It is back to school time.

We scuttle around, not in the most effective way, yet again beginning our shopping with me in the dressing room with the girls, “…but then what DO you need?” before turning around, coming home, and beginning again, this time, by first sorting through all their clothes, handing items down to the next, and seeing what our starting point is. 

“We have been here before – I remember that tree.”

Those years of youthful preparation for my own back-to-school have marked me. This year, as every year, I find something visceral in me full of hope and possibility. These new lunchboxes will lead to healthful, organized lunches for all of us, this new system we’ve come up with will mean that we never get behind on laundry, we will all be fresh and shiny, popular and smart, homework will always be done promptly and well …

The fantasy may not survive the first week, but shhh, don’t disturb my illusion.

I remember in high school, getting the big thick September issue of Seventeen magazine and devouring its tips. Jean Naté sponsored a 4 page spread where you saw the heroine go step by step through her organized, popular, always-smiling day. Her day began, of course, with a shower and a splash of the sponsor’s product. Aha, that was the key to it all. Along with pencils, pens, and a Trapper Keeper, I used my own money for a small bottle of bath splash.

Perhaps this should turn into a screed against consumerism or not accepting ourselves as we are, the folly of thinking that a new year or a new product will lead to a life change.

But it’s not. Not today. Because we all need Dumbo’s feather sometime. Hope can be hard to find, and if any of us can get a extra boost by the seasonal change, then grab on.

For the first time in a very long time, I am not going back to school myself, not in the literal sense. Last year, I was preparing for my last semester of seminary. When browsing school supplies the other day, I started to automatically pick up some highlighters and fresh pens for myself. No need.

Okay, little bit of a need. I continue on with one ministerial job, and begin another. I have that little matter of meeting with some people in Boston that I need to keep studying for. We are all perpetual students, in some way or another.

If you catch a whiff of Jean Naté when we meet, don’t be surprised. 

Young and powerless

My father and I began swapping stories this week, as we do when we get to see each other. We realized that we both had experiences in which we, young and powerless, had someone powerful who was willing to bust through the expectations that they would side with others at their level. And this has made both of us fairly optimistic people who believe that justice can will out.

Not justice in some sort of karmic way, but the justice of “Yes, most people are good and will stand up for what’s right.”

In my case, I was a senior in high school, leaving early one afternoon to go audition for a theatre scholarship at a college. I went around picking up the necessary letters of recommendation. Without a word, the drama teacher handed me his. I read it in the room of my speech teacher. It was bad. I was confused. I knew he and I had some issues between us – I wasn’t the first – but even I knew the protocol for such things. If someone asks for a letter of recommendation, you say “no” or “yes.” But you don’t say “yes,” then write a bad letter. My speech teacher read it, and suggested I take it to our dean. I dropped it off, and went on to my next class.

Between classes that afternoon, my principal met me in the hall. “I don’t know why Mr. ___ wrote this, but it was wrong. And I am writing your letter.”

At least at my school, that just didn’t happen. A principal never spoke against a teacher to a student.

(I got the scholarship. And it turned out the teacher was a sociopath who did things far more vile than write bad letters.)

My father was at a state university that used to be a military college. He was on the school newspaper and a news story he’d written angered a colonel there. Dad was called in to his office and the colonel ripped him up one side and down the other, and demanded a retraction.

The problem was, the story was true. Dad, not knowing what else to do, went to see the president of the university. He explained what happened, and asked for advice.

The president said, “Well, I think I need to have a conversation with Colonel ___ to remind him who runs this school.”

University presidents just don’t do that.

We’ve had other experiences like that, over the years. But it’s not difficult to see how this sort of thing gave us confidence that for the most part, you can believe that justice guides most people, and when it doesn’t, there will be others willing to stand up for you, and against injustice.

Not all people have that, I realize. And so they come to an opposite feeling.

It’s an interesting thought, though, that when we don’t “circle the wagons,” when we stand up for what’s right and help someone with lesser power, especially someone younger, we’re not just affecting the situation, we’re shaping  how they will see the world. 

At GA 2012

What a difference … 8 years makes.

8 years? Has it really been that long?

Yes. I went to UUA General Assembly 2004, essentially all alone, not knowing anyone. I came home, and applied to seminary 2 weeks later. And began this blog shortly thereafter.

I wasn’t even pregnant with Little Wren yet.

So here I am, attending in my role as Intern Minister. Greeting what are now old friends, some new friends … maybe even some of you guys.

Do come up and say hello. 

Happy Birthday, LW.

I don’t write much about Little Wren, our Little Warrior, here anymore. Life has moved on, wonderfully, for all of us.

Today, I will. Today is her birthday.

It was not so long ago that this seemed an impossible dream. The night before her first surgery, we didn’t know if she would celebrate her first birthday. When the cancer came back, right before her 3^rd birthday, we were so devastated, and no one knew if she would make it to her 4^th birthday.

Relay for Life 2012 Survivors' Lap

Today, LW is 7. 

Today, she is developmentally appropriate, if a little on the small side. Her spirit more than makes up for that. She’s plucky, she’s tough, she’s smart. She knows she is a survivor, though we try to make it not central to her identity.

Though cancer is not ever-present in our lives or conversations doesn’t mean it’s not there, coloring events. I took a picture of her today and silently thought, “…and that’s what a two-time survivor looks like.” The normal milestones have extra poignancy.

But not just for her. Her entire family survived her cancer. Her siblings sacrificed, it affected who they are. When I watch her older sister, The Princess, up on stage singing her first public solo, I am perhaps slightly more emotional.

Or not. Maybe this is just normal emotional. This is, after all, our normal. A few days ago, LW got in a fight with the boy next door. His mama took care of it appropriately, fussing at her son and sending him over to apologize. All normal stuff, except where he hit her was her abdomen. “Anywhere but there!” her father and I groaned.

So, yes, it is ever-present in The Husband’s and my heads. But it is just one detail among many, along with The Boy being obsessive about not drinking after anyone else, and The Princess needing to be reminded about her homework, and Bo Peep having soft dental enamel, so please don’t let her eat lemons.

Life is good for all of us. I am about to have two teens in the house, a terrifying thought. I have two ministerial internships which I love.  Husband’s good, kids are good, Mama’s good.

I don’t like the phrase “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” – I don’t feel it to be necessarily true.

But I do think that what doesn’t kill you often makes you different. And if you look hard enough, some of that different might be good.

"Replenishment" Or "My Pond is Back"

In September, I visited my favorite pond to discover it was, for the most part, gone. Dried up, from the drought. A field where fish used to swim.

It's back.

Almost to overflowing. In some areas, the water comes up to the edge of the path.

It was a beautiful spring day.  I walked around and around the pond, marveling at the healing taking place.

 

 Old friends were back. Birds of all types.

And joy of joys, my beloved turtles. Hello, Friend!

Wildflowers bloomed here and there; the whole area is green and lush, promiscuously so.  

No field here.  

I wound my way through the paths that have been so familiar, to find one path blocked by a tree. I had to turn back on my steps, go backward. That's a path, too, and not a bad metaphor.

Life can be brought to life again.

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.