a description of a painting by Rembrandt, called the Storm on the Sea of
Galilee. I found a picture on the
trusty internet and it’s extraordinary.
The artist paints the faces of the disciples in their storm battered
boat so clearly that I could feel their panic. The little boat is perched on the top crest of a giant wave;
its sail and lines are torn loose from the riggings, flapping wildly in the
wind. Five disciples are
struggling to catch the torn sail, desperately holding onto the mast. The rest are on their knees in the
boat, huddled around Jesus, absolutely terrified for their lives, one is even
seasick over the side. Some are frantically shaking Jesus, trying to wake
him. Jesus’ calm expression seems
to ask, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”
You
can count fourteen people in the picture, 12 disciples and Jesus, and the
artist himself. Rembrandt paints
himself in the boat, clutching one of the broken lines, holding his head in
terror. It’s as if he’s saying
when it comes to faith and fear, we’re all in the same boat.
I
like to think of myself as faithful, rather than fearful. But my life has taught me that faith
and fear can coexist. I came from
a family that liked to worry. My
mom was a chronic, professional worrier and I learned how to worry at her
knee. Of course, she had some
things worth worrying about. Two
children to feed, no husband, no extended family help. And we didn’t talk about our
feelings, so I think worrying was how we compensated. For years my fears would wake me at night, my heart
would race and I’d tremble. Now my
fear mostly creeps in when the house gets quiet and nags, like a tired baby
whining for my attention.
There’s
a story about a little by traveling by train with his parents. They were going
to sleep in a Pullman car, the kind with berths enclosed by curtains. The mother tucked the little boy in an
upper berth, assuring him that Mommy and Daddy were sleeping in the berth just
below his. She said to her son,
“Now don’t worry. Mommy’s here and
Daddy’s here and God is here.”
As soon as the mother closed the curtains
on her son’t berth, she heard his little voice ask, “Mommy, are you still
here?” “Yes, dear.” answered his
mother. “Is Daddy still
here?” The mother answered, “Yes,
dear.” “Is God still here?” She answered, “Yes dear.”.
Five
minutes later it was the same thing and then over and over, on through the
night, until about one o’clock, when the little voice asked for the thousandth
time “Mommy, are you still here?” Suddenly a great, gruff voice roared from the
other end of the Pullman car, “yes, your mother’s here. Your Daddy’s here. Now shut up and go to sleep.” There was a moment of silence and then
the little voice asked, “Mommy, was that God?”
When
I fall prey to worry and fear, I sometimes wish God would tell my worry to shut
up and go to sleep. In today’s
gospel, the disciples experience not just worry, but terror. Most of us know what it’s like to be
scared. There’s plenty in our
world to fear. We’ve experienced
all kinds of fear; from nagging worry to maybe full-fledged panic. Fear can save our lives and keep us out
of trouble. But too much fear can
paralyze and take our lives away.
Mark
tells us a story that the Hebrew people of his day would easily understand. For
them, the sea, like life was scary.
The prophet Daniel wrote that the sea was filled with monsters and
predicted the Messiah would come and send monsters away. But Creation is good, even though the
sea is stormy one minute and calm the next. Above all they believed God was in charge.
Mark’s
listeners would hear echoes of Jonah, who was caught in a storm when he tried
to run away from God and the sea became calm only when sailors threw Jonah
overboard and he surrendered to God’s command.
Or
they’d remember the story of God parting the Red Sea to save his people. When they heard this
gospel, they’d realize the kingdom of God was coming near in Jesus. Jesus doesn’t run away from God like
Jonah instead He acts like the Messiah, calming the stormy sea.
In the worldview of disciples any kind
of trouble was due to demonic forces, servants of the evil one. When that storm came out of nowhere,
punishing them with wind, lightning, and waves, they probably thought they were
being attacked by demons. So they
weren’t just afraid of dying.
They were afraid of falling into the hands of the evil one.
And Jesus is so confident of God’s care,
he falls asleep while the storm rages, trusting God will make all things
right. God is in charge and God is
good. Now God is with us, in the
flesh, right in our boat.
The
truth is no matter how carefully we live, and believe me, I’ve tried to be
careful, life is stormy even for God’s most faithful people.
I
once prayed with parents of a little boy who fell from a tree to be healed even
when doctors said his wounds were fatal.
Did God not hear that prayer?
It’s natural to wonder, “does God really care. Is God asleep?”
I
believe God did hear their prayer.
Sometimes when I cry out to God, with my best prayer, the fearful
situation remains. Yet, I do
believe in miracles, especially the ones in the Bible. I have seen miracles, intense
manifestations of grace, in people’s lives too. I think we should pray for exactly what we want because
that’s part of honest relationship with God.
Sometimes we pray with words and
sometimes without. St. Paul
tells us many times, we are God’s children and the Spirit prays for us
sometimes, in sighs too deep for words. Faith isn’t the conviction that God will turn things
in my favor every time I ask. I
haven’t seen God intervene on anyone’s behalf predictably and regularly on
request. Miracles are mysterious
and unpredictable by definition.
Prayer has many purposes and forms and grace is almost always a
surprise.
Scripture
tells us in Jesus, God has already been every place we will ever go. In Gesthemane, in doubt, loved by his
friends, hated by enemies, abandoned, rejected, suffering in innocence and just
like the forces of evil surround the boat they’re in just now, those same
forces will storm around a cross where Jesus no doubt will wonder again, “Why
are you afraid, don’t you have faith?” Yet the storm is calmed and the tomb will be
empty. The quality of the
disciples’ faith doesn’t stop Jesus from saving them.
This
story helped me see two kinds of fear. First, there’s the fear that God is absent and they
say, “Don’t you care that we are perishing”. Someone called that the “Good Friday” fear. Then they wake Jesus and cry out
to him and their fear seems to change. After the storm is stilled, our translation says the
disciples experience “awe”.
The translation police say ‘awe’ isn’t strong enough. Better translation is “They
feared a great fear”. Someone
calls that the “Easter fear”.
When the women find the tomb empty and encounter the angel, they have
that kind of fear. It makes
sense that realizing we are in the hands of Almighty God calls for some Easter
fear. That seems appropriate
and real.
One
interesting speculation about today’s story says, when Jesus says, “Peace be
still”, maybe he’s not just talking to the waves. Maybe he’s saying to the disciples, “Hush, get hold of
yourselves.” And they did what he
said.
The
miracle wasn’t only Jesus calming the storm, but Jesus calming the
disciples. I’ve seen that
happen. When we find ourselves
walking through storms with grace and peace beyond our ability. An old hymn says, “Sometimes he
calms the storm with a whispered peace be still. He can settle any sea, but it doesn’t mean he will. Sometimes he holds us close and lets
the wind and waves go wild.
Sometimes he calms the storm and other times he calms his child.”
I
read about a man and wife who were passengers in a small plane in trouble. As
they were about to make an emergency the couple joined hands and said this
prayer: “The light of God surrounds us.
The love of God enfolds us.
The power of God protects us. The presence of God watches over us. Wherever we are, God is.”
As
they landed the man said, the prayer wasn’t meant to say that everything would
turn out all right. What they meant to say was that they knew they were in
God’s care, whether they lived or died.
Jesus asks God to spare him from the cross. Instead God gave him the strength to endure it.
This
morning we sit in the Nave.
The name comes from the Latin word for ship. The beams in our ceiling resemble like the beams the beams
in the bow of a great ship.
So when it comes to our faith and following Jesus, you can say we are
literally all in the same boat. We need each other. As we tell our children in the atrium, that’s the plan
of God. The disciples didn’t
confront their fear or awe alone.
God gave them each other and God’s grace softened terror into a graceful
faith.
Each
week as the Body of Christ we share bread, wine and prayers to remind each
other to trust God when storms hit.
Loving through grief, hurt, fear and joy. Just as Jesus was with the disciples, calming the storm,
calming them, God is with us and God is for us. Whatever we face, God’s grace is working this day, stilling
our fears and making us new creations.
Amen
The Reverend Glenda Curry
June 24, 2012
Proper 7 year B
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
It is almost time.....
to close this blog.
I feel it.
The parts of this story that I don't mind making public are dwindling to a trickle. The relief in being able to bear it, to know we have survived a year without him and most likely will another is a strengthening knowing.
I have a few posts I have started but never finished left in the queue. I think I will tend to them in the next weeks or so and then find a way to consider this place sealed.
A dear friend sent me this reading in honor of the one year mark:
"Easter is a feast, and it is as the feast of freedom that it is celebrated. For with Easter begins the laughter of the redeemed, the dance of the liberated and the creative play of fantasy. From time immemorial Easter hymns have celebrated the victory of life by laughing at death, mocking at hell, and ridiculing the mighty ones who spread fear and terror around them.
Easter is the feast of freedom. It makes the life which it touches a festal life. 'The risen Christ makes life a perpetual feast,' said Athanasius. But can the whole of life really be a feast? Even life's dark side - death, guilt, senseless suffering? I think it can. Once we realize that the giver of this feast is the outcast suffering, crucified Son of Man, from Nazareth, then every 'no' is absorbed into this profound 'yes,' and is swallowed up in its victory.
Easter is at one and the same time God's protest against death, and the feast of freedom from death. Anyone who fails to hold these two things together has failed to understand teh resurrection of the Christ who was crucified. Resistance is the protest of those who hope, and the hope is the feast of the people who resist. " Jurgen Moltmann
I feel it.
The parts of this story that I don't mind making public are dwindling to a trickle. The relief in being able to bear it, to know we have survived a year without him and most likely will another is a strengthening knowing.
I have a few posts I have started but never finished left in the queue. I think I will tend to them in the next weeks or so and then find a way to consider this place sealed.
A dear friend sent me this reading in honor of the one year mark:
"Easter is a feast, and it is as the feast of freedom that it is celebrated. For with Easter begins the laughter of the redeemed, the dance of the liberated and the creative play of fantasy. From time immemorial Easter hymns have celebrated the victory of life by laughing at death, mocking at hell, and ridiculing the mighty ones who spread fear and terror around them.
Easter is the feast of freedom. It makes the life which it touches a festal life. 'The risen Christ makes life a perpetual feast,' said Athanasius. But can the whole of life really be a feast? Even life's dark side - death, guilt, senseless suffering? I think it can. Once we realize that the giver of this feast is the outcast suffering, crucified Son of Man, from Nazareth, then every 'no' is absorbed into this profound 'yes,' and is swallowed up in its victory.
Easter is at one and the same time God's protest against death, and the feast of freedom from death. Anyone who fails to hold these two things together has failed to understand teh resurrection of the Christ who was crucified. Resistance is the protest of those who hope, and the hope is the feast of the people who resist. " Jurgen Moltmann
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