Wednesday, March 19, 2014

Still Beautiful: She Came Down

I was thrilled to be a guest preacher at First Christian Church of Georgetown, Kentucky this past week and I've posted the audio file of my sermon here, along with the most perfect photo from back-on-pointe!
It's 16 minutes long and I read the scripture (2 Cor. 4:7-12) within the sermon.
The major sources (other than scripture) that I used were Kristine Culp's book Vulnerability and Glory: A Theological Account, Amy Frykholm's See Me Naked: Stories of Sexual Exile in American Christianity, and I reference Carol Barnett's incredible composition "The World Beloved: A Bluegrass Mass" musically and verbally. 

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Preaching With a Broken Heart

Shortly after my most recent move, my long-time boyfriend and I ended our relationship. The very next week, I was scheduled to preach.
As a part of a multi-pastor church my colleagues graciously offered to step in and preach in my place, but I was stubborn. I decided that I wanted - no, NEEDED - to preach.
All week long I struggled with the gospel text. In between jags of crying, I tried to read commentaries but I couldn't focus. I made notes. And more notes. And more notes. But all the notes were just interesting facts I learned about the scripture and little questions to ask. Nothing substantial had come to me, and when I needed the gospel to speak to me I just could not hear a thing. As I stumbled, tired and exhausted, through the week the sermon still would not come. I had no idea what it would mean to preach the gospel on that text.

Get the rest at The Christian Century blog!

 

Wednesday, March 12, 2014

Follow up: What's at stake here?

I'm so grateful for the response that the last post inspired here, on facebook, and in some personal emails and fbook messages.

Considering my audience (mostly churchy types who, using Tillich's language, have an Ultimate Concern), your responses were totally right on. When one has an Ultimate Concern it's easy to lose one's self in the concern, worry, and work. To that end, we must also remember that God wants our well-being, and yes, happiness. Not everything must be at stake all the time. To believe that everything is at stake all the time - and that it is up to ME (singular) - is a form of ego. Many of you rightly pointed out that faith in God means believing that God is the One who will put all of our little efforts together. It's up to US, not ME, and God will assist our collective effort. And thank God for that.

My rant was more of an indictment of those who would rather distract themselves, change the channel, or avoid the hardness and heartbreak of being a person who gives a crap in a hard, hard world. For example: the girl in middle school who, lacing up her brand new Nike's, listened to me talk about sweatshops and the country her shoes were likely made in. Her response: "Well, at least they have a job. Not my problem."
[Granted: I was pretty obnoxious and self-righteous in middle school.]

Another example: Asking someone you love dearly what they want out of life and having them respond with a blank stare. There's more to life than just today? Like, a future? And maybe a purpose to life and our relationships? What a novel idea.

What can I do, then, as a pastor to folks like this? Folks who, when I'm being honest, are not that far from where I am some days. It's hard to care. It's hard to figure out how to address the many issues that confront us on a daily basis. Sometimes you just have to back away and binge-watch Buffy on Netflix.

But when you emerge from the Netflix/Buffy cave.... What then?

I am constantly thinking of Dorothy Day: "I wanted, though I did not know it then, a synthesis. I wanted life, and abundant life. And I wanted it for others, too." 

How do we find that abundant life for ourselves and for others? Or, since we're all incredible and individual creations of an awesome God, how do YOU find it? 

#reLent

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

A rant: What's at stake here?

In my line of work, I often ask this question of myself and others.

Depending on the situation, the answer is easier or harder to discern, but there is always something at stake.

Perhaps it is one's feeling of belonging to the church and therefore to God. Perhaps it is one's perceived value as a leader. Perhaps it is a measure of control in this one, tiny, area of life. Perhaps what's at stake is one's identity. Or happiness. Or integrity.

Perhaps the Kingdom of God is at stake. As I said, it's easier or harder, bigger or smaller, depending on the situation.

I repeat: there is always something at stake. If there's nothing at stake, you're doing it wrong.

What I mean is this: life is risky. A faithful life is especially risky. You're making claims about reality, eternity, and the way things ought to be. You're making decisions not just for yourself, but for others, and you're committing to live a life that benefits and serves people beyond your immediate family. In a faithful life it's not possible to say, "That's not my problem," or "I just can't deal with that." Whether the "problem" is in Syria or your backyard, it's up to you to make a difference.

[Caveat: This is not to say that one single person can solve ALL THE PROBLEMS. Sometimes you have to choose which battes to fight. And there certainly are situations in which one has no control, whether because you have no power or your power has been taken from you. But the fact that you can't necessarily make a difference doesn't mean that you can abdicate any and all responsibility, or that you then have license not to care.]

Perhaps another way to ask the question: For what are you willing to go to bat? What do you want or desire so much that you are willing to sacrifice and fight for it?

It's a sinful and sad reality that many cannot answer these questions. When asked, many respond with blank stares. "I don't know. What do you mean? Like, I want to be happy... Does that count?"

Every philosopher and theologian of all time rolls over in their grave whenever someone over the age of 11 says, "I just want to be happy." [Another caveat: if you're drunk and whining, you might be allowed to be awfully inarticulate and selfish. I'm talking about a real conversation, here.]

Happiness is certainly a valuable part of the equation. But happiness, in the proper sense, is a bit bigger than one individual life. For one's own happiness is in many ways dependent on the capacity and ability of others to attain their own happiness, and the capacity for society to sustain the happiness and wellbeing of the whole. If your own "happiness" depends on the slave labor of others, then that's not happiness. That's oppression.

So I ask you, what's at stake for you? For what are you willing to sacrifice? Dare I pose the existential question: What's the meaning of [your] life?

Monday, March 10, 2014

Lent

Grumpy Cat 1 - it's the most wonderful time of the year lent

In all seriousness, though, Lent is probably my favorite season. People challenging themselves...confronting their mortality which makes God's grace and resurrection all the more powerful...purple paraments...the assurance that God is with us in the wilderness...

I would say A word (that ends with -uia), but I can't. 'Cause it's Lent. So, here's a picture of grumpy cat instead (thanks maryhomegirl)

Saturday, March 8, 2014

All the little things

Today was full of lots of wonderful, small, glorious things:
Hot coffee
Sunshine
A long walk at the arboretum
Phone calls with two dear friends
One Lindt chocolate truffle
Driving with the windows down
A very adorable and happy baby
The smell of that happy baby's head
The dear friend who gave birth to that baby, who is one of the most wonderful people I know
A nap in the sun
Really yummy honey mustard salad dressing
A sweet cat who steals my pillow
A clementine orange
And a roof over my head

For all these things, and more, thank God.

Friday, March 7, 2014

Synthesis

"I wanted, though I did not know it then, a synthesis. I wanted life, and abundant life. I wanted it for others, too." -Dorothy Day, The Long Loneliness

Thursday, March 6, 2014

Remembering My Baptism

I encountered a prayer station recently that invited me to run my hands through a bowl of water and remember my baptism. This is what I wrote on the back of my program:

I can't hold it in my hands, like I can in my mind.
It just keeps slipping through my fingers.
I had the irresistible urge to arms splash it all over my arms and my face - trying to go back to that day.
Even though it was awkward and my embarrassment over my teenage body and behavior was real, I still want to go back. To see Ian hand me my Bible, to see my grandmother's pride, to experience the wonder and strangeness. To wash away all the sadness and sorrow and grief that I've added to my life.

It's been so long since I've been wrapped safely in someone's arms and just held like I imagine God holds us. I'm lonely and my baptism day was one of blessed and beloved community. And I want to go back.
++++++++++++++++++

I don't feel lonely everyday, but I did the day I wrote this. I can't go back to a time of innocence, but you know what? I can take a bath. I can pray.  And I can always remember.

Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Very soon

Having turned toward Jerusalem, I can hear the disciples saying to him, "Shouldn't we go here or there instead? I don't understand your motives? Why must we be secretive about your identity? Who are you anyway?"

+++++

He came forward to receive the ashes, leaning heavily on his cane with his back bowed against the weight of the world. He was a minister. Still is, really. So he knows what this is about. Not just because as a clergy person he would have observed Ash Wednesday every year for who knows how long, but also because he is old. Wise with years. His face shows it around the eyes and mouth, his hands show it, and the shuffle of his slow and steady walk makes it clear: this man has seen the ways of the world.

I don't know him well, but I do know that he always takes a moment to offer an appreciative comment or engage me with a question whenever I lead worship. He reads the newsletter and comments on the articles inside. He's sharp as a tack, and the weight of his life and experience fill up the room with a presence that's hard to describe.

So here I am, 25 years old, drawing a cross in ashes on this man's forehead saying, "Remember that you were made from dust, and to dust you shall return." It's a bit surreal, and not quite right. No one of his age is under any delusion that death is not a reality. It's the people my own age that need that reminder the most. But still, he came forward, and we engaged this ancient ritual practice.

Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.

As I drew the cross on his forehead, he looked up at me through his eyebrows and said, "Soon. Very soon," as he offered me a sad smile. I imagine this was his way of flipping the script. Instead of me reminding him of his mortality, he reminded me of his own mortality. He made it real and not just a figurative story. His words made me fumble, awkwardly, wanting to reassure him that it will all be okay. That I'm sure he will live much longer. But I'm not. I can't say that or make those assurances for anyone. So I just made a "mmm" sound of agreement and turned my eyes to the floor. It's true. He will return to dust soon, very soon. No one can say just when, but he knows it won't be long.

Instead of turning his eyes away from it as I did he faced it with courage and not an ounce of denial. I am dust, and I shall return to dust. Very soon, I will return to dust. And for a moment we held that sacred and human knowledge between us. And then he shuffled away, leaning on his cane, and I looked to the next person in line as I took a deep breath. Every breath a little closer to my own death.

+++++

They asked him, "Who are you anyway? When will you explain all of this to us? When will we understand?"

"Soon. Very soon," he replied.

Remember that you are dust...



For the benediction of our Ash Wednesday services, my colleague Kyle found this great poem. To me, it was so perfectly Ash Wednesday... reminding us of the mess and beauty God walked into when God became a man. More ashen reflections to come soon, but I just wanted to get this photo up. It's incredibly moving to be the one to impose a cross of ashes on the foreheads of friends and congregants and strangers, and this is only the second time I've done it.

Here's the full text from Debra Avery:

Imagine
The hands of God
Cradling
Holding
Relishing the beauty of her creation.
The scars,
the bumps,
the open wounds
the bits and pieces of shattered dreams,
of fragmented existence
Notwithstanding.
Imagine
The hands of God
Salvaging
Re-creating
Redeeming
the wreckage
the mess
the broken
the pain-filled and pitiful creatures
Unconditionally.
Imagine
The hands of God
In the evening.
In the morning.
It is good.
©2011 Debra Avery