Chalice Boots

Some people get robes for graduation. We do things a little different down here in Texas.

"How many times are you going to say that?" teased Rev. Snazzy Lady.

Waaal, there mebbe 3 or 4 UUs still left that I haven't shown my boots to. After that, I'll stop, I promise.

The Husband knew what he wanted to get me for graduation for seminary, so he bundled me off to the boot store, where I made a million different choices to put together some custom boots.  Embedded in each is a flaming chalice.

Some UUs don't like the chalice, point to its recent history, question the myth surrounding it. That's all fine, to each their own.

I does mean something to me, perhaps due in part to being a parent who has raised my children as Unitarian Universalists. In our small congregation, it was a rite of passage when they were old enough to go forward and light the chalice. They've been taught the story of Hans Deutsch, the artist who created the original picture, and pushed into the frame of our front door is a chalice pin. It was, honestly, one of the first words Little Wren learned. I'd have her in my arms, fumbling for the keys, and she'd lean forward, touching it with her tiny finger. "Cha-ice," she would say. It was a touchstone; it meant that she was home.

It is a symbol, and the only meaning a symbol has is what we imbue it with. I've heard different meanings attached to the flaming chalice, and mostly, I like them all. Light of truth, flame of fellowship, eternal spirit of love ... When The Husband and I got married, the ceremony began with lighting a chalice. Every covenant group meeting I went to began with a chalice lighting. In the hospital, we took a mini prayer box from the BFF-DRE, with a little battery operated chalice inside. When LW was dedicated, she had 4 godmothers. They put their money together to get her a chalice necklace. Perhaps one day she'll hand it down to her child.

It symbolizes, to me, Unitarian Universalism, and tied all up in that is my identity as a Unitarian Universalist. I love my faith and I'm profoundly grateful that it exists.

Perhaps the simple meaning it held for my little one is the most significant. All the churches I've visited, or preached at, light a chalice at the beginning of worship. The faces may be unfamiliar, but still, I know I am home.

Congregations and Beyond

Friends have asked me my thoughts on Peter Morales’ whitepaper and after finding out that I’m going to Orlando to brainstorm about it with others, have generously shared their thoughts with me.

I’ve noticed some interesting things in their thoughts (and for the record, I think all are valid). Now, these are rough approximations … there certainly are people in each category who do not agree with the others in the group. But for the most part:

My Social Media peeps: after years of shouting from the rooftops about the very real community and relationship that happens via blogs, FB, Twitter, etc., they’re excited to see others are realizing it.

My Boots on the Ground Parish Ministers: wonder if any of this is relevant to their churches and have concern that this will take away from the help they desperately need.

Theology Wonks: want more emphasis on the “there, there.” What is the root of what connects us? What are those “core values”?

Polity Wonks: want to know if this is a step toward being an association of members rather than an association of congregations, and if so, will this dilute/change our congregational polity?

One question I’ve heard from almost all groups is a desire for clarification, to know what the end goal is.

One thing I feel quite certain about: if we want to make a significant change in the world, if we want to extend our saving message beyond those who manage to figure out that they’re “Unitarian Universalists without knowing it,” it is going to require change and an “all hands on deck” mentality. No more protecting our own little square of real estate or working from models crafted 50 (or 200) years ago.  

Are we willing to? Are we going to be an association that protects the walls, or knocks them down? An association that throws gasoline on burning bushes, or ice water?

Significant change will occur when all the entities – UUA, UUMA, MFC, local clusters, local congregations – look for possibilities. That minister holding 3 third-time jobs? Do we want to encourage someone who is helping 3 struggling congregations, or say, “Meh, doesn’t count”? That minister who spends time out in the community each week, feeding the hungry and being a visible representative for UUism? Do we want to say, “Well, do it on your own time”? That excited person who says, “I know a whole group of people who we should reach out to,” – do we say, “Nah, they don’t fit our profile”? To the person establishing and nurturing relationships online, do we say, “Those aren’t ‘real’”?

And along with the logic about needing to have both wings and roots, we must talk boldly about our saving message, our history, our theology. We are not a giant “non-denominational” movement. We are not the “none of the above” choice. This is not the Grand Church of Tabula Rasa.

We are Unitarian Universalism. We are missionaries into a hurt, broken world.

Love Beyond

"My grandmother used to tell me stories about how they would put straw under the eyelids of slaves so they couldn't fall asleep," he confided to me.

JT and I took many classes together in seminary, and are good friends. He is one of those encouraging sorts of people who always have a smile and a "How you doing, darlin'?" for everyone. 

In my last semester, one of the classes we were in examines the life and ministry of Martin Luther King, Jr. 

For me, this is a rich history course. For JT, it is memories. He is a retired funeral director, getting his M. Div. for his own spiritual growth, and to strengthen his existing ministry. He is African-American, and he grew up in the South. He drank from labeled water fountains. He is a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, with dark skin. This dignified gentleman, a successful, generous businessman, lived, and lives, in a world that sees him as the bogeyman. 

He and I both have deep beliefs about the power of love. For me, life has made this root of my theology easy. For him, it has made it a just-shy-of-impossible struggle.

The Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. preached over and over about justice. But even more, he preached on love. He exhorted others to even love those who wanted to hurt you, wanted to bomb your house, wanted to kill your babies. Over and over, through his sermons, through his speeches, he counseled love. He knew that to cede the power of love was to lose part of yourself.

JT shows me how very hard this is. That to forgive others, others who have never even realized how wrong they were, is a herculean task. The stories of what was done to ancestors are passed down, generation to generation, in his family. There are no such stories in mine. We do not pass down what we are ashamed of.

Our professor, slightly younger than JT, grew up in the North and remembers being yanked away from a "white" water fountain when visiting family in the South. But he is more positive. We read the laws that were on the books in every state in the late 1950's. "Look at how things have changed!" Part of our grade is based on analyzing the success or failure of MLK's ministry.

After class, JT shakes his head. "Right is right, and wrong is wrong," he says. There are certain things, certain hurts, that are unforgivable.

Today, we will probably hear "I have a dream" and "mountaintop" and maybe even "arc of the universe." But to me, Rev. King is still speaking. Part of my spiritual practice lies in reading and studying his words. Words he wrote 50 years ago challenge, indict, and inspire me today. Every day for 2012, will be MLK day for me.

His ministry continues. 

I do not do enough. I do not give enough.

But I want to.

This is not false humility, it is truth.  I am not yet the person I want to be. But I feel that I can be.

Jesus, John Lennon, and probably your mama have all talked about my problem. The spirit is willing, but the body is weak. Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans. The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

I have good intentions, and soon as I have more time, more money, I'll do something with them.

I waste. I waste time, I waste money.

Time that could be spent making a real difference in the world is frittered away. I never have time to be bored. From the moment I wake til I fall asleep, there is a steady stream of information available to me. Computer, television, email, books. Boredom spurs creativity, for good or for bad. Grownups often go to great lengths to "keep kids busy" because they know that boredom can lead to mischief. Ya gotta keep kids out of trouble.

We are being constantly entertained, too. And we are kept out of trouble. And we are kept out of good.

I waste money. Another book here, another coffee there. Click, swipe, it is mine, to be abandoned on a shelf, or quickly consumed. Both, 24 hours later, wholly forgotten. Waste.

I know that who I am is not what I do, but I also know that what I do shapes and creates who I am.

I want to be better than this.

I want to be around people who encourage me to do so. Who teach me how to. Who motivate me to set aside my smartphone and join them in transforming our little corner of the world into a better place. Which will help transform me into a better person. I want to change my life in a big way, I want to give myself to something big. But I need help. I need tools so that I can manage my money, my time, my ideas.  I need to feel I'm not doing it alone, that I'm a part of something important.

Sunday, I will walk in the doors of your church.

What will you have for me?

Proud to Be a Level Four Santa

I believe in Santa Claus. I believe in people.

Believe means different things, doesn’t it? And sometimes, we instantly know it. Like saying, “I believe in people.” Well, obviously, I’m not talking about existence, that seems to be a foregone conclusion. People exist.

“I believe in people” means something more, something positive.  The writers of the Bible would use a figure of speech called ellipsis, in which they would omit certain words for effect. It’s an unfinished circle, that we tend to automatically fill in with meaning.

So part of what I would fill in is that I believe in people, that they can be generous beyond your imagination, loving to complete strangers, extenders of awesome grace.

Santa Claus embodies this instinct we have toward compassion.

Children, if they are being raised by someone who loves them, assume this. If you tell a 3 year old “People are good and often want to help,” they will look at you blankly. Of course they are! In the same way they will always say that the bigger glass has more liquid in it than the short cup, no matter the opposing evidence, it is part of their logic that grownups are good people.

To tell a 45 year old the same thing is to invite debate, a debate that has raged for the ages, through the Christian scriptures, Lord of the Flies, A Separate Peace, and all those other “original sin” themed books they made us read in High School.

I am here to tell you – people are good. And they will overwhelm you with their willingness to make things better for others.

We share our belief in Santa Claus with our children. There are different levels to this, and so we divide it up into what we feel is developmentally appropriate for them to understand.

It astounds me that so many people stop at the first level. And at a certain point, they learn that it’s “wrong,” and that’s that. It’s done.

Don’t they know, it’s only the introduction!

Level One Santa is the symbolic embodiment into one person: he lives at the North Pole, says “Ho Ho Ho,” and comes down the chimney. He gives without ever expecting anything in return. He brings presents to children simply because he loves them.  Oh sure, there are rumors of coal in stockings … but no one actually knows anyone who got that.

Myths grow and become more personal in each family; ours is no exception. With our first, it was decided that it was appropriate to ask Santa for three things (which you may or may not get). Rather early on, our son decided that the things Santa brought that he didn’t ask for were always way better than the things he did. Thus began the tradition he passed down to his sisters. “Ask for two things, but leave it up to him for the third thing – he always knows better!” As the children get older, they tend to even go farther, only asking Santa for one thing, or even nothing. They are learning about trust – trust that if you are open, and willing, you may receive gifts beyond what you know to ask for.

It is an exciting time, with our Level One Santa kids. They go outside to find chewed up carrot tops left by the reindeer, they receive personal letters from Santa a couple of days before Christmas. All of we Level Twos or above are on alert – to listen to the conversations, the casual remarks, the longing looks. And somehow, that Santa inspiration comes through, when suddenly we know what to pull out of the magic bag. Christmas morning arrives and “How did he know I wanted this???”

A personal letter from Santa – all our children receive them, regardless of age. Santa talks about their past year, what he’s noticed, what to work on, how much he loves them.

And then, one year, when they’ve had a lot of questions, and it is right … they receive a letter telling them that on the day after Christmas, they are to reach under their pillow, and there will be a special letter there that answers all their questions.

They are ready to become Level Twos.

Level Two is where you become privy to the giant mystery, the fabulous conspiracy that is Santa. You are entrusted with the secret, that Santa is SO much bigger than you imagined, that you, in fact, get to be Santa, too. The entire framework is laid out and you can see how far-reaching it is, how much more profound it is than a man coming down a chimney. People are so wonderful, that all over the world, they will go to great lengths to ensure that others have a magical Christmas. NORAD … the North American Aerospace Defense Command! – puts up video and a website so that families all over the world can track Santa’s progress. People go to the post office to pick up letters from children who have written to Santa, to actually fill some of those requests, out of their own wallet! Movies made, books written, collections taken up, all to make magic for the most powerless among us. Children.

To become a Level Two is not automatic. It is a choice. You may decide to just close the door, believe that “there is no Santa Claus.” Or you can make the choice to join in, to become a Level Two Santa.

A Level Two is someone who supports the Santa Claus efforts, promoting the wonder, keeping the mystery. Level Twos learn to listen intently, while looking casual; they pay attention to such things as what kind of thing a child plays with, what characters they like, their favorite colors.  They themselves make magic, helping to put out the gifts on Christmas Eve, eating a cookie (but leaving crumbs on a plate).

Level Three is when you become Santa for the child in your life – your daughter, your nephew, your grandchild. You give, and receive no credit. No thank-you’s.  It’s worth it, to be part of this magic.

Level Four is when you become Santa for someone not as close – an elderly neighbor, a friend, a stranger, a name on a tree. The recipient can’t know who you are, of course. If they did, you wouldn't be Santa. So there is much whispering and giggling; it is an appropriate time for secrets and ringing doorbells and running away.  And yes, you can become a Level Four before becoming a Level Three!

Level Five is the top. This is the person who becomes the embodiment of Santa (or Mrs. Claus) themselves. They put on, or grow, the beard, put on the red hat, perfect their Ho-Ho-Ho.  They wave from parades, hold squirming babies on their laps for pictures.  

Too old for Santa Claus? Ah, no. For us, the question is, “Is Jane old enough for Santa Claus?” As a Level One, she only knows the door. It’s a beautiful, magical door … but beyond it lies grandeur and awe she can’t even imagine.

And she is a part of it all.

Lizard Eater, Master of Divinity

I am graduating from seminary tomorrow, friends. Saturday morning.

In August 2004, two things began. My seminary experience, and Little Wren, growing in my belly.

To say I had no idea what would happen with those two things is quite the understatement. Such changes in both, such changes in me. But we survived. My seminary, my daughter, and me. We all survived.

I have attended an evangelical seminary. My first semester, I resigned myself to "flying under the radar." I told friends, and myself, that it was like learning a foreign language. "I don't have to believe Monsieur Thibaux est un ingénieur," I explained, "I just have to learn to say he is."

I stopped seminary, temporarily, I thought, to have Little Wren. I prepared to go back, and shortly before it was time, my world cracked in two. My little baby girl was diagnosed with cancer.

"I will never go back," I told a friend, flatly. I had nothing to say. Why would I be a minister?

But Spirit wants what it wants. Little Wren healed, and I healed. I went back to school.

And then ... it was back. Cancer.

I stopped seminary again. We did cancer again. She healed, I healed. I went back to school.

Okay, that's not exactly the timeline. She healed. I went back to school. I healed. Yes, that's a more accurate representation.

I found my voice. And I found nurturing professors who encouraged me to use that voice. No, I did not have to believe Monsieur Thibaux was an engineer. Explain to them why it was not so, give sources, make educated statements.

They learned more about what a Unitarian Universalist is. And I learned that "evangelical" is most definitely not synonymous with "fundamentalist." I have been surrounded by people who are not homophobic, nor judgmental. I have been surrounded by professors who genuinely live their faith in a way that is awe-inspiring to me.

Along the way, through this blog, I became friends with people, people who reached out to me, wept with me, encouraged me, mentored me. Friends who saw my heart be broken, read words that said I would never go into the ministry, never return to seminary. Friends who were there when I said, "I'm going back to seminary."

You shared your stories with me. Your own stories of cancer, of seminary, of family, of hard times, of good times. In the same way that seminary shaped me, you shaped me. Your stories have become a part of me.

They call it "ministerial formation." It's seminary, and preaching, and life, and CPE, and internship, and all the other things that help you find your identity as a religious professional.

So many of you have formed me. Fussed at me, argued with me, laughed with me, made me feel loved.

I love you, too.

On love and tamales

There are certain things that transcend the sense of "the stranger." One is fishing. Anywhere I've ever gone,  meeting a fellow fan of bait and tackle means that immediate conversation is possible. It usually starts with "Any luck today?" followed by discussions of what they're biting on, what spots are dry, and such. Now, there are certain protocols that are followed. One would never drop line right next to that person, poaching on their territory. Unless invited to, of course. A large cooler of beer you're willing to share makes that incident more probable.

The other arena in which strictures against talking to strangers, and especially someone who is "not like you," are dropped is cooking. Age, culture, even language, are no barriers to two cooks talking.

We are having a tamalada tomorrow, making lots of tamales for the holidays. I went to the Mexican mega-mart today to load up on heavy bags of wet masa, manteca de puerco, and corn husks. An older Mexican woman peeked at my cart and said, "Oh, you're making tamales!" We wound up talking for about 15 minutes, exchanging recipes and ideas. I, of course, came out much the richer for it. Cooks do not mind being bossy with each other. I told her that I was going to cut a few corners this year -- using ground chile rather than roasting my own peppers, that sort of thing. She directed me over to an unfamiliar can of sauce, used for enchiladas, and told me how to doctor it up for my pork filling. We parted, each giving advice -- she telling me that I can make spinach tamales without having to cook the filling first (use frozen spinach), and me encouraging her to tell her adult son that if he wants tamales, well, he better get over to her house and start spreading masa. "Have good holidays!" she called after me.

The BFF-DRE is coming over, after a church meeting. Not that she had much of a choice. Her boys are tamale-making fiends, and I think they were coming with or without her. Making tamales together has now become one of our holiday traditions. One year, we convinced our church cooking group to make tamales as a fundraiser. We took orders for traditional pork tamales, turkey mole tamales, vegetarian black bean and cotija cheese tamales, vegan chipotle bean tamales, sweet potato tamales.

We had orders for over a 100 dozen.

Late Saturday night of that tamalada, we were all near tears. "I just can't make anymore," our friend T cried, throwing up her hands. Sometimes you have to know when to throw in the towel. Nonetheless, I think we'd made about 98 dozen. We gave apologies to a few people who didn't get their full orders. Everyone was very nice about it.

But we never did that again.

Certain things you do for love, not money, even if the money is going to go to something you love. Tamales are one. Fishing, too.

Gasoline on the Burning Bush

To have a passion is a one thing. It can be a source of soul-satisfying vision, or it can be a crazy-making force.

Sometimes, both at the same time.

But when you have others … others who share your passion, who can see your vision and they get it, they cheer it on, just as you cheer theirs … really, there’s not much better, is there?

The Hysteric Cleric,  Rev. Sunflower, Rev. Soulful and SpongeBobbi, and I, all flew from our different cities across the country to a missional church conference. Poppa Bear couldn’t join us, but he was following our trek, commenting on various things we posted.

The conference was great. Rev Sunflower and I tweeted and facebooked like mad, all the great “YEAH!” quotes we were hearing. (Apologies to our friends. You may have your facebook page back now. Please don’t unfriend us.)

But for me, equally important were the times when we broke bread afterwards, discussing what we heard at our different workshops, compared notes, tested theories, discussed how they’d look in our context.

One message that is stressed amongst those seeking to do missional work is the need to have a supportive network. Because there’s no paradigm. The missional movement is a new movement, and there are but a few working examples. We’re learning, experimenting, sometimes failing, and sometimes succeeding, all as we go.

One of those great things I heard about was the need for leaders, when they learn of a member’s “burning bush,” to pour gasoline on it. Pour gasoline on the source of their passion.

As we wrestled with different ideas, the flame of my vision expanded. Thank you friends, for the gasoline.

A little revision to the old joke

During a worship service a man began to be moved by the Spirit.
Out loud he said “Amen!”  He tweeted to his friends "This service is rocking! #FirstUU = awesome!” People around him were a little disturbed.
Then louder he said, “Hallelujah!”  On Facebook, he tapped out, “Hallelujah! Great message today!” A few more people were becoming disturbed.
During the prayer, he shouted “Praise Jesus!” During the meditation, he texted his mother. "Rev D talked about anger. I'm sorry re: this a.m. Please forgive me. I <3 U."
An usher moved quickly down the aisle. He bent over and whispered to the man, “Sir! Control yourself! Put that away! We are having church here!”
The man exclaimed, “I can’t help it. I got religion!!!”
To which the usher responded, “Well you didn’t get it here!”

Happy Birthday, David. Were you glad you were born?

More memories. We just passed the 40th anniversary of when David Vetter was born.

Known in the press as David the Bubble Boy.

He and I lived in the same area. I didn't know him, but several of my friends did. For a while, he "took" classes at our school. And some of the kids "played" at his house.

A lot of quotation marks there. I guess it means he "lived" to be 12 years old.

In that "your friends are my friends" way of understanding community that kids have, all of us felt connected to David. We followed the stories, we were protective of David (even if some felt he was kind of a pill) and his sister. We didn't understand the big picture, we just knew that he was trapped. We thought it was a pretty bum deal.

I won't get into the whole story. You can read it here. I will sum it up by saying it tells what happens when you put science first, and ethics second. It's a damn heartbreaking story.

I remember when he died. I was a freshman in High School, at home by myself. This being a local story, they broke in on the tv and gave the news. I remember they said he died of a heart attack, I don't know why -- I guess because they didn't actually know the cause of death yet. I turned off the tv. I turned on the radio. Total Eclipse of the Heart was playing. Crying, I danced, giant leaps around the living room. I was 14, but I knew that David had never been able to have even that little freedom. I remember thinking I was dancing for David.

His doctors are celebrating. They say his life and death meant life for many others. They say profound scientific knowledge came from the science experiment that was his life.

David, was it worth it?

I am Troy Davis

Andy asks, "Do you remember the day you were able to really comprehend what the death penalty meant?"

I don't remember that, but I do remember when I realized that an innocent person could be put to death. I remember the dawning horror of realizing that the government, my government, the police and all the "good guys" could, not accidentally, but deliberately and with malice, make it happen, even when they knew the person was innocent.

I was in high school, and Clarence Brandley, who lived in my town, was on death row.

My brother was a young lawyer following the case. He told us about all the details that were coming to light -- the racism, the destroying evidence, how those in power conspired to bring this about.

I think it was the first time for me to really understand systemic evil.

Do you think the "collateral loss" of some innocent people being put to death is worth it? I mean, we know it happens.

Some think that's an acceptable loss.

I don't. I can't.


Clarence Brandley, no thanks to the system, yes thanks to many civil rights activists, was eventually exonerated and set free.

Troy Davis was not.


For further information, see The Innocence Project

My Pond is Gone

I haven't been to my pond since May, partially because of CPE, but mainly because it's been so beastly hot. Hottest August on record, they say.

We got a cool front. It will be gone by this afternoon, so I pulled on my shoes and as soon as the children were out the door, I slipped out. Ah. Sweet coolness.

I got there, walked down the hill ...

My pond is gone.

I know they say this is one of the worst droughts we've had in decades, but it still hit me like the cliched ton of bricks. Where I used to watch minnows swim and see the occasional splash of a larger fish, is a field. Only a puddle remains.

I walked around the far edge, toward where the water was deeper.

Splat! A bird pooped on my head.

"In some cultures, this is considered good luck," I muttered grimly, wiping it off.

I walked farther. A bit of the pond remains and it was filled, filled with cranes and ... pelicans? Not pelicans, but some type of pink bird. Which means it has come from some place else.

My phone rang. It was the husband. His best friend and his family just had to evacuate their house from the wildfires to the north of us.  More wildfires are burning through the state park where I went to so many family reunions. The small town where my mother grew up during WWII.

One of the top search strings that leads people to this blog is "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away." For a panentheistic, process-theology, Jesus-inspired UU, that works just fine. We are interwoven in all of that, and yet there is also a power far beyond our control.

I continue walking ... it's possible to do that, with a broken heart.

I walk down to my favorite little part, where the turtles used to poke up their heads, then furiously splash away if I blinked. My turtles ... Now, it is just dry, cracked earth.

I turn the corner and a giant bunny, as big as my fat old cat at home, bounces across the path and into the woods. I've never seen a rabbit here, and though I know it speaks to the dry conditions, still, I am thrilled by the gift.

I go home. I take a shower with clean water. I go to my refrigerator and cold, filtered water fills my glass.

I drink it, reverently.

Religion Should Be Delicious

First, I read the short version of Lillian Daniel's essay about "Spiritual But Not Religious? Please Stop Boring Me," that is making the rounds.

Part of me, I must confess, had that triumphant, "Yeah, what SHE said!" feeling. And then, rather quickly, I felt ... quite uncomfortable. Was sneering at someone else's sneering the way to go?

And it kept sitting with me.

Then, I read the longer version. And felt heart-achingly sad.

A man sits next to her. He tells her his story. Of going to a church where he's not supposed to ask questions. Then going to a church that defines God in such a rigid way, he can't make it fit with his reasoning about the divine.

Then, he finds a church that is like a big warm hug. He fits. But when he goes through the pain of divorce, backs turn. It is his wife's church, he discovers.

Disillusioned, hurt, he begins sleeping in, reading the NY Times, taking long walks. He finds God in the trees and the cicadas. He describes himself as deeply spiritual, but not religious.

Me, I would call that healing. Daniels does not.

After having his intellect, his sense of God's love, and trust in human relationships all abused, we should say, Sorry, Bucko, you should have gone to another church? Tried harder?

Are you kidding?

Yes, I know there are plenty of folks out there, shallowly tralalaing about being spiritual but not religious. They fit with "self-centered American culture, right smack in the bland majority of people who find ancient religions dull but find themselves uniquely fascinating."

Don't you understand that these are the people who most need us?


I can't judge them because I recognize my own demon in it. The demon that tells me that if I buy these storage bins or watch this documentary or read this book, my life will be better. I struggle with this demon, over and over, but I sure do like my toys... 

We are needed. But here's the deal: we haven't shown that our way -- the religious life -- is better. In fact, as in the case of the man on the airplane, we've often shown the opposite.


I don't spank my kids, for many reasons. But I'm also pragmatic. I've watched the families where the parents do spank their kids, and if their children were better behaved, heck, I would have considered it. But they weren't.


By your fruits you will know them.

I have a minister friend who is a runner. He talks about the difference it makes in his life. And his life backs him up -- he is physically healthy, and it obviously helps him, spiritually and mentally. Because of this, I'm trying out running as a spiritual practice.

In A Treatise on Atonement, Hosea Ballou writes about loving God:

I am asked if I love an orange; I answer I never tasted of one; but then I am told I must love the orange for what it is! Now I ask, is it possible for me either to like or dislike the orange, in reality, until I taste it? Well, I taste of it and I like it. Do you like it? says my friend. Yes I reply, its flavor is exquisitely agreeable. But that will not do, says my friend; you must not like it because its taste is agreeable, but you must like it because it is an orange. If there be any propriety in what my friend says, it is out of my sight.

We have not made our case. First, we have to let people know: If you come to this church, your life and the world you affect, will be better.


And if we can't say that ... then close up shop. Take a walk in the woods.


Going to church should transform you. Going to church should make your life better, and because of your transformation, should make the world you impact better.


I understand the complaints about a consumer-driven culture that affects our attitude about church. But goshdarnitall, we have to give people a reason to go to church. 


I have a friend, a local missional pastor here in my town. His little church is Christian, so they have communion. Every so often, they do it with cake. Why? Because they believe religion should be delicious.


Religion should be delicious. No, not like "deep-fried appetizers," but deeply, soul-satisfyingly delicious. Which means struggling with hard questions, fighting and panting, but knowing the next day, for our struggles, we will be renamed Israel. Delicious, like the pride a parent feels for their child who ventures out, making their first theological pronouncement. Delicious, like sunsets and beaches and walks through the woods. 

Is your church delicious? Does it provide opportunities for spiritual transformation? Does it encourage you to transform the world? If it does all that, you should be out there, letting everyone know. You should light the way so that others, caught in the grip of the demon culture that says we can buy meaning, purchase fulfillment, may find their salvation. And if your church is not delicious, you should damn well either make it delicious or find another one. Because we are needed. Desperately needed.


You say you're spiritual but not religious? 


Come sit by me. I want to hear your story.

Take Me to the Water

"Take me to the water ... to be baptized."

I could not go to the waters I normally travel to each summer. For one thing, I was working full time plus, as a hospital chaplain. For another, it has been sold. Some other family goes there now.

I reached the end of my CPE summer and felt the call to come to the waters. There will always be water to refresh you. And I was hot, hot to the very core of my being. I'd drive to the park and ride, and it was already hot. Board the bus, walk a couple of blocks to the rail. Hot, steamy, even in an air-conditioned train car. A block to the hospital. Walking around, one end of the hospital to the other, clothed in a suit, because it's a formal type of place. Sweating through my blouses. Time to go, out to the even hotter day now, the rail, the bus, the car that has baked all day in the sun. Home, but the a/c couldn't keep up with this insane summer. Ice water on the inside, cold showers on my skin, it didn't matter. I couldn't get cool.

I knew where to go.

About 2 1/2 hours from my house, there is a giant pool, fed by natural cold springs. As a child, we would take trips and I would swim there. When my mother was a child, so did she. So did her parents, and her grandparents. Perhaps even those before them. I feel that the very molecules of my body, the genetic material I have inherited, somehow carried those experiences and cried out for me to come to the water. To the cold, cold waters, to be refreshed and replenished.

We didn't tell the children where we were going. Friday, as I left for my last day at the hospital, I left them a scavenger hunt of things to find ... sunblock, swim suits, goggles ... They were madly curious. The coast? The place where I often preach, or their grandmother's home? Nope, we told them. And that was all.

We played tantalizing music on the way, as they cudgeled their brains. Take Me to the Water, Take Me to the River, Old Black Water ...


And then we were there. We slipped on the algae-covered bottom, took deep intakes of breath as the cold hit us, quickly going the very center of our being. So hot all summer long, now we looked up at the small clouds that made it overcast and asked them to part so the sun could come through.

We swam together, somersaulting under the water, showing off strokes, floating and looking up at the clouds. I left them in the shallow for a bit, their father smiling knowingly at me as I took off for the deeper waters. I swam, I dove underneath, I was refreshed, revived, replenished, recovered. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my parents, grandparents, great-grandparents, and more, as they swam here, in this same place, at a different time. They came together in me and we were held in the healing waters.

Loved Into Being

I'm tired. I'm tired the way you are at the end of your CPE summer. Ministers, can I get an 'amen'?

But RevTony's post about his wonderful experiences with DBLE and HeartPaths Spirituality Centre prompt me to write. He blogs that those places were "an environment that made me feel appreciated, loved and cared for as a child of God" and that "what enables people to achieve any type of emotional and spiritual healing is that first and foremost they feel accepted, welcomed and loved...Learning can happen at anytime, but perhaps deep, internalized insight can only happen when we are loved."

Jim, who also did CPE this year, wrote about his CPE center, and his appreciation that they used a "collegial educational model, rather than believing that CPE students should be treated rather like soup ingredients that must be thoroughly chopped into small pieces before they can be of any use."

Amen, my brother.

I wound up at a center that was, from the top down, a nurturing, strengthening, affirming culture. Which didn't mean they held our hands ... no, we were thrown out into the big scary ocean straight away. But they cheered us on, answered our questions, and treated us with the respect of being full chaplains. It truly was a loving culture.

I learned, oh, how I learned. I received formation. Lots and lots of formation. I am a different, stronger minister than I was at the start of summer.

But along with that ... I did a lot of healing this summer. From those who have followed along since the cancer years, yes, a lot of healing from that time. The fact that I journeyed with my daughter through two bouts of cancer did affect my pastoral care, and many times, it was a help in connecting with patients. I am no longer resentful that the universe may, in some way, benefit from her illness. Was it worth it? No, of course not, but what does that matter? When sitting with someone hurting, needing my pastoral presence, I will use all the tools I have been given.

One of my heroes is the Rev. Fred McFeely Rogers. Also known as Mr. Rogers.

When receiving a lifetime achievement award at the Daytime Emmys, he used his time to ask everyone to take a moment and remember "those that loved you into being."

I feel that I had the amazing fortune to wind up in a hospital with people that helped love me into being. Come to think of it, my life has almost always had that fortune.

I hope I may do the same for others. Because I am one to whom much has been given. With love, anyway. Undeserved, unasked for. In a word, grace.

Could Your Church Support a Mission?

So, let me tell you my fantasy.

My fantasy is that we come up with a sustainable model for minister-planted Unitarian Universalist churches.

Right now, our main model is for a minister, capable of living very frugally, and with a supportive spouse, to plant churches on his or her own dime, right? Commendable, but not a sustainable model if we want to have churches popping up around the country.

Which I do.

Christian churches support “missions.” They put money, people, and resources toward sending out missionaries to areas of need. This is part of the Great Commission, they believe. The missionaries return home and give exciting reports about what they’re accomplishing, church members go on mission trips to dig wells, build schools, and meet the members of the local mission. The members are spiritually fed by this, and they make that little pocket of the world better.

Here’s my fantasy.

A UU church – probably one of the larger ones in town – decides to support a Mission. They hire a missionary, a person trained in ministry and missional church planting, and call him or her “Associate Minister.” They allocate funds so that the minister can start a church on a shoestring budget. This missionary/minister goes into a community and plants a church, a church that will do missional work, because we say that we are a religion of deeds not creeds.

The missionary/minister doesn’t go to Uganda or Honduras. This m/m goes … across town. Across town, not to a wealthy area, not to an educated area, not to any of the areas bearing demographics of “People Like Us.” Because this is Mission. The m/m goes to the area of the greatest need because – and this is key – because the sponsoring church truly believes that Unitarian Universalism has a lifesaving message and the members of the church truly believe that they are charged with realizing The Beloved Community and accepting their role in creating it.

The minister/missionary sets up a Satellite Church, returning “home” occasionally, being an associate minister. The senior minister (and other ministers, if the church has more) occasionally comes out to the Satellite Mission, preaching and lending support. Members of the Home Church go out to do things in the neighborhood of the Satellite Mission … planting flowers, helping an area school, helping. Caring.

I’ve written before about shalom, about the fullness of the word. Wholeness. Wholeness of body, mind, economics, spirit. I believe in working toward shalom – wholeness – for all. I can see a church that devotes resources to helping “the least of these” get closer to wholeness … feeding the hungry, offering tutoring, teaching English, making a neighborhood safer, extending friendship to the lonely and giving inclusive, love-based food for the spirit. And finding that in doing so, they themselves were being made more whole.

That’s my fantasy.

Never What You Think

It’s a half hour past midnight here.

I went to bed at 10 pm and enjoyed two blissful hours of sleep before being awakened by the phone. There was the initial disorientation – where am I? What time is it? Why is my husband not in bed? Followed by slightly less disorientation (emphasis on ‘slightly’) as my muddled brain tried to understand why the phone rang. It was midnight. Therefore, my brain came up with the most logical answers it could, operating on CPE sleep-deprivation:

a) Something has happened to my parents.
b) Something has happened to my son (off at debate camp).
c) My husband has become another person, one who not only is having an affair, but is having one with someone so ditzy she called his house at midnight.

I grudgingly decided to face reality, whichever horrible one it was, and got up. I could hear the husband’s voice, still talking on the phone, coming from upstairs. Odd. Then I noticed a tennis racket lying on the living room floor.

“Husssband?” I called, fearfully.

He came to the railing. “I’m talking to my sister.”

My brain instantly leapt to worrying that something had happened to his mom, for a very tense second, until I remembered that she was sound asleep on the futon in our gameroom and wouldn’t it be really weird if his sister knew something happened to her before we did?

As I stood there, my brain creakily turning, my eyes landed again on the tennis racket.

The Husband was leaning on the railing again. “There’s a bat in the house.”

NEVER what you think!

As my husband stayed up late working on the computer, he became aware of a black thingy flying around the living room. Not hobbled by 2 hours of blissful sleep, it didn’t take long for him to determine what it was. He called his sister, the wildlife biologist, who then called him back to tell him the best thing to do was kill it with a tennis racket, then carefully place it in a garbage bag and take it to be tested for rabies.

In the meantime, it disappeared.

After checking the girls’ rooms, he stuffed towels under the doors so Mr. Bat couldn’t crawl into their rooms (stuffed them under Mother-In-Love’s door, too). He’s tucked me away in our room. Just get some sleep, he generously told me.

Sure, babe.

So, I’m googling about whether you can get a preventative rabies shot (yes) and wondering if I can get one at my hospital workplace tomorrow.

Never what you think.

"No one laughs at God in a hospital ..."

I've been praying a lot lately. Holding the hands of young and old, strong, weak, even paralyzed. "Know your audience, know your purpose," my CPE supervisor/teacher/role model, Rev. Dr. Strong Love, instructs.

Audience: Catholic? Then I will pray Father-Son-Holy-Spirit. Baptist? Thank you, my evangelical seminary, for giving me my Baptist trinity, "Our Creator, Our Redeemer, and Our Sustainer." Jewish? Y'varekh'kha ADONAI v'yishmerekha, I offer.

Purpose ... it is not mine to decide the purpose. I have learned to ask the person who wants the prayer, what is most on your heart right now? Upon what do you want me to focus this prayer? Sometimes, what they say aligns with what I assumed -- Please let the surgery go well and let me be healed. Often, though, it's different. No matter what happens, let my family be okay with it.

Together, we pray for peace. I ask that doctors and nurses be given wisdom and skill. I pray that the person feel God's presence.

Occasionally when I am guest-preaching somewhere, a person will come up and introduce themselves and reference this blog. (And thank you for that -- I love meeting you in "real life.") Last year, this stunning young woman did that, then left me with a remarkable gift, telling me that something I had written about prayer affected her, and helped her.

We share our journeys, rarely knowing how, or if, our struggles will affect someone else's journey. We just never can know ... you know? I have a CPE classmate who is normally rather quiet, but when he speaks, his words often offer wisdom I can use. I am greedy, which I have told him, and I want more. Even if it's not profound, even if it's 'stupid' ... because the Spirit uses all sorts of things, significant and trivial, to take root in the psyche of another.

I only pray when the patient or family requests it. I have no interest in a perfunctory "this is what a chaplain does" sort of thing. You allow me into your room, I give you a prayer (whether you want it or not). Be sure and tip your nurse on the way out.

But they do request it. A nurse starts to come into the room. "Please give us just a moment," I tell her. The family, or I and just the patient, bow our heads and attempt to connect with each other, and with something outside ourselves.

I went to follow up with a patient I'd had a good talk with the day before. The transformation in her, this day, was stark and heartbreaking. Like a child, she was curled up on her side, her head flat, no pillow, in the dark. I crouched down so our faces were just a few inches apart. "They opened me up. There is cancer. I don't want to talk. I don't want to talk. Just, please, pray."

I prayed. My two hands around the one that she extended to me, I prayed with everything I had that she feel Spirit, that she receive comfort, and peace. Yes Jesus, she murmured at certain parts, please God, at others. Amen, we said together, our voices faint whispers floating off like the smoke of an extinguished candle in that dark institutional room.



Related Posts:
Power of Prayer? Or Not ... 
Power of Prayer ... Three Years Later
Praying Out Loud

Yes. Intense.

If I don't blog about something, does it really happen?

I have been neck-deep in summer CPE, while writing a research paper for a May Intensive class. I overdid it this past Spring, I will confess. 16 hrs, plus the Intensive, so, 19 hrs. But it's lightened my load for the Fall and made some other things possible. Like graduating in December.

So, this is my first truly free weekend. All the other weekends have been taken over by either working on the paper or doing a hospital on-call, or both.  Free, free! 

CPE, "Clinical Pastoral Education" is intense. 9 hours a day at the hospital + 3 1/2 hours of travel time. I devoutly wish I were one of those people who can get by on 6 hours of sleep a night, but I need 7 minimum. So, not a lot of margin. But better now. I have time to eat dinner with my family, play a little guitar, do whatever CPE reading is required that week. I travel to and from work via park-n-ride, bus, and rail. ("Trains, buses, and automobiles.") On the bus, I can also do a little reading.

I have a great family, so it works. No, really. They've pretty much astounded me. The Husband and I come home to a clean house, happy children all working together to put dinner on the table. We're not sure we're letting the 15 year old go back to school in the Fall.

CPE ... touching, hard, amazing. I wish I could tell you all the specifics, but to protect everyone's privacy, I'll just give you some vague, shadowy pictures. I've had some incredibly touching experiences, like the about-to-be-widowed wife who said, "Oh, I'm so glad you're here," when I walked into the room. And who later, after everything had been turned off, turned to me and said, "You just don't know how good you are at this."

You know what I had done? Stood in the corner, silent.

Holy moments.

The Muslim man, grieving his own situation, who taught me "Hamdu Lillah!"

The older woman whom I asked if I could hug, and who sagged in my embrace.

Heartbreaking moments, too. Coming face to face with what I already know, that life is not fair, but knowing it doesn't make it easier.

A big part of CPE is learning about yourself. I am still in the process, so I can't draw any real conclusions yet, but one thing that did surprise me is how I have the person I was, when I was about 20, and the person I am now, at 42. I have grown up, which hopefully is no surprise, but I realized that in my head, I still think I'm my fluffy-headed younger self.

As my CPE supervisor says, what we tell ourselves about ourself does not always match reality.

I am following along, as best I can, all my friends who are at GA. OH HOW I WISH I were there. Thank you, blogging peeps on the ground, letting me know your experiences there. It means a lot.

I'm with you in Spirit.

Into the Boiling Acid

I am starting CPE tomorrow, my peeps. Clinical Pastoral Education. For 400+ hours, I will learn about pastoral care, examine what and why I do things, and minister. Minister. Walk with a family down to the morgue. Sit with someone who is dying. Or her father is. Or her child.

I am scared to death.

I am looking forward to it.

I am dreading it.

And yet ... I asked myself how I would feel if I got a phone call that it had been canceled? That I had all summer free to just laze around, read books, sway in a hammock?

I'd be dreadfully disappointed.

My minister friends call it "pastor boot camp." They say it is formative. Transformative. At the end of this summer, I will be better able to walk into a situation and minister, be there for someone who needs me.

I acknowledge all that. I'm sure that it the end of the summer, I will be grateful for the experience. But on this end of the equation ...

Well, it's kinda like someone says to you they're going to drop you in a vat of boiling acid. For 400 hours. But at the end of it, when they pull you out, you'll have the body and appearance of a supermodel!

Okay.

Bring it.