Ferguson...

Aside from wondering "How long, O Lord?" a lament taught to me by a wise professor, I've formed no significant opinion on the Ferguson issue…OK, not true.

But where this is rubbing against faith practice for me is a larger issue. Judging by people's behavior and language, it seems what is most important is to be right. As soon as someone says racism, someone else has to prove them wrong and it is law enforcement that is under attack. As soon as someone supports law enforcement, they must be proved wrong and insist the cops are the perpetrators.

Conversations around Ferguson are intense and pressing. But I wonder if, instead of having to prove ourselves right, or prove others wrong…what if we listened to the truth of another's experience. The truth of black parents being frightened for the lives of their sons is a reality I didn't live with on a daily basis when I raised my son. But it is their reality. Statistics back them up. They are right.

It's also the case with an increasingly armed population, and a myth that violence protects us from harm,  our police forces work in increasingly dangerous situations. They are also right.

If you haven't stopped reading already, here's my question. If we didn't assume that only one side of an issue could be right, if we didn't have to determine the "winner" in the "right" column, could we listen to the "rightness" on all sides and come up with some better ways of being in this world together?

The Genesis story describes sin as eating from the tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.
 God says having to know Good and Evil (I read "right" and "wrong" in our language and understanding) leads to death.

In many of these cases it is literal death on both sides. But certainly it is a metaphorical death to be so entrapped by our need for only one side to be right that we forget the humanity involved on all sides.

Maybe the lesson we should spend our time learning is how to listen to the experiences of others as their truth. That might just give us what we need to restore trust and reconcile communities.

There's Really This Thing...

There is a company, for real, that creates fragrances for other companies. These fragrances reveal the "true identity" of the company…who they are…their "unique selves." This signature fragrance is released into the store, the workplace, and helps solidify the company's identity.

OK, it's my opinion that if I stopped there, it's creepy. But I'm not stopping there. It gets worse. I do remember the smell of the chemistry building where my dad worked. It was a "signature fragrance" indeed…created by the multitude of chemicals in storage, the chalk and dust that collects in corners of academia, student imagination and idealism, and the lingering impact of those who came before. I can still remember that smell enveloping us when we walked in the door. But it just existed, no one paid to have it created.

As NPR reported this story, mild interest turned to amazed horror when I hear that the Dallas Cowboys pay to create and release a fragrance in their stadium. What does the Dallas Cowboy stadium need to smell like? The company says "victory." (I have other opinions…but to keep my Texas friends, I will keep them to myself.)

How much money does it cost to spray the smell of victory into a stadium? And really? Does the American football fan need a signature fragrance to enjoy the game?

I just am astounded. I didn't even imagine such a thing existed. As a culture, we "can't afford" to care for desperate children crossing the border (regardless of the rightness or wrongness, they are the least of these), we "can't afford" to expand Medicare to those in greatest need, we "can't afford" to house homeless people, or expand the VA medical system to support all the new veterans we created in our recent wars.

But we can express our "true identity" with our stadium-sized signature fragrance.

I just don't think its an identity I want to claim.

Where is that magic wand when you need one?

(I post more sporadically when it is not a "season" of the church year or a mission trip or something. If you want to know when a new post is up, you can put your e-mail in the box in the right column and you will get the post in an e-mail. "Joining" the site simply makes it more likely to come up when people surf blogs…good for the blog, but it doesn't really benefit you. Many thanks for reading, BTW, and for your support. I'd write it anyway, but it's nice when it is helpful or entertaining to others.)

Mexico…Saturday and Sunday

SATURDAY

The village fixed breakfast for us...chicken and rice soup. The chicken had great flavor, but fought back a bit. Coffee was super sweet, pre-sugared. The hospitality was, again, over the top. Every villager who had worked with us, worshipped with us, sent their kids to escuelos de biblia, and who wasn't at work or in school was there to see us off. Many pictures were snapped. Many hands shaken.  Many, many thanks expressed. It was humbling and frustrating. Humbling because we deserved so very little. That's the definition of grace enacted. Frustrating because we didn't have the language to begin to express how blessed we had been by their grace.

We lived the perfect moment of Kingdom grace...or at least I did. God is so generous with us, we are so undeserving. And when we see those glimpses of God's generosity and recognize how undeserved they are, language fails us over and over. "Thanks" just doesn't seem enough. Seems all that is left for the expression is the enactment of the giving of grace to others. I hope I can come close.

SUNDAY

We were up and in vehicles just as the night clubbers next to out hotel were stumbling home...literally. We are arriving in Mexico City as I am writing this, looking toward 18 hours of travel if things go well.

And now it's Monday morning. Travel went smoothly and I walked through the doors at midnight. I have had a hot shower, feeling grateful and guilty at the same time. Well, perhaps not guilty, but curious. What does my lifestyle contribute to the economic inequality of the world? What have they taught me about living healthier, more related lives? What do I live with that I can live without? What do I need now that I didn’t know I needed before?

I’m grateful for the opportunity to live and share this experience. I hope I can change the world just a little bit for the better from what I have learned.

Mexico…Friday

We are in the village a day longer than most groups. We worked in the morning, but by day five of ditch digging, gringos are pretty worthless. We worked slowly, sang every campy church song we could remember, worked our way through TV theme songs, and got stuck on the Coke song, "I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing."  As of this writing, we still haven't succeeded in remembering all the words. Mexican men don't sing or joke when they work. Probably a good thing. But we entertained them as well. We made some progress getting about half the ditch to grade...as deep as it needed to be. Believe me, we celebrated. We celebrated two ways actually. We celebrated that a small part of the ditch was deep enough, and then we celebrated that another group would be coming in to finish the digging. Bless their hearts. Solid shale clay is what they have to get through...we think not exactly rock, but too hard to pick, soggy wet, and heavy.

We had the afternoon free to rest and pack. Some took a walk to the next village where people came out of their homes to stare at the Americans. Most had never seen the likes of us.

After dinner, we worshipped one last time with the village. Several of the "brothers" from Matzam drove over to worship with us. The church was full. It was a shorter service, but more meaningful. They said their official goodbyes and waved their hands in greeting to our churches. They said they wanted us to stay (not sure I believed that one), and that they would love to visit our communities, but they could never cross the border. I tear up thinking about that. What a tragedy that suspicion and assumption has grown so virulent that friends cannot visit friends. I know people cross the borders without permission. I know the desperation that might drive them to that. I also know their homes and families, their children, their history and their lives are in Mexico. Most don't want to leave. Some feel they must.

These are the hardest working people I have ever met. They put me to shame. They are smart, kind, generous, gracious. Not perfect, but certainly nothing like the picture we have painted here of "other." 

The final act of worship was bringing their offerings forward. The men start. One at a time, each person comes forward and drops a coin into the box.  All ages. Then women. Each member of the worshipping community supported the worship with a coin or two. It was moving. I don't know what they do when someone can't give. I know they tend toward harsh judgement at times. But seeing each and every member of the community participate was a gift to us. 

Every service closes with singing the Doxology. No accompaniment. Just voices joined in praise to God for all blessings. All creatures above and below sing praise to their creator God. And we could sing it, too. Two languages, sometimes three including Spanish, Tzeltal, and English. 

Someone once commented that if one of the disciples could visit us in our here and now, they would probably be completely overwhelmed with culture and practice…until we sat together in worship and spoke the words of institution over bread and wine. That was the one-ness with which we praised God. The Tzeltal Doxology was one of those moments of clarity. Thanks be to God...from whom, indeed, all blessings flow.

Mexico…Thursday

By far our most difficult day. We are digging ditches on two sides of a dirt "bridge" that allows us to haul the dirt up the mountain to dump it. We finally got one two-foot section on one side deep enough. The rest has to be dug out about 18 inches by 10 or twelve feet. The other side is almost complete shale rock...a hard muddy rock that will break eventually with a pick, but it is slow going. Many kids were tired. The FHPC contingent was pretty good at getting good sleep. Our bodies were another story. They adapt amazingly quickly, but none of us are used to this kind of physical labor. When progress is slow, difficult becomes excruciating. We slogged through the day, however, managing the last 30-minute stretch when they promised to let us go 30 minutes early.

To be blunt, today I was struck by the focus on the "me" and "us."  Devotionals focused on our needs, prayers thanked God for allowing us to come to Mexico to "help these people." Frankly, I wonder if they need our help. I feel much like the five year old who "helps" mom or dad in the garden. They do a bit, hopefully don't mess up too much, and get praised for their efforts.

The Americans requested that tomorrow's work be more fun. It will be, after all, July 4th. I don't even know what to say about that, except ask forgiveness from most of the world who work drudgery all day every day just to stay alive.

Oh, and we are here because they invited us to come. They wanted to meet us, to try and talk with us, to laugh at and with us because they understand much more English than we know they know. Bless these people, O Lord. They have shown abundant generosity and lived the gospel.

Mexico…Wednesday

Yesterday was a day of concrete and rocks. Today, it's back to digging ditches. It's a bit harder than it needs to be, because when we dug the first footing, we were instructed to out the dirt where the second footing is to be. Now the dirt must be moved to the top of the hill...to the flat area. Five gallon buckets. 

Again.

Shovel, fill, pass up the bucket line...UP the bucket lines. Twist and lift. Six hours. Heavy, wet soil. We didn't stop...though by 10 am the buckets were half full...and by the last leg around noon, about a third. The ditch “only” has to be six meters deep, so I expect to be digging to China the rest of our days here.

Wednesday afternoon/evening, we drove an hour to worship with a church in Matzam, another small village straight up the mountain. We were warned the temperature would drop by 20 degrees as we drove. True that. The Matzam congregation rapidly outgrew their first small sanctuary. Their new church seats 1000. We trekked straight up the mountain, feeling the temperature drop about every 10 minutes. The area is simply, breathtakingly gorgeous. Bromiliads grow wild in the trees. Angel trumpet is like a weed. Corn and beans were everywhere. Greenhouses nestle in the crannies of the mountain; roses and callas are the crop of choice. Here, you can get a dozen callas for two pesos, about a quarter.

The hospitality is overwhelming. They are eager to greet Americans, gracious to welcome us over and over. We had a delicious meal of chicken soup with rice and limes—and chilies if you wanted. Tortillas are a given, but they had cooked some crispy...truly delicious with a rubbing of lime and a little salt.

Before we left for Matzam, the women of our village had dressed us all in native clothing. It was really fun and surprisingly comfortable. The skirt is a heavy fabric—wool is my guess. It is a huge circle of cloth. They form pleats in the front, then belt it with a very stiff belt, tied very tightly. It was like a back brace...wonderful for my aching muscles. I think I could wear it every day.  The village was highly tickled that we came dressed like them. The skirts were much shorter on us, however. We are about twice their height.

Down the mountain was more adventurous. The constant pumping of brakes to get them to catch, pretty disconcerting. I was riding in a 15 passenger van...no belts...three in the front seat. Just as I thought we were stopping in front of the house from which we departed, he pumped the brakes several times and headed straight down a very steep driveway. If the brakes had not held, we would have gone through the clothes-washing station and straight down the mountain. I just closed my eyes and said my prayers. Such is life in Mexican villages. Letting go of what you can’t control is the theological lesson of the day.

The bucket line…her face says it all.

Native dress

The church at Matzam

Hospitality in a bowl...

Mexico…Tuesday

Today I was on the worksite...their project is building a retaining wall. Mostly we carted stone. We filled and carried buckets with gravel. We shoveled sand. (Understand, the men and boys could fill a five-gallon bucket with sand or gravel, swing it up onto their shoulders, and carry it to the concrete pile. Americans could carry a half-bucket or third bucket…we carried our small loads and filled buckets to the top when we got there.) I'd like to say we are helping them, but really, I'm not at all sure we are.

One of our team members who grew up working construction said this was about as far from American construction as you could get. Not so far from Noah construction. In America, concrete comes premixed. You construct the forms and the company pours in the mixture. In Mexico, the recipe is...

• 100 five-gallon buckets of sand (henceforth, buckets)
• 30 buckets of gravel (made by sifting a rock pile into sand and gravel...shovels full into a wood and wire sifter. Shake, shake, shake sand into one wheelbarrow. Dump gravel into the other wheelbarrow. 

If you every watched someone make pasta, it's the same concept. The sand is shoveled into a circle with a depression in the center. Then 50 pound bags of concrete (which the men carry down the hill, BTW, one at a time on their backs. I never counted the bags...but six or eight.  Folks circle the circle of sand and shovel, turning the concrete into the sand until it is all mixed.

Then gravel, 30 buckets, or as we often did, 30 gringo buckets and a couple extra to cover the ones we didn't fill to the top. (Do you know how heavy a five gallon bucket of sand/gravel is?...just saying...). Then the shovels again and a hose that adds water continuously to the mix. The shovels concentrate in one area now, mixing the concrete and filling, you guessed it...buckets. About a third shovel...the others carry these buckets of concrete to the ditch and pour it in. Thus, the footings are poured.

No one here needs to go to the gym. 

Construction site from the top of the hill.

Rocks...

The dreaded sifter…and concrete.

Rocks, sand and tired gringos...

Pouring stabilizing "arms" into the hillside.

One section complete. The foundation under the "pretty"
part is six meters deep, four meters wide, and full of
concrete and rocks. Lots. Of. Rocks.

Mexico…Monday

My job today was kitchen duty. I spent the day with Jan Feliciano-Cruz. She has been a missionary in Chiapas for 33 years and is truly a blessing. She lives concern for others, spending her days feeding Americans and caring for her husband, Pablo. She makes remarkable sacrifices for her faith. Life has many rewards as well, but it is not easy and I truly admire her servant’s heart.

I got to watch women and children today. This is a dangerous place to live, horrific by American standards. Construction materials are placed for convenience and accessibility, not safety. Men use their machetes and sometimes lay them on the ground. NO child touched a machete, youngest to oldest. Not one. One lay in the middle of the compound all day. It was like it was not there.

Children play without hovering parents. Often you will see a ten or twelve-year-old with a baby strapped to her back or side. Once during the week I saw a mother warn a child about a danger. One time a child fell and bumped her head...but she was about two and just lost her balance. Children balanced on a stick in the ground next to the deck. Children played ball on the deck and when the ball did escape down the hill, they (literally) ran down the steep hill to rescue it. The 10, 11, and 12 year old boys came the last day to work with us. They were swinging a pick-axe like it was a spaghetti noodle. No one got hurt. No one even came close. They scooped buckets of dirt onto their shoulders and carted them across the slick hillside for dumping. They climbed onto a five foot hill of big rocks, rolled the one they wanted down the pile, worked to get it on someone’s back, and carried it to build the wall.

All the children were strong, agile, sure of themselves, and very much a part of the community. They were very proud when they accomplished a task. These small boys got to eat lunch with the men that day...a reward for working like a man all day.

No question the Mexican world is a dangerous place for children. Common childhood diseases can often result in death for a child in Chiapas. But you had to wonder if the extreme protectionism of the states has resulted in a different kind of disability. I wonder what complete freedom to explore means to the creativity and social interaction of children?  I wonder what it might mean to us to explore our faith journey like these kids explored their world. We can watch our elders, but might be joyfully free to try something new, something different, or something we watch others do well. Mistakes were learning experiences, not failures. I think the joy of trying was most of the fun. Pride in accomplishment, the reward.

Mexico…Sunday

Sabbath...at least for us. Americans lived for one whole day without electronic distraction, the ability to go anywhere by car, or work at our chores or jobs. We sat and talked, played with village children. A few of the kids were invited into a home to watch Mexico play World Cup soccer. Our kids took note of the hospitality. Strangers were welcomed without question. Family members got up out of their seats and gave honored placed to their guests. As I listened to them talk about their experience, I was humbled when I thought about the language that swirls around immigrants here. We label them other, we assign the worst motivations and behaviors, we assume they are out to hurt us and ours in variety of ways...physically, economically, culturally. We must admit, if a bus full of strangers pulled up into our neighborhood, even if planned, we would not be likely to invite the strangers in, even if we knew they would be there for a reason.

We are the first Americans in this village, outside of one person who visited the village in preparation for our trip. I find myself hoping they never watch some of the reporting on immigrants that comes out of America. I find myself, on this issue, mightily glad they speak Tzeltal and will hopefully never be able to fully understand the negative nuance of an American broadcast.

Worship was two hours, we didn't understand the language except at brief points during the service when instructions or the sermon were translated. The kids expressed surprise at themselves that they weren’t bored after an hour. It wasn't spirited worship.  These Protestant worshippers would make our stereotypical picture of John Calvin proud. They are stoic. No smiles. No movement. No apparent joy. Some great (and loud!) Mexican music, hymn tunes we recognized, ones we did not. Everyone sings. They bring their own Bibles and song books to worship. No one sits out because they can't carry a tune or don't sing well. They open their mouths and out pours music. We didn't even slow them down. But little could be identified as boredom-busting.

I wondered what it is that creates the boredom at home. We had no other options here...well I guess we could have sat and looked at the mountains or read a book. But we chose to be with the people. We did not have distractions flitting through our brains, the people we could be with, the Facebook feed we could be checking, the chores that needed to accomplish. We seemed simply in the moment. Perhaps the fact that we weren't waiting for the next thing eliminated the boredom.

The people of the village seemed to have an ability to live in the moment. They certainly had chores to be done. Those were for a different moment. Some had worked early to prepare soup and tortillas for us and the visiting elders and pastor for after worship. When worship was finished, they set the table and served the meal. There was no rush, no worry about what things looked like or whether we would be impressed. Meal was gift, hospitality, offering. Community was blessing.

Others sat with friends and family. You eat in shifts in Mexico. People watch, but don't covet. Their turn comes. All are fed. The soup was simple, a slightly spicy broth with greens and one small piece of chicken or beef. Tortillas. And it was enough. More than enough. We were filled.

Another observation around the meal. As we waited for worship after breakfast, we saw the chickens caught, scalded, plucked, and cooked. Corn is soaked overnight, ground into paste, shaped into tortillas then cooked over a wood fire. Dishes are washed on a table and flat rock. (Pics at the bottom.) The food scrap goes down the hill where it becomes feast for chickens. Clothes are washed on this rock. I would be challenged to survive. From growing food in the nooks and crannies of the village to knowing how to build the fire, I would need to be taught. Our health and welfare depended on the hospitality of these strangers. It simply begs the question, why do we, who have so much, show so little hospitality. (And I'm not talking about "having parties" hospitality, I'm talking about "inviting people into our lives" hospitality.) Why are we afraid we have something to lose if others gain? From questions of living wage to immigration, that seems to be a sticking point…the assumption there is not enough to go around and that we must have more than we need to be secure.

I've been reading a book this week on community. Peter Block's premise is that until and unless we rebuild our community--local, state, national--we won't solve the problems that plague us. He challenges us with the idea that people choose to live in a "retributive" society or a "restorative" society. Retributive societies are “based on a culture of fear, fault finding, fragmentation, and worrying more about taxes than compassion; it is more about being right than working something out, more about gerrymandering for our own interests than giving voice to those on the margin.” (Community: TheStructure of Belonging, p. 45)

Restorative community "comes from the choice to value possibility and relatedness over problems, self-interest and the rest of the stuck community's agenda." In essence, we treat each other as fully interrelated, fully human beings...no labels, no finger pointing, no fixing the other before our own lives can be good. Transformation and healing begins with our individual choice to live in deep, hospitable community. Every person is my neighbor. Transformation cannot begin in a program or institution and is dependent on each individual’s willingness to act without expecting anything in return.

The folk of Chiapas aren't perfect. They often treat each other as badly as we do. The Indians we are visiting are the lowest of the low in Mexican society. The gift of hospitality we’ve experienced is a momentary glimpse of God's kingdom, a brief experience of unconditional grace being given. For me, those moments create a longing for more, a hunger for the re-creation of life together on this planet.

Not all of us are called to go as far as Chiapas. All of us are called by God into restorative community. We don't have to travel for 17 hours to find a stranger. We see them every day. Often they live next door, shop with us in the grocery each week, or worship with us at the other end of the pew. I think today’s invitation is to let go of our fear and suspicion of “other” and embrace their identity as child of God.

Table for food preparation

Flat rock and bucket for dishwashing and clothes washing.
The women squat at the bucket to wash dishes.

Food runs off the rock onto the steep hill.
Chickens act as garbage disposals.

The church...

The chicken soup...

Tortillas….

Mexico Saturday...

The sun rises in the Chiapas mountains about 6:30 central time. At home, it is quiet until the birds begin to chirp outside my window at sunrise. New York City has nothing on this little village for noise. Roosters crow all. Night. Long. They assert their "roosterhood with" great insistence...I wonder what the hens, tired from a long day of foraging and laying eggs, think of them. I know we are thinking rooster stew.

Travel was long and mostly uneventful. A couple of bags were checked in Mexico City without tags...that was the first miracle of the week...they arrived in the right place at the right time. Mexican airlines make the chaos of American travel look organized and pleasant, though  Mexican planes win the prize for comfort.

The trip to the village from the airport gave us all a formula one racing experience. Ascending the mountain, we passed through villages built along the side of the road. Literally. The houses are within 10 feet of the road. The villages build concrete speed bumps, topes, that insist you slow down or destroy the undercarriage of your car.  We followed a car with no brake lights for a good twenty miles toward the top of the mountain. Brake lights are important, y'all. Finally, after coming within inches of his tailpipe, we managed to pass and move on. 

Everyone in the village was out to meet us at 10 when we moaned ourselves out of our vehicles  and tried to loosen muscles long since embedded in the seated position. We were the first Americans this village had seen. We were tired, wind-blown, and gimpy. Not telling what their first impressions of us were. We pretty quickly made our way to sleeping quarters (do not picture the Holiday Inn), and pretty much passed out as soon as we managed to find toothbrushes and pajamas. Two insights there. One: women of a certain age and responsibility who need to get up often to shhhhhhh or peeeeeee should never sleep in these camping bags with no zipper. A hidden camera in the room last night would have yielded much hilarity. Two: earplugs are a gift from heaven.

(This is the view from the bedroom window…)

What's the Question?

Yet another response article to the GA suggests that PC(USA) seminaries will be hurt because of the decisions made by the General Assembly. The focus is different, but the question is the same as all the other articles: "How many will leave?" How many congregations will leave? How many individuals will leave? How many will leave?

And we wring our hands and fret because we don't know "how many will leave." We think we know that it will be bad.

"How many will leave?" is certainly a question. It is not the question. It is a question that walks us down a path of futility and despair even when nothing has happened yet. It is "borrowing trouble" to use my grandmother's phrase. Not only do we borrow, but we pay interest on trouble that is already happening, may not happen, or cannot be stopped at any price. We have fretted over this question for the last 30 years. Our worry has not stopped people leaving our churches.

The question is "How many will come?" How many of the displaced, the unloved, the outcasts in religion or society will hear in this new action, God's invitation to inclusion. How many will come in? Once the gentile population understood that God's love and transforming work was for them and not just for the Jews, the world changed. Ironically, we who are deciding whether to leave or not would not be here had God not flung the doors of inclusiveness wide open for all people, all nations.

I am saddened by those leaving, those who have already gone, and those who will depart. But the question I ask, what I am really interested in, what I eagerly await to see is who will come in. Who will be included? Who will bring new insight into the practice of faith in 2014 and beyond? What understanding will be gained in new conversations and new relationships? What grace will become evident that we couldn't see before?

I'm not spending much time thinking about the question everyone is asking, just long enough to think it's a bad question. I'm spending much time thinking about how to invite those not involved, those who think they are not welcome, those who assume there's a secret code of behavior that they have to know before they enter our doors, those who need to know that I have experienced grace beyond measure and that grace is theirs as well.

I've been taught that one way we evaluate our decisions and behavior is by seeing if we produce the fruit of the Spirit, peace, love, joy, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. To see if we achieve that, the only question is, "Who is coming in?"

A Vote for Change and Trust in the Sovereign God...

Many Presbyterians considered yesterday a momentous occasion when the General Assembly of the PC(USA) voted on an Authoritative Interpretation that allows clergy to marry same gender couples in states where that is legal. They also voted to change the definition of marriage in the Book of Order from between "a man and woman" to "between two people." That will go to presbyteries for a necessary two-thirds ratification vote before it "sticks."

Many, many folks celebrated yesterday. Many did not. My discernment on this issue began some 30 years ago when my sister came out. Life was extraordinarily difficult for her. The question I remember her asking was, "Why would I choose to live this way?" Reading the gospels and studying the life of Christ, I decided if I was going to make a mistake, I was going to err on the side of inclusion and acceptance. Mark Achtemeier's speech to the Covenant Network beautifully articulates more of my journey as well.

Honestly, I am excited that we as a denomination have discerned a move toward full acceptance and inclusion. I also recognize the anguish on the other side because I have been on the "losing side" for the last 30 years. 

Where we still are together is centered in the providence of God, trusting in the sovereignty of God. That is a central part of our Presbyterian heritage. Again and again, when my children would ask why I didn't leave the church, I replied that I would forever work for what I saw as God's will, but that I would trust that God was working harder than I was, and I would be patient for God's time.

I still trust that sovereignty with my whole heart, with my whole life. Today I celebrate with the sure knowledge that if we are wrong God will correct us. Perhaps this is the correction. I know what I think, but my sure hope is not the decision of the PC(USA) or the even the "win" as "proof" of right thinking. 

My sure hope is in the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God and the communion of the Holy Spirit. My hope is in the Triune God who creates, rules, sustains, redeems, reconciles, and transforms all things and all people.  Thanks be to our God who constantly works on us and in us so that we might understand what God wants us to be and do.

Letter to a Dying church?...

Sojourners Magazine is running a series called "Letters to a Dying Church." The primary assumption seems to be that there is little to no hope for the institutional church. "Hopeful" letters speak of resurrection and some purpose in dying. One letter accurately reminds us that what is happening in the "west" is not true of the rest of the world. Of course, I have an opinion. So IMHO…a letter.

To the Church of Jesus Christ,

Many have pronounced you dying; some have pronounced you dead. Most see no hope. Many have deserted you in the name of seeking "life." And some are still a part of you, participants in the "institution" who are dismissed by many as foolish or deluded…or simply crazy because they continue to participate in a lost cause, to beat a dead horse, to cling to hope when all hope is gone.

Dear Church…here's the thing. Your fate is not ours to determine. You belong to the Triune God, the Alpha and Omega. Jesus Christ is your head. The Spirit courses through your veins. Creation is and always will be yours until the Lord God dwells among his people and there is no more need for you. 

I wonder, often, what the criteria is for pronouncing you dead or dying. Is is numbers? Is it wealth? Power in our political system? Respect by the "secular" rulers or powers? Profit? Relevance? How do we judge that you are dying?

Yes, here's the thing. Your fate is not ours to determine. Ours is an invitation to participate with God as God creates, redeems, rules, reconciles and transforms all things and all people. It's a magnificent invitation. It is not a promise for particular outcomes. The invitation is just that. We are not planning the event, nor are we to determine what is "successful" at a particular place and time. We are called to be part of the Body, called to be active in a congregation. We are called to prayer and discernment, not judgment and determination of how things "should be." 

I've been in some churches in which I struggle to see the Spirit at work. I've been in others that seem full to overflowing with Spirit. I've learned to be skeptical of my opinions. Often the "Spirit" I see is a reflection of my preferences and comfort. Often the struggle is my lack of imagination and connection. Do we, as your hands and feet, toes and fingers, have work to do to be more faithful to you, more open to the work of the Spirit in our midst, more able to witness to the steadfast love and grace given to us? You bet we do. But does our work determine your health. I don't think so. 

Dear Church…here's the thing. Your fate is not ours to determine. Individual congregations come and go. We are, after all, human. No congregation is immortal. No congregation immune to the human frailty that moves us through life to death. But our hope is not in our ability to be the oldest living congregation. Our hope is not in our ability or our definition of your success. Our hope is in the God who established you, who sustains you, and who will inspire and guide you in good times and bad, in health and in struggle, in life and in death.

I am grateful, Dear Church, that you are not mine to control. I am grateful that your fate is not mine to determine. I am grateful that I can trust that the sovereign God who created you and gave you as a gift to our people is working even now to bring about good, to work good when we manage to create chaos, to bring new life and health and wholeness to us and all creation. And I am so grateful to be invited to participate.

You have been pronounced dead and dying before, you will be again. In the meantime, I give thanks for the witness you provide, for the nurture that is promised, for the guidance that is gifted. I am grateful for your saints that have gone before, for my time to work for the Kingdom, and for those who will continue the Kingdom's work long after we are gone. 

A humble servant of God... 

(If you enjoy this blog and would like to know when a new post occurs, you can put an e-mail in the box at the top right-hand side of the page and you will receive the posting via e-mail.)

The Myth by Which We Die...

Confession. Instead of reading great literature in the evening, or painting great works or art, or even vacuuming the floor, I've been watching this pretty ridiculous "drama" about women who work a ranch in Australia. It gives me a good fix of the farm life. I'm pretty sure I wouldn't last a day, but the fantasy is that I would. At the very least, I would love chickens in my back yard. I also like the idea of working outside all day and then being able to eat real food with no guilt. Sitting in my office chair really doesn't open that door.

I know it's not all real, though the beautiful women who star in this show actually get filthy dirty. They don't manage to do the farm work and stay clean and well-coiffed as many shows portray. They do, however, manage to do hard labor all day, then cook themselves dinner and sit and enjoy it like they didn't wish with their whole beings for a bed and some sleep. The house also cleans itself now. They did have a woman whose role was house upkeep, but she left to become a scholar and now the house magically cares for itself. I would pay good money for a house like that.

I know I've written on this before, but this show (made between 2001 and 2008) is again this "don't help me"… "don't share what's going on in my life with anyone"… "don't tell the truth"… "I have to do it myself or it's not valid."

PEOPLE!  We need each other. We don't do anything on our own. Our relationships are healthier if we communicate with each other. We cannot succeed at anything if we try and do everything alone. 

Yes. That's what I yell at the TV. Really. I talk to them because they are so stupid. It's a bit scary.

Does anyone else think this way of life is crazy? Does everyone else in the world think it is normal and right to work so hard to isolate from all those around us unless we are perfect and perfectly competent and perfectly in control. Because if that is normal, you'll never see me again.

OK. Periodically on an episode we "realize" that our friends have our backs and it's good to ask for help and there are tears all around and we celebrate. But they never learn. The craziness starts again the very next episode.

So, I'm not sure what the moral of the story is…probably don't watch soap opera drama. But I do know this, living without relationships is not living at all. It's death. Being independent is not a cause to celebrate, it's the cause of loneliness and fear. "Doing it myself," "making my own decisions," "handling it alone,"…it's not the successful measure by which we live.

It's the myth by which we die.

Guvment Meetin' Prayuh...

A meeting of the Chicago City Council
from the Chicago Tribune.

Today the Supreme Court ruled that prayer before government
meetings was to be continued…even if
the prayers were predominantly Christian. They lend a sense of "gravitas" says one justice. My colleague, Joe, says basically they made prayer the jewelry of Lady Justice. I believe it is faux jewelry at that.

I think the world of faith, regardless of the religion or denomination should refuse to ever pray at a guvment meeting' EVER…period! 

The reduction of the practice of prayer to "lending gravitas" is a frightening emasculation of a profound practice. In the name of preserving faith, the court has, in fact, removed all semblance of real faith and practice. A prayer is not a decoration or a means to quiet the crowd so they don't miss any of the politician's rhetoric.

A prayer is a powerful, subversive force to bring us closer to the Kingdom of God (at least for those of us who practice the Christian and Jewish faith traditions).

Let the prayers continue. Let Lady Justice find her own cheap jewelry.

Reality and Easter Reality...

Trouble has been stirred by the new Noah movie. I haven't seen it yet. The trouble seems to stem from a portrayal of a gritty, certainly angst-ridden man instructed to build an ark. God is at work to save humankind.

The dumbest comment I have heard--and I thought about trying to soften the "dumb" but really, it was just dumb--is a female news anchor remembering the story from the children's Bible she read (as a child) where all the stories had happy endings. And children's Bibles tend to do that. We don't typically tell our children the story of the slaughter of the innocents after Jesus was born. Four year olds aren't ready to process that. Sometimes 40 year olds aren't either. From what I am hearing about the Noah movie, some adults aren't ready to process the reality of the text either.

The reality of the text is one of my favorite things. After the Easter celebrations in which every church puts on their finest clothes and music and resurrection joy, we return to lives that often are all too real. We hear and speak promises that God has defeated evil, has won the victory over death…and we still face the realities of death and evil in every part of our lives.

So if we read stories of a perfect Noah, the righteousness that got him attention, that enabled him to do the job God asked of him…and then if he is nothing but perfect, how do we understand the story? I might can sustain the obedience of righteousness until I can finish a task that God assigns, but I am more likely to slip, to forget the source of my hope, my sustenance, my focus. If the Noah story is about a perfect man, the guy who never fails, who always does the right thing, who lives the "happy ending," then what have I to learn? The story becomes about Noah, a man who I can never emulate, a man who lived a different reality than do I. Instead, the story is about God and God's work…and the moments of righteousness (obedience to God) that inspire our own obedience, perhaps. Certainly righteousness/obedience is not easy, especially if you are fully human and not some children's-Bible-cartoon character. (Though perfectly good for children!)

Regardless of what the sin will be once the ark comes to rest, there will be sin. Noah is not saved because of his ability to be sinless. Noah is saved because God's work is the redemption of humankind.  Noah "comes home" to the same brokenness that God tried to wash away in the flood. Truth is, no matter how much we want it, we cannot escape the brokenness that surrounds us. We cannot wash it away. We cannot simply "get rid" of the broken "others" who mess things up for us (or so we would like to think).

Reality is, we continue to sin. Easter reality is God doesn't give up on us. Even in those moments deemed righteous, those moments of our finest and best, God knows who we are and remarkably, miraculously, loves us unconditionally, warts and all. Easter reality is God providing a righteousness that is dependable, the righteousness that never fails, the righteousness that is ours because we live in the body of Christ. Somehow in the mystery of God's work, we live "in Christ" and he in us.

There is no storybook "happy ending" in scripture. Even Jesus' resurrection is a series of brief, joyful appearances and then life goes back to reality. But the reality has been changed. The resurrected Jesus brings an invitation to live into and out of God's reality, that we really have nothing to fear, that nothing can separate us from God's love, not even ourselves. So now we can live in our "reality," our brokenness knowing that God's love wins…always…forever. Someday we will have the ultimate happy ending here on earth. Until then…living obedient lives out of an Easter reality just might change the world!

Easter Again...

So here's the thing. I believe it. Actually, the better wording is that I trust the good news of this Easter resurrection thing.

"Believe" is a head thing. What you think about something. If I think about resurrection too much I struggle. I do have a quite capable brain and am thoroughly immersed in the enlightenment investment in scientific methods.

But with every fiber of my being, I trust this resurrection thing. I have experienced God's ability to bring life from death, to call out new life where nothing existed before. And I am amazed and grateful that God invites me into God's work of transformation and reconciliation. I am so completely human that it boggles the mind that God thinks I have something to offer.  But I experience those moments of grace and see the healing and I hold out Easter hope for the world.

I trust this Easter resurrection thing. I will sing my heart out and lift my prayers because this trust gives meaning and focus and hope to a world that too often and too completely spins out of control.

All this is wrapped up in that phrase we wear out in the Easter season:

He is risen. The Lord is risen, indeed!

To-Doing Holy Week...

Wonder what Jesus would have thought if he had known how Holy Week would morph over a couple thousand years. One church my husband served had a mini-revival beginning on Palm Sunday. So you had evening and breakfast events Sunday through Wednesday, plus the pastor had to entertain the guest speaker. Oh yeah, and still prepare the Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and Easter sermons. I always said (in my nicest preacher's wife annoying way) that I though that church put their preachers in the tomb for the week to see if killing him resulted in a funeral or a resurrection.

Wonder if Jesus could do anything more than put one foot in front of the other during his last week, "left foot, right foot, breathe" as Anne LaMotte says. When life…or death…comes at you that fast, I'm not sure you have the ability to reflect. Today, I pray for families in South Korea. The sinking of a ferry carrying 300, with most of those being high school students on a school trip, is devastating. I wonder how you even put one foot in front of the other in light of that event.

Sometimes I wonder instead of making Easter Sunday the celebration day with the new dresses and family dinners and congregational decorations…what would happen if we met on Easter like the women at the tomb. They didn't know to wear their new dresses. They were still trying to breathe. What would happen if we just showed up after a slow week of contemplating death and suffering; of confessing our own complicity in the sin that took Jesus' life, that takes our own lives a little every day. What if we just showed up in our regular clothes and listened to the good news of the gospel, that new life is possible. What if we, undistracted by the to-do list, were able to really hear the reality of the promise of new life and transformation.

Hearing that promise, being surprised by the possibility, glimpsing the kingdom…that is worthy of celebration. That is when we might buy the new dress. That is when we might invite friends and family over for the renewal of community. Then as we continue to live into the Easter reality all through the season, more and more signs of new life might arise…

I guess I hope our focus on the celebration doesn't eclipse the good news that will be ours. 

He is risen…

The Lord is risen, indeed!

Holy Week...

Palm Sunday begins Holy Week. It's the consistent lament of church professionals that we have to pack Palm Sunday and Passion all together because few people will come out for the darker services of Mandy Thursday, Good Friday, and Holy Saturday.

Today my hot water heater stopped working. Cold water showers are horrible, to be avoided at all costs. I just thought today as I showered at my daughter's, we are mighty lucky that we can avoid the horrible. Many people can't. There are people tonight who have to face the sudden unexpected death of loved ones, people who live and serve in dangerous places, people who don't have enough to eat.

I wonder if the discipline of Holy Week is a necessary reminder that the world doesn't always have an abundance of hot water. I promise I will appreciate my hot shower when it comes back. Perhaps it is in the journey through the darkness and the pain, the hopelessness and the evil that is our companion in this life that we can truly appreciate the resurrection, the promise of new life.

Daily...

Some life events define us. We know immediately what they are. We can describe them in detail. We know how we were changed.

Today, I wonder about between the life events. We are defined there, too. Get up, go to work, be with other people, perhaps read or watch TV, go to bed. Perhaps this between time shapes us even more than the big events. The habits and perspectives we develop in the between shape our responses to the events.

I'm going to try and be more aware of daily practices that inevitably shape who I am. I'm not going to change anything now. Just see how I'm being defined in the footsteps of the mundane.