In the story of the Transfiguration in the Bible, Jesus instructs the few disciples he has with them "not to talk about it." I've always wondered why that was. At one point, I thought it might be because Jesus knew that if they told the truth of what they saw and heard on that mountain, people would think they were insane and they would be rejected and stigmatized even more than they already were. At another reading, I thought perhaps Jesus was tired of people chasing after him. After all, he is/was human, and I'm sure he was worn out and tired. At yet another time, I thought perhaps it was reverse psychology - "Don't tell." Wink, wink. Today as I listened to another discussion of this event, it occurred to me. Perhaps none of these explanations make sense to me in the here and now. (Warning: this latest thought is subject to, and most likely will, change without warning.)
There are certain experiences in life humans get to have that are simply inexplicable. The birth of a child, the tragedy of great loss (whether to death or other circumstances), falling in love. These experiences are the subject of poetry, bad country music songs and much discussion. But really, nothing does them justice. It's just not possible to put into words, song or painting what it feels like to hold your newborn child in your arms. Breathing in her scent, gazing at him, feeling a child's weight in your arms for the first time. It is an experience that surpasses expression. It is not possible to explain it adequately to another person. No matter how artfully one tries, the experience is too rich, too textured, too beautiful to put into words that make sense to anyone who has not experienced the same event. And even someone who has experienced the same event will have a different experience and the words that I think are helpful in describing the experience may mean nothing to someone else.
I was reminded of this reality recently when it became clear to me I was falling in love again. It has been a very, very long time since I felt this way about a man. At first I wasn't even certain what to think or how to feel about it. I had the long-forgotten butterflies in my belly and I wasn't able to hold an ordinary thought in my head. I wasn't able to eat much and all I could think about was this man's voice in my mind. The term "falling" seemed to fit perfectly for this out-of-control state of being more than alive. The more I tried to be logical and resist these feelings, the more profoundly they became made manifest. Despite just having spent the past 5 minutes trying to explain how I have felt this past month, my words do not serve any real purpose. If you've ever fell in love, you might be able to relate...but your experience is undoubtedly different from mine. That's just part of being all too human. And mostly I don't want to try and express how I feel to anyone but my beloved, because it almost seems to cheapen the experience. How can one explain the fire in the belly that is part of falling in love? What words are there to use? If I were a painter, I could paint you a picture...but still my hues and designs would not bring to life how I feel about this man clearly enough.
All of this to say, I can't help but think that Jesus got this. I wonder when he told the disciples to "not tell anyone" if implicit in his instruction was the idea that no one else would get it. After all seeing some one's clothes change colors and seeing dead people wasn't what most of us would think of as an ordinary day. I think Jesus understood that some experiences in life are so amazing and incredible and beautiful...that all the discussion in the world will never do them justice. We can try to find the words, we can create a painting and write incredible melodies...but still we cannot fully put the experience into anything that makes sense to anyone but us and the other in our experience. I think Jesus lived his life fully alive...and therefore he had these sorts of experiences regularly. And yet he spent little time trying to explain the events of his life to others. The Bible indicates he wept at the death of his friend. That he sweated blood on the final night before his execution. That he expressed anger. But you don't find him waxing on eloquently about his life experiences. He doesn't appear to try and convince anyone about the amazing nature of life.
I suppose my latest thoughts about the Transfiguration are colored by my latest thoughts about finding love and then perhaps losing love in short order. But I can't help but think Jesus got it. Most simply put...there are no words. And so then why force them? Of course I recognize my "Peterish" way of looking at the world - I need to say something. I must try and stammer my way through explanations and lovely turns of phrase simply to ultimately admit there are no words to describe the feelings and experiences of life. I think Jesus got this, and rather than try and explain what was happening to him, he avoided the cliches and catchy phrases to describe what was indescribable. And he gave us an incredible gift in doing this...we can have the experiences for ourselves. We can create music and art and prose to try and expound on how we feel (perhaps being a little like Peter). And then we can find the silence where our own thoughts and feelings about the experiences of life are quieted, perhaps even suspended somewhere between earth and heaven. And we can be grateful for the experience in that suspended space.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Sex
Lately it seems, it's everywhere I turn. Sex.
Recently some children were visiting in my home with my children. One of them asked me if "my man" had bought my house for me. To his surprise (and maybe my own), I blushed a little and then laughed. No, my man wasn't the owner of my house. And by the way I don't have "a man."
I read a blog about how women in many evangelical circles these days are viewed as the "weaker vessels" and therefore unable to resist men if said men want to have sex with them. Apparently our free will flies right out the window in the presence of a penis.
It reminded me of the gender issues of my childhood brand of Christianity...that is...if a man strayed in his marriage, it was because a temptress had taken over somehow. He couldn't help himself. Men could not be expected to control their carnal urges when women flaunt themselves in front of them.
This reminded me of the women I know who think a man is incapable of being faithful and monogamous, because they are, well, men. And that reminded me of men who think women are all secretly lusting after some other man, not their mate.
This reminded me of the demise of my own marriage and how I spent a long time thinking about what all I had done wrong, and how perhaps my yo-yo weight lead my husband to look elsewhere for sex.
This reminded me of recently watching my 8 year old daughter flirt with 14 year old boys, and how uneasy it made me. That she already felt the need to try and impress these boys with her charm and lip gloss.
This reminded me of all the conversations I've had with female friends that have included some sort of discussion of men and how they want sex too often and how
"we" don't need sex nearly as often as "they" do.
This reminded me of how, in the end, societally speaking, it comes back to a few assumptions. None of which are flattering to women. Or flattering to me.
First, women are really only here to meet men's desires for sex. Second, we are on one hand really powerless and yet we hold all the power when it comes to sex. Of course neither position is tenable. Third, the pressure to be "desirable" or "acceptable" to men is so pervasive and strong, I'm unsure if my daughter will learn any of things I want her to learn when it comes to relationships, sex, men.
When I was still a young girl, I remember having so many ideas about men and sex and marriage and babies. From my earliest memories, my father used to talk about women being whores. My brother was supposed to avoid pornography, because having that around the house would "turn your sister into a whore." I was to avoid boys because all they wanted was sex, and they didn't really like girls. "If you kiss on boys, you'll end up pregnant." I thought I was pregnant when I was 9 years old because I let Kenny, the kid down the street, kiss me. I spent months looking at my belly in the mirror, trying to think of what I would say when I had a baby at 10. While the kiss from Kenny wasn't much to write home about, it made me feel special. Loved. Worthy, somehow. A few years later, it became evident to me that men sometimes just took what they wanted from you. And as I had no say about that, neither would I have say about whether a man would "pick me." I remember in my female-dominated college feeling as if I needed to dumb it down so that men would desire me more.
Even now, all these years later, there is a certain discomfort I feel when someone says I'm single. While I am, and I chose to be, this feels a bit like when Kenny kissed Terri. Even though I had rebuffed his advances, I knew he had chosen her over me. And it hurt. I wanted to be desired. Deep down, I suppose I still do. But yet, that desire...to be desired...still feels a little like being a whore. Good girls don't want sex, do they?
While I would like to claim to be highly evolved. Afterall I'm a feminist. I'm a lawyer. I'm raising children on my own. And still, there is some sense of shame in being alone, not having "my man" to buy me a house. And perhaps even more shame in admitting wanting to be wanted.
I want more. More for my daughter. More than the tired old stereotypes and strange misconceptions I know about sex. I want more for me. I still want to believe that people, men and women, can be well-intentioned and good and decent and loving. And that sex has a place in there somewhere.
Recently some children were visiting in my home with my children. One of them asked me if "my man" had bought my house for me. To his surprise (and maybe my own), I blushed a little and then laughed. No, my man wasn't the owner of my house. And by the way I don't have "a man."
I read a blog about how women in many evangelical circles these days are viewed as the "weaker vessels" and therefore unable to resist men if said men want to have sex with them. Apparently our free will flies right out the window in the presence of a penis.
It reminded me of the gender issues of my childhood brand of Christianity...that is...if a man strayed in his marriage, it was because a temptress had taken over somehow. He couldn't help himself. Men could not be expected to control their carnal urges when women flaunt themselves in front of them.
This reminded me of the women I know who think a man is incapable of being faithful and monogamous, because they are, well, men. And that reminded me of men who think women are all secretly lusting after some other man, not their mate.
This reminded me of the demise of my own marriage and how I spent a long time thinking about what all I had done wrong, and how perhaps my yo-yo weight lead my husband to look elsewhere for sex.
This reminded me of recently watching my 8 year old daughter flirt with 14 year old boys, and how uneasy it made me. That she already felt the need to try and impress these boys with her charm and lip gloss.
This reminded me of all the conversations I've had with female friends that have included some sort of discussion of men and how they want sex too often and how
"we" don't need sex nearly as often as "they" do.
This reminded me of how, in the end, societally speaking, it comes back to a few assumptions. None of which are flattering to women. Or flattering to me.
First, women are really only here to meet men's desires for sex. Second, we are on one hand really powerless and yet we hold all the power when it comes to sex. Of course neither position is tenable. Third, the pressure to be "desirable" or "acceptable" to men is so pervasive and strong, I'm unsure if my daughter will learn any of things I want her to learn when it comes to relationships, sex, men.
When I was still a young girl, I remember having so many ideas about men and sex and marriage and babies. From my earliest memories, my father used to talk about women being whores. My brother was supposed to avoid pornography, because having that around the house would "turn your sister into a whore." I was to avoid boys because all they wanted was sex, and they didn't really like girls. "If you kiss on boys, you'll end up pregnant." I thought I was pregnant when I was 9 years old because I let Kenny, the kid down the street, kiss me. I spent months looking at my belly in the mirror, trying to think of what I would say when I had a baby at 10. While the kiss from Kenny wasn't much to write home about, it made me feel special. Loved. Worthy, somehow. A few years later, it became evident to me that men sometimes just took what they wanted from you. And as I had no say about that, neither would I have say about whether a man would "pick me." I remember in my female-dominated college feeling as if I needed to dumb it down so that men would desire me more.
Even now, all these years later, there is a certain discomfort I feel when someone says I'm single. While I am, and I chose to be, this feels a bit like when Kenny kissed Terri. Even though I had rebuffed his advances, I knew he had chosen her over me. And it hurt. I wanted to be desired. Deep down, I suppose I still do. But yet, that desire...to be desired...still feels a little like being a whore. Good girls don't want sex, do they?
While I would like to claim to be highly evolved. Afterall I'm a feminist. I'm a lawyer. I'm raising children on my own. And still, there is some sense of shame in being alone, not having "my man" to buy me a house. And perhaps even more shame in admitting wanting to be wanted.
I want more. More for my daughter. More than the tired old stereotypes and strange misconceptions I know about sex. I want more for me. I still want to believe that people, men and women, can be well-intentioned and good and decent and loving. And that sex has a place in there somewhere.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Leaving
As I've struggled to find words in the past few months...or at least words to write anyway...I've been largely unsettled. At first I didn't identify what it was I was feeling, but now I remember this. Unsettled.
Ordinarily unsettled would be a bad word for me, but not at this moment. At this moment, it actually seems highly appropriate and a welcome time in life.
The past few years have been out about settling in. Adjusting to being divorced. Adjusting to being mom and dad to my kids 95% of the time. Adjusting to a different church community. Adjusting to a new set of friends and peers in my career. Finally about a year ago, I began to realize, by and large I was settled again. And it was a nice change, turnabout. It made sense.
Now, in the normal course of life, change comes again. More and more I have felt a change coming. I'm not getting re-married, my kids are still the priority of my life. But, I have realized that the faith community I find myself involved in isn't really what I need. And in the same moment, I realize the community is also not what I want. The needs I had, the needs they had...they coalesced briefly. But, now, it seems more and more that leaving really is the next step. It's not a running away sort of thing. It's time to move on.
I find myself preparing for the journey I know is coming. I'm being lulled out of the comfortable, roomy place I have been hanging out in for the past few years. Instead of that making me uneasy, it actually makes a lot of sense at this moment, in this time.
The church I've lighted at the past few years is a nice place to visit. But ultimately I don't fit in a permanent way. I'm not a lifelong Episcopalian. While I still find myself drawn to the Episcopal Church, I don't find myself drawn to the small, often inwardly-focused sort of place I currently myself in. The debates over programs and liturgy are not meaningful for me. While I have found myself drawn into the discussions at times, I don't feel drawn in because this is my family. Rather, I feel drawn in because I think I can help. And of course that's not really relationship. Everyone needs a community. I have to believe that in fact I'm like most other folks, I'm made for community. The question is what community? When? How does it look?
The only community I really think is authentic is one formed out of relationship. While commonality is useful, it really has little to do with community. When I think of my circle of friends - the ones that are also friends with one another - while we share some commonality - our relationships are not built on the foundation of need. Instead we are a community because we want to be. There is a desire to be with one another. A want - to be involved in each other's lives. I want to know these people better. I want to share our journeys - because I have presence/presents to offer them and I am able to receive from them those things that make me a better person. This community is gift. While it has its share of difficulties, miscues and pain, it is by and large a great thing.
Each community in my life seems to be present for a reason, a season or some such thing. What I feel called to these days is a faith community that it outwardly focused. Where we meet, who's in charge or how it looks isn't really of much concern to me. What is of concern to me is what the point is. Is the point to build relationships with the least of these? Is the point social justice? Is the point to serve others first, and ourselves last? I sure hope there is such a thing. That's where I want to go. And if it doesn't exist, then God help me, I feel the need to create such a community.
So, for once in my life, change actually seems imminent, and it's not making me queasy. I know something that can exceed my expectations waits, just down the road. And rather than staying for the sake of proving I can stay, I look forward to leaving in search of a new sense of being settled.
Ordinarily unsettled would be a bad word for me, but not at this moment. At this moment, it actually seems highly appropriate and a welcome time in life.
The past few years have been out about settling in. Adjusting to being divorced. Adjusting to being mom and dad to my kids 95% of the time. Adjusting to a different church community. Adjusting to a new set of friends and peers in my career. Finally about a year ago, I began to realize, by and large I was settled again. And it was a nice change, turnabout. It made sense.
Now, in the normal course of life, change comes again. More and more I have felt a change coming. I'm not getting re-married, my kids are still the priority of my life. But, I have realized that the faith community I find myself involved in isn't really what I need. And in the same moment, I realize the community is also not what I want. The needs I had, the needs they had...they coalesced briefly. But, now, it seems more and more that leaving really is the next step. It's not a running away sort of thing. It's time to move on.
I find myself preparing for the journey I know is coming. I'm being lulled out of the comfortable, roomy place I have been hanging out in for the past few years. Instead of that making me uneasy, it actually makes a lot of sense at this moment, in this time.
The church I've lighted at the past few years is a nice place to visit. But ultimately I don't fit in a permanent way. I'm not a lifelong Episcopalian. While I still find myself drawn to the Episcopal Church, I don't find myself drawn to the small, often inwardly-focused sort of place I currently myself in. The debates over programs and liturgy are not meaningful for me. While I have found myself drawn into the discussions at times, I don't feel drawn in because this is my family. Rather, I feel drawn in because I think I can help. And of course that's not really relationship. Everyone needs a community. I have to believe that in fact I'm like most other folks, I'm made for community. The question is what community? When? How does it look?
The only community I really think is authentic is one formed out of relationship. While commonality is useful, it really has little to do with community. When I think of my circle of friends - the ones that are also friends with one another - while we share some commonality - our relationships are not built on the foundation of need. Instead we are a community because we want to be. There is a desire to be with one another. A want - to be involved in each other's lives. I want to know these people better. I want to share our journeys - because I have presence/presents to offer them and I am able to receive from them those things that make me a better person. This community is gift. While it has its share of difficulties, miscues and pain, it is by and large a great thing.
Each community in my life seems to be present for a reason, a season or some such thing. What I feel called to these days is a faith community that it outwardly focused. Where we meet, who's in charge or how it looks isn't really of much concern to me. What is of concern to me is what the point is. Is the point to build relationships with the least of these? Is the point social justice? Is the point to serve others first, and ourselves last? I sure hope there is such a thing. That's where I want to go. And if it doesn't exist, then God help me, I feel the need to create such a community.
So, for once in my life, change actually seems imminent, and it's not making me queasy. I know something that can exceed my expectations waits, just down the road. And rather than staying for the sake of proving I can stay, I look forward to leaving in search of a new sense of being settled.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Resurrection
I've had a hard time writing for the past few months. Part of my issue is that I feel somewhat exposed in the past year. I have kept this blog largely hidden from most people I know. It felt safer and more secure to write in obscurity. I didn't have to be concerned about being confronted by my writing by anyone. As people have discovered the blog, whether on purpose or by accident, I have had to contend with feeling as if my thoughts and feelings are really "out there" for anyone who has the inclination to look. This is not comforting. Still, I have felt the need to begin again (again). When I started writing in this forum, well over two years now, it was a place to record the difficulties of my life at that time without fear of having to "explain" myself to anyone. I was in a tough spot - my marriage was ending, I felt something new beginning, but couldn't identify what it was, I had started a law practice and was still concerned about survival.
A lot has changed in the past nearly three years. And yet, much remains as it was. I'm divorced, and most days the trauma of that event feels as if it is over. My children are thriving. I am still managing a law practice that continues to pay me enough to support my children and I comfortably. And largely I have realized that my vocation has little to do "change" at this moment in my life.
The issue that most stands out as "needing to be dealt with" these days is my weight. I've regaled myself (and lots of other people) with my up and down weight stories. I've lost and gained numerous times. The last time I lost, I lost big. About 140 pounds. It took 2 years, but I felt physically great. Mentally and emotionally I couldn't get my act together. I still felt over 300 pounds. I weighed myself obsessively. I couldn't stop thinking about calories and exercise and weight loss. Slowly, over two years, the weight came back. I've regained approximately 85 pounds. My focus went away as quickly as it had come. My singular focus became my divorce, children and life.
The past few months my weight has begun to really bother me. I feel like a giant in a small world. I'm making myself sick overeating. I'm vomiting, having heartburn and having other physical symptom that make it clear I'm eating myself to death. I'm struggling to walk very far, losing my breath and have aching feet on a daily basis. I realize that the time has again come to make some changes.
Ultimately I'm not certain I know how to do this again. Of course I know how to count calories and work out and do all of the things that must happen to coax my body to shed the weight. It seems to me though that there is more to understand or know.
I've been reading several books that reference the 12 steps lately. I can't help but think this goes beyond coincidence. I'm not certain how it works next. But, I seem to be "being resurrected" in a lot of different ways. Now what?
A lot has changed in the past nearly three years. And yet, much remains as it was. I'm divorced, and most days the trauma of that event feels as if it is over. My children are thriving. I am still managing a law practice that continues to pay me enough to support my children and I comfortably. And largely I have realized that my vocation has little to do "change" at this moment in my life.
The issue that most stands out as "needing to be dealt with" these days is my weight. I've regaled myself (and lots of other people) with my up and down weight stories. I've lost and gained numerous times. The last time I lost, I lost big. About 140 pounds. It took 2 years, but I felt physically great. Mentally and emotionally I couldn't get my act together. I still felt over 300 pounds. I weighed myself obsessively. I couldn't stop thinking about calories and exercise and weight loss. Slowly, over two years, the weight came back. I've regained approximately 85 pounds. My focus went away as quickly as it had come. My singular focus became my divorce, children and life.
The past few months my weight has begun to really bother me. I feel like a giant in a small world. I'm making myself sick overeating. I'm vomiting, having heartburn and having other physical symptom that make it clear I'm eating myself to death. I'm struggling to walk very far, losing my breath and have aching feet on a daily basis. I realize that the time has again come to make some changes.
Ultimately I'm not certain I know how to do this again. Of course I know how to count calories and work out and do all of the things that must happen to coax my body to shed the weight. It seems to me though that there is more to understand or know.
I've been reading several books that reference the 12 steps lately. I can't help but think this goes beyond coincidence. I'm not certain how it works next. But, I seem to be "being resurrected" in a lot of different ways. Now what?
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Community
Every now and again I have a moment of clarity that seems a tad negative...even for a girl who considers herself to be at least somewhat cynical. Still this morning at the place I attend church each Sunday, I was moved to think "what if?" with not just a little skepticism about what the church (as I've experienced it - mainline denomination-style)can do and offer those of us who have by and large outgrown the institution and don't feel quite at home anymore.
Each week during the principal service in my parish we have a few moments in the middle of the service (post-sermon, pre-Eucharist) where we offer prayers for people who had a birthday that week or for people who are going to be traveling somewhere. We also offer prayers for people who are celebrating their wedding anniversaries. I've always kind of liked this part of the service - many of the members of my church are pretty advanced in age. I feel like they deserve to be celebrated along with the children, who often seem to be growing up before my eyes.
Today, after the usual birthday and traveling prayers, our priest asked if anyone had an anniversary to celebrate. A young man who has just recently begun attending services with us got up and said he was celebrating his third anniversary of "working." Some of the folks who are ordinarily in our midst looked at one another and rolled their eyes at this "newbie." A few seemed happy with his announcement. Our priest quickly offered a prayer for him, and we moved on to Eucharist. This young man has been playing guitar (and some other instruments) with an outreach program of the parish for the past year or so. I've seen him and spoke to him at some of the recitals and performances of the group.
It occurred to me, again, how much it seems we in the church (or perhaps in my church) are missing the message about community that Jesus seemed so hellbent on modeling. What if...we were a place where people could stand up and announce their sobriety anniversary, whether it was one day, one month, one year? What if we could share, out loud, that we are struggling with what to do with our feelings about heaven, hell and the afterlife and not fear being labeled a heretic? What would happen if someone stood up and announced to the community his infidelity and asked the group to heal both he and his spouse? How would we, as a community, be different if we were able to actually speak of such raw, painful things with the people we say are our community? It would seem we would be much closer. We would be much more invested in one another.
The realistic part of me recognizes the danger in such openness. Of course it invites judgment, and sometimes further isolation. Still, it seems in my other close communities (albeit these are smaller groups of folks)...if someone has a particularly bad weekend, or something really great happens or someone is struggling with a health issue...we all talk about it. We text each other, we talk on the phone, we email jokes about it. We may laugh, we might cry, but ultimately we care for one another. Of course nothing is perfect, still it seems that we know how to love each other pretty well most days. Still, it seems the church isn't by design a place to be honest with each other or to love each other unconditionally. How paradoxical.
This strikes me as tragic. After all what's the point? As someone at the festival I was at recently articulated better than I can...do you really think God needs you to say the right words or praise Him/Her? Do you think Jesus is concerned with praise songs and lovely sentiments shared aloud? Really? Is that what we were made for? I don't think so. We were designed for community - we were meant for one another. How can we care for one another if we don't really even know one another? If I'm unaware of my brother's struggles, how do I pray for him? How do I love him? Love implies a certain level of intimacy. A certain knowledge. While I recognize this is risky, difficult stuff, I can't help but think it's what Jesus called us to, as the church.
I've been fascinated with Mary Magdalene for a long time. Her feast day just passed a few days ago. Depending upon who you believe (the Catholics vs. Orthodox) after Jesus died, she disappeared. She lived her last 30 years in a cave in the southern part of France. She was so distraught at the loss of her Jesus (and my interpretation)her community, that she lived in isolation, where she allegedly had many divine experiences of Jesus in her final years, but ones that were mostly alone.
My point in throwing Mary into all of this talk about community is to say that her passion for this Jewish carpenter was so strong, that when he was no longer there in the flesh, she ran to a cave to hide out from the world. Community was no longer something she could take the risk to commit to. I find this very tragic. And yet, I get it. Community is hard. It's counter-intuitive. It's radical. It requires a commitment, an openness, a mercy that I cannot always find in my own heart. It's complicated and messy. It can't be accomplished in an hour on Sunday morning. It probably can't be accomplished completely in a lifetime. Still, I find this more and more, my call.
To be part of...to build...to grow...to encourage...perhaps even to dare to love those that are around me...to build community, one life at a time. Even when it's hard or seems complicated and messy. While I'd like to think I'm a peacemaker at heart, I recognize my own hard-headed-ness enough to know that I, too, need growing up, transformation, conversion. At the end of the day, I hope I get there. And I hope I'm surrounded by other people who are just as confused, befuddled, amazed, humbled, scared, thrilled as I am to be there and to be there, together.
Each week during the principal service in my parish we have a few moments in the middle of the service (post-sermon, pre-Eucharist) where we offer prayers for people who had a birthday that week or for people who are going to be traveling somewhere. We also offer prayers for people who are celebrating their wedding anniversaries. I've always kind of liked this part of the service - many of the members of my church are pretty advanced in age. I feel like they deserve to be celebrated along with the children, who often seem to be growing up before my eyes.
Today, after the usual birthday and traveling prayers, our priest asked if anyone had an anniversary to celebrate. A young man who has just recently begun attending services with us got up and said he was celebrating his third anniversary of "working." Some of the folks who are ordinarily in our midst looked at one another and rolled their eyes at this "newbie." A few seemed happy with his announcement. Our priest quickly offered a prayer for him, and we moved on to Eucharist. This young man has been playing guitar (and some other instruments) with an outreach program of the parish for the past year or so. I've seen him and spoke to him at some of the recitals and performances of the group.
It occurred to me, again, how much it seems we in the church (or perhaps in my church) are missing the message about community that Jesus seemed so hellbent on modeling. What if...we were a place where people could stand up and announce their sobriety anniversary, whether it was one day, one month, one year? What if we could share, out loud, that we are struggling with what to do with our feelings about heaven, hell and the afterlife and not fear being labeled a heretic? What would happen if someone stood up and announced to the community his infidelity and asked the group to heal both he and his spouse? How would we, as a community, be different if we were able to actually speak of such raw, painful things with the people we say are our community? It would seem we would be much closer. We would be much more invested in one another.
The realistic part of me recognizes the danger in such openness. Of course it invites judgment, and sometimes further isolation. Still, it seems in my other close communities (albeit these are smaller groups of folks)...if someone has a particularly bad weekend, or something really great happens or someone is struggling with a health issue...we all talk about it. We text each other, we talk on the phone, we email jokes about it. We may laugh, we might cry, but ultimately we care for one another. Of course nothing is perfect, still it seems that we know how to love each other pretty well most days. Still, it seems the church isn't by design a place to be honest with each other or to love each other unconditionally. How paradoxical.
This strikes me as tragic. After all what's the point? As someone at the festival I was at recently articulated better than I can...do you really think God needs you to say the right words or praise Him/Her? Do you think Jesus is concerned with praise songs and lovely sentiments shared aloud? Really? Is that what we were made for? I don't think so. We were designed for community - we were meant for one another. How can we care for one another if we don't really even know one another? If I'm unaware of my brother's struggles, how do I pray for him? How do I love him? Love implies a certain level of intimacy. A certain knowledge. While I recognize this is risky, difficult stuff, I can't help but think it's what Jesus called us to, as the church.
I've been fascinated with Mary Magdalene for a long time. Her feast day just passed a few days ago. Depending upon who you believe (the Catholics vs. Orthodox) after Jesus died, she disappeared. She lived her last 30 years in a cave in the southern part of France. She was so distraught at the loss of her Jesus (and my interpretation)her community, that she lived in isolation, where she allegedly had many divine experiences of Jesus in her final years, but ones that were mostly alone.
My point in throwing Mary into all of this talk about community is to say that her passion for this Jewish carpenter was so strong, that when he was no longer there in the flesh, she ran to a cave to hide out from the world. Community was no longer something she could take the risk to commit to. I find this very tragic. And yet, I get it. Community is hard. It's counter-intuitive. It's radical. It requires a commitment, an openness, a mercy that I cannot always find in my own heart. It's complicated and messy. It can't be accomplished in an hour on Sunday morning. It probably can't be accomplished completely in a lifetime. Still, I find this more and more, my call.
To be part of...to build...to grow...to encourage...perhaps even to dare to love those that are around me...to build community, one life at a time. Even when it's hard or seems complicated and messy. While I'd like to think I'm a peacemaker at heart, I recognize my own hard-headed-ness enough to know that I, too, need growing up, transformation, conversion. At the end of the day, I hope I get there. And I hope I'm surrounded by other people who are just as confused, befuddled, amazed, humbled, scared, thrilled as I am to be there and to be there, together.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
I heart Jay Bakker and Peter Rollins...all at the same time.
I traveled east this past week to attend the Wild Goose Festival. I had heard about the Goose some time ago, and knew I wanted to be there for this first-time event. I coerced (gently) my best friend from college to go with me. I picked her up in Nashville, and we had a good time laughing and talking all the way to North Carolina. I was longing for something...a connection to something bigger. A renewal of hope and of love. The schedule was jam-packed with all sorts of folks I have read about, friended on Facebook and admired from a distance. Shane Claiborne, Tony Campolo, Brian McLaren, Ashley Cleveland and the list goes on and on.
I must confess something. I have a minor crush on Peter Rollins. It may be the Irish accent or the fact that he gestures even more than I do when he talks - or that he's brilliant...I'm not sure. Regardless, one of the things I looked forward to was listening to some new ideas of his that he was going to present at the Wild Goose.
My second confession...I also have a thing for Jay Bakker. I came upon his first book some six months ago, and have followed his sermon-writing and second book closely. For entirely different reasons, I like Jay. He's the adorable bad boy with the tattoos and loud music. He seems to wear his broken heart on his sleeve. He and Peter and I are members of the same generation. One man appeals to my emotions - my desire for grace above all. The other appeals to my thoughts - and challenges my ways of looking at faith, doubt and the complexity of both.
The weekend was fun - it was good to listen to voices I've heard and read before - like Nadia Bolz-Weber, Shane Claiborne, Becca Stevens and Richard Rohr. It was maybe even more fun to meet new voices that I had not heard before like Ian Cron (what a fantastic storyteller!) and Karyn Wiseman (she's a smart cookie).
Ultimately though, I awaited the talks/sermons/ruminations of...Pete and Jay. I had already heard Pete speak in Springfield, Missouri in an academic setting back in October. I've listened to some of Jay's sermons online, but I had never seen Jay in person or heard him speak.
Ultimately I can only say this about my experience with my favorites. For as different as these two fellows may be in their approaches to speaking...they represent the best of emergent church, faith, grace and life for me. Pete is my inner mind talking - things are not always as they seem - or perhaps they are...but they may not exist at all. Jay is my heart speaking what I only dare hope at times -that there is a love and grace big enough to hold me and ultimately us all.
I'm so grateful to have been there for the first of what I hope will be many more Wild Goose Festivals. And I hope that the message that I received is the same one that gets communicated year after year, decade upon decade to each new generation of geese lovers - God loves us with a ferocity that seems impossible and that we in turn are able to love one another and our world with a wild and mystical love.
I must confess something. I have a minor crush on Peter Rollins. It may be the Irish accent or the fact that he gestures even more than I do when he talks - or that he's brilliant...I'm not sure. Regardless, one of the things I looked forward to was listening to some new ideas of his that he was going to present at the Wild Goose.
My second confession...I also have a thing for Jay Bakker. I came upon his first book some six months ago, and have followed his sermon-writing and second book closely. For entirely different reasons, I like Jay. He's the adorable bad boy with the tattoos and loud music. He seems to wear his broken heart on his sleeve. He and Peter and I are members of the same generation. One man appeals to my emotions - my desire for grace above all. The other appeals to my thoughts - and challenges my ways of looking at faith, doubt and the complexity of both.
The weekend was fun - it was good to listen to voices I've heard and read before - like Nadia Bolz-Weber, Shane Claiborne, Becca Stevens and Richard Rohr. It was maybe even more fun to meet new voices that I had not heard before like Ian Cron (what a fantastic storyteller!) and Karyn Wiseman (she's a smart cookie).
Ultimately though, I awaited the talks/sermons/ruminations of...Pete and Jay. I had already heard Pete speak in Springfield, Missouri in an academic setting back in October. I've listened to some of Jay's sermons online, but I had never seen Jay in person or heard him speak.
Ultimately I can only say this about my experience with my favorites. For as different as these two fellows may be in their approaches to speaking...they represent the best of emergent church, faith, grace and life for me. Pete is my inner mind talking - things are not always as they seem - or perhaps they are...but they may not exist at all. Jay is my heart speaking what I only dare hope at times -that there is a love and grace big enough to hold me and ultimately us all.
I'm so grateful to have been there for the first of what I hope will be many more Wild Goose Festivals. And I hope that the message that I received is the same one that gets communicated year after year, decade upon decade to each new generation of geese lovers - God loves us with a ferocity that seems impossible and that we in turn are able to love one another and our world with a wild and mystical love.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Faith of my father
Today is Father's Day. I did the obligatory thing. I bought my dad a gift card and his favorite pie from the bakery. I had my kids color some stuff and we took it all down to him. On the ride to his home, I thought about my ambivalence about today. My dad and I have never been close. In fact, we have been sort of the opposite of close and loving. We have spent months alienated entirely. We have argued. We have disagreed. I have never felt I was what my dad wanted. And of course I'm fairly certain that in my own ways I have made him feel he was not what I wanted.
As I thought about it some more, I realized that I've never really had a warm, fuzzy relationship with any man in my biological family. My brother and I have been distant since we were kids. Separated by nearly five years and what seemed like a million miles in the way we thought about life, love, faith, whatever. He has spent the past 4 years incarcerated. I write him occasionally. I've traveled to see him. But, we haven't really bridged the distance that has been there since we were small children.
My mother's father was a quiet man. I remember him vaguely. We spent time on the floor playing with toys when I was very small. He was neither affectionate, nor effusive. He was quiet, seemingly in his own world...a world that I didn't understand. My father's father (his biological father died when he was a small child, but he was adopted)was also a quiet, seemingly cold man. The only distinct memory I have of him as a child was being confronted by him when I had eaten some candy I wasn't supposed to eat. He reprimanded me. I apologized. He walked away. After that I was fearful of him. I felt some strange sense of shame around him.
None of these men were abusive to me in the most visible sense of the word. That is, no one was physically harmful. But, I also never felt really bonded to any of them. And perhaps that is the greater harm in many ways. I've never understood my father entirely (or either of my grandfathers). I've wanted to. But, still I must admit I don't. I've spent a good part of my adult life making excuses for his bad behavior. The lesson I've learned is that while I've never really stood up to my father when he has been hurtful to me, I have no tolerance for his behavior when it is directed at my children.
Today the kids and I were eating dinner with my father, my mother and my niece and nephew. I have watched my father berate my nephew occasionally about his weight. My nephew is not a fat kid by any stretch of the imagination. There are times of the year when he gains a bit of weight, still he is an active 14 year old boy. He plays sports and bikes everywhere. I have expressed frustration with my father on occasion over this. Tonight my father took aim at my 7 year old daughter and began chastising her. To put it simply, I lost it. I recognize some of my angry words have been stuck in my throat since I was my daughter's age. Suffice to say dinner was eaten in silence after my tirade. My father didn't react in the way I would have anticipated. He was fairly quiet. He said a few extra things that he knew would be hurtful, but then he was silent. As I was leaving his house, he said he wouldn't bring up the subject with my daughter again. Of course I don't believe him, I recall him saying the same thing about various subjects over and over when I was a child. Still, I was surprised at how quiet he was.
My child had begun to cry at the table, and I took her inside and washed her face and held her as she cried. I told her that her grandfather was wrong for saying what he had, and that I loved her very much. As I drove my nephew home, he finally said, "I remember you tried to stick up for me when I was younger. At least you stick up for your kids. Grandpa is just mean sometimes."
My own inner armchair theologian would say that my father's faith and my own are as different as they can be. My father was raised attending church on Sundays with his adopted parents. My grandparents were pillars of their church community. My grandfather was an elder in the church, my grandmother taught Sunday school and was part of every part of the life of the church women could be part of. My grandmother would be the first woman to acknowledge that my grandfather was the head of their household, and that this was God's will. She waited on my grandfather, cooking and cleaning for him. When they would pray at dinner, everyone would wait for my grandfather to lift his head after praying silently, and take the first food on his plate before beginning to serve themselves.
My father was a bit of the prodigal son. He left home at his first opportunity by joining the military. He was then sent to Korea to fight in a war. He was barely 18 years old. When he returned home, he continued to avoid living anywhere near his parents, staying in the big city, St. Louis, and working any number of odd jobs. He has told me he was mad at God in those years, completely avoiding church of any sort. Eventually, after 2 failed marriages and 5 children, he met my mother - 19 years his junior and married her after 3 months of dating. She compelled him to return to church because for her, it was the responsible thing to do. Because she had never had a church affiliation, they returned to my father's Lutheran roots in a town 20 miles away from my grandparents. Over the next several years, up until I was a teenager, my father rarely darkened the church's door. He did enjoy throwing around a random Bible verse here and there..."spare the rod, spoil the child" or "an eye for an eye." But, mostly religion, faith, God was seemingly absent from his thought process.
In the years since I was teen, 20 or so now, my father has returned to the Lutheran church, taking his place as an elder, usher and in various other capacities. And his daughter has wandered around, mostly aligning with the Episcopal church in a loose, non-conformist way. I've had phases of being mad at God...but the church is always where I end up, sometimes surprising myself.
Ultimately I suppose what we share is a gnawing sense that God is there and that we can't really figure it all out. My father seems to think God is waiting to strike someone (anyone perhaps) down for their misdoings. And I seem to wonder if God is hiding from me. I still cling to a mainline, traditional denomination that I largely don't identify with anymore and that lacks the authenticity I crave. My dad continues to show up each week despite the fact that he can't hear the service and doesn't much care to anymore. While I have always sought to distance myself from my father in many ways, in some ways we remain linked. As always, I wonder where my children will land. Will I judge them in the way that my father judges me? Will they judge me the way I have judged my father?
I hope my kids get the awe and they mystery that is God. I hope that they find a community that loves them and that they can love. I hope that whatever touches them is available to them, whether it's a ritual, music, art. I hope that they see the Spirit in everything.
As I thought about it some more, I realized that I've never really had a warm, fuzzy relationship with any man in my biological family. My brother and I have been distant since we were kids. Separated by nearly five years and what seemed like a million miles in the way we thought about life, love, faith, whatever. He has spent the past 4 years incarcerated. I write him occasionally. I've traveled to see him. But, we haven't really bridged the distance that has been there since we were small children.
My mother's father was a quiet man. I remember him vaguely. We spent time on the floor playing with toys when I was very small. He was neither affectionate, nor effusive. He was quiet, seemingly in his own world...a world that I didn't understand. My father's father (his biological father died when he was a small child, but he was adopted)was also a quiet, seemingly cold man. The only distinct memory I have of him as a child was being confronted by him when I had eaten some candy I wasn't supposed to eat. He reprimanded me. I apologized. He walked away. After that I was fearful of him. I felt some strange sense of shame around him.
None of these men were abusive to me in the most visible sense of the word. That is, no one was physically harmful. But, I also never felt really bonded to any of them. And perhaps that is the greater harm in many ways. I've never understood my father entirely (or either of my grandfathers). I've wanted to. But, still I must admit I don't. I've spent a good part of my adult life making excuses for his bad behavior. The lesson I've learned is that while I've never really stood up to my father when he has been hurtful to me, I have no tolerance for his behavior when it is directed at my children.
Today the kids and I were eating dinner with my father, my mother and my niece and nephew. I have watched my father berate my nephew occasionally about his weight. My nephew is not a fat kid by any stretch of the imagination. There are times of the year when he gains a bit of weight, still he is an active 14 year old boy. He plays sports and bikes everywhere. I have expressed frustration with my father on occasion over this. Tonight my father took aim at my 7 year old daughter and began chastising her. To put it simply, I lost it. I recognize some of my angry words have been stuck in my throat since I was my daughter's age. Suffice to say dinner was eaten in silence after my tirade. My father didn't react in the way I would have anticipated. He was fairly quiet. He said a few extra things that he knew would be hurtful, but then he was silent. As I was leaving his house, he said he wouldn't bring up the subject with my daughter again. Of course I don't believe him, I recall him saying the same thing about various subjects over and over when I was a child. Still, I was surprised at how quiet he was.
My child had begun to cry at the table, and I took her inside and washed her face and held her as she cried. I told her that her grandfather was wrong for saying what he had, and that I loved her very much. As I drove my nephew home, he finally said, "I remember you tried to stick up for me when I was younger. At least you stick up for your kids. Grandpa is just mean sometimes."
My own inner armchair theologian would say that my father's faith and my own are as different as they can be. My father was raised attending church on Sundays with his adopted parents. My grandparents were pillars of their church community. My grandfather was an elder in the church, my grandmother taught Sunday school and was part of every part of the life of the church women could be part of. My grandmother would be the first woman to acknowledge that my grandfather was the head of their household, and that this was God's will. She waited on my grandfather, cooking and cleaning for him. When they would pray at dinner, everyone would wait for my grandfather to lift his head after praying silently, and take the first food on his plate before beginning to serve themselves.
My father was a bit of the prodigal son. He left home at his first opportunity by joining the military. He was then sent to Korea to fight in a war. He was barely 18 years old. When he returned home, he continued to avoid living anywhere near his parents, staying in the big city, St. Louis, and working any number of odd jobs. He has told me he was mad at God in those years, completely avoiding church of any sort. Eventually, after 2 failed marriages and 5 children, he met my mother - 19 years his junior and married her after 3 months of dating. She compelled him to return to church because for her, it was the responsible thing to do. Because she had never had a church affiliation, they returned to my father's Lutheran roots in a town 20 miles away from my grandparents. Over the next several years, up until I was a teenager, my father rarely darkened the church's door. He did enjoy throwing around a random Bible verse here and there..."spare the rod, spoil the child" or "an eye for an eye." But, mostly religion, faith, God was seemingly absent from his thought process.
In the years since I was teen, 20 or so now, my father has returned to the Lutheran church, taking his place as an elder, usher and in various other capacities. And his daughter has wandered around, mostly aligning with the Episcopal church in a loose, non-conformist way. I've had phases of being mad at God...but the church is always where I end up, sometimes surprising myself.
Ultimately I suppose what we share is a gnawing sense that God is there and that we can't really figure it all out. My father seems to think God is waiting to strike someone (anyone perhaps) down for their misdoings. And I seem to wonder if God is hiding from me. I still cling to a mainline, traditional denomination that I largely don't identify with anymore and that lacks the authenticity I crave. My dad continues to show up each week despite the fact that he can't hear the service and doesn't much care to anymore. While I have always sought to distance myself from my father in many ways, in some ways we remain linked. As always, I wonder where my children will land. Will I judge them in the way that my father judges me? Will they judge me the way I have judged my father?
I hope my kids get the awe and they mystery that is God. I hope that they find a community that loves them and that they can love. I hope that whatever touches them is available to them, whether it's a ritual, music, art. I hope that they see the Spirit in everything.
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