Imagine a Religion!

Imagine you're a UU student in an evangelical seminary.

Imagine someone in one of your classes says, "After reading your paper, I think I'm a Unitarian Universalist."

Now imagine ... it's the professor.

Yesterday, it happened.

Just a stick

It was just a stick, that looked like a snake.  Phew.

In other words, benign. 

How YOU doing?

So, about that snake ...

Okay, so, after being careful not to look into the woods last week, I took a walk this week, still keeping my eyes firmly on the path.


And stepped on  a snake.  I don't think it's poisonous.  But we're sending it to the lab to be sure.

okay, okay.  there's a certain point at which a metaphor exists solely to give you a headache.

I was, in truth, taking a walk on my beloved trail when I got the phone call.  Damn iPhone. Appointment with a doctor tomorrow at 8:20 am, biopsy at 9:00. 

I'm not too worried, as long as I keep on my rational head.  My mom had the same ezakkle thing back in the 80's, and all was fine. 

It's the Night Before, though, and occasionally my rational head falls off my body, so blindly, I stumble around, and sometimes, rather than putting my rational head back on, I pick up my biggest-fears head and put it on, kinda like when you get dressed in the dark and accidentally put on one black shoe and one blue shoe.  Not that I've ever done that before.  Anyway, you can't prove it.

And my biggest fears head brings up all those other experiences we've had, the ones that resulted in, "I'm sorry, but it's malignant ..."

The BFF-DRE thinks that, just like when you do jury-duty time, you get a certain period of time where they don't even call you, putting in cancer-time should earn you a credit.  I vote for that.

Anyway, The Boy is about to come home from Band Fish Camp and then the entire family must, by law, dance like crazy to "School's Out," as is our tradition on the last day of school, which today was.  So I need to go take off this head, which frankly, doesn't fit very well anyway, and screw my rational head back on. 

I'll be sure to hold it on very tight during the dancing.

Choosing Where to Look

A friend of mine, Stoic Joy, and his wife, Mrs. Joy, take walks on the same trail I do.  Last week, he told me, "We saw a big snake there last week."

I blanched.

"It was in the woods," he added comfortingly.

I don't know if I'd call it a phobia, but I am veddy veddy scared of snakes.  I grew up in snake-infested woods and had too many times of taking dogs and cats to the vet, swelled up to three times their normal size, due to copperheads and cottonmouths.  (Incidentally, don't bother taking your cat.  Unless things have changed, there is no anti-venin they can give that's more effective than the cat's own natural anti-venin.)

But I love this trail and in a short time, have become mightly dependent on it for my spiritual needs.  "I'll just keep my eyes on the path," I told myself.  "And not look into the woods for now."  So, I went on my soul walk, listening to Jennifer Warnes' cover of Leonard Cohen's If It Be Your Will, gifted to me by the Hysteric Cleric.

(The best gift you can give me is a mix CD with songs that are spiritually or emotionally significant to you.  I think it's the adult version of pricking our fingers and becoming blood brothers.)

I had a bit to think about.  I am just thrilled, thrilled, thrilled in my life right now, convinced I'm where I'm supposed to be, in the time I'm supposed to be.  And ... yesterday I got a call.  Next week, I have to go in for a repeat mammogram.  A little sumpin' suspicious on my left side.

No need to comfort me, I'm fine.  There's many things it could be, and this is way too early to worry.

I'll just keep my eyes on the path, and not look into the woods for now.

The Thrill of the Missional Church (and a great teacher)

Have you ever been so excited, so happy, you felt like you could just burst into tears?  Yeah, okay, but in the middle of a class?

I'm there.

What a long, strange journey it's been, and bound to get stranger.  When I began at this seminary, I wrote:

I feel stripped raw, and completely alone, which I am. I know it's for a reason, the being alone... I know that it's part of the process, for me to have no one whom I can turn to for guidance ... heck, the fact that we lost our minister the month I started school -- obviously, I need to be completely and utterly alone, with no support, so that I can find what I need within me.

Oh, honey, I think.  You didn't even know from stripped then.

But I can remember sitting in class, with this fundamentalist professor, wanting to burst into tears as he taught a theology that was just so hateful to me.


Last night, I sat in a class, thrilled to the very marrow of my bones.  Father Mac and I sat together, both of us just giddy from excitement. 

In addition to both being theologically liberal, we have both been bitten by the missional bug.  Actually, we think it's more like the red and blue pills in the Matrix.  Once you've begun looking at church in a completely different way, in a missional way, you can't go backwards.

We've got us a missional teacher.  And I mean, the real deal.  Former Southern Baptist minister, who walked away from a 400 member church because of all his questions.  And now does "church" is a wholly different way. 

Last night, I witnessed a few students' heads exploding.  It was AWESOME.

Just a few of the gems:

• “God’s spirit is big enough to guide us all.  And is big enough to protect us from going down the wrong path.”
• "The life of a follower of the way of Jesus, is a life of journey.  God will be moving us away from a life that is comfortable." 
• "I don't believe that Post-moderns don't believe in absolute truth.  Postmoderns DO believe in absolute truth.  But they don’t believe that science, religion, or YOU possess absolute truth.  You believe it’s true, but you can’t prove it.  Postmoderns say, 'Be honest that you can’t prove it, and be less certain.'
• If your church is built on Reason and Certainty, postmoderns won’t come back. We have to learn to embrace the mystery of God.  And embrace some humility.  
• The only harshness Jesus displayed was to the church.  If we have a view of God that he is angry and wants to punish someone, we didn’t get that from Jesus.

And tons of other great stuff, that I'm sure I'll be writing about.

When Father Mac and I left class, we didn't clasp hands and begin jumping up and down like excited schoolgirls.

But we both wanted to.

Grab Bag, including Surprises!

Grab bag of various and sundry:

Was at a UU event this Sunday and a UU theologian was leading us in a very simple exercise in being in the moment, and feeling what we're feeling.  The third thing to do was to place your forefinger of one hand on your opposite hand, then sit with that, and examine how the hand felt, how the finger felt, where they connected.

One participant was incensed with this and when it was time for people to comment on their observations, she spoke of her anger at an authority making her do this, and she didn't know why, and then Hitler and the Brown Shirts were brought into it.  (No, really.)  At the end of all this, she slightly admitted that maybe she had issues with authority, but was proud she wasn't a sheep.

I consider her to be a particular kind of angel (that I'll explain when I have more time) but feel that the fact I didn't run out screaming and immediately quit seminary is perhaps a good sign.  Was this a test? "Smile, you're on MFC camera!"


--
Sunday brought a great gift!  Two, actually.

I'd gone to my home church (this is my year of "traveling" -- I'm usually either preaching at another church, or visiting a church) because a friend of mine was in the pulpit for the first time.

There was a couple seated in front of me, visitors.  During the "greet your neighbor" time, we introduced ourselves to each other.  They both seemed vaguely familiar.  She leaned forward and asked, "Are you a seminarian?"  Um, yes.  (It shows?)  She then asked, sotto voce, "Lizard Eater?"  Shocked, "Yes!" 

Well, what do you know, we already knew each other.  It was Liz Hill, co-author of Singing Meditation, whom I'd worked with (online) on other UU stuff. 

I also knew her husband, through the blog-o-verse, though I hadn't connected that they were partners.

I had a fabulous time chatting with them after the service. I committed the hopefully forgivable sin of outing Matt as a UU minister and dragging Liz to several people so she could tell them more about Singing Meditation and the workshop she'll be giving at GA.  

--

I didn't get as much time to talk with Matt and Liz as I would have liked, as I had an important date with ...

Chuck E. Cheese.

Chucky and I have quite a history.  When The Boy (now 14) was little, I was in a playgroup that would occasionally meet there.  It's not so bad on a weekday.  Back then, you could buy beer there.  I don't think I ever did, but just knowing it was there made the experience more bearable.

Over the years, we'd go, usually for classmates' birthdays.  And then cancer came, and Chuck E. Cheese became the symbol.  For the kids, he was the symbol of all sacrifice, because for Mama and Daddy, he was the symbol of all things germy.  A kid on chemo means nobody can go to Chuck E. Cheese.  No to the parties, no to the visits.  No, no, no.

During LW's recurrence, we watched a lot of PBS in the hospital, which is sponsored by Chuck E. Cheese.  No ads, just those little things at the ends of programs:  "Chuck E. Cheese, where a kid can be a kid."

My kid couldn't be a kid.

So, this year comes, and LW has been pestering me for months.  Could we go there on her birthday?

We went yesterday.  Divided up the tokens amongst our 4, got a special sticker designating LW as the birthday girl.  They climbed the tubes, played the games, ate the pizza, got the prizes.

I tossed a basketball into a hoop multiple times and remembered how much I enjoyed the game.  I think The Boy and I'll be playing a lot of HORSE this summer.

---

Today, Little Warrior is five.  It is an incredible milestone for her parents, her grandparents, aunts, uncle, and friends.  We didn't know if we'd ever see this day.  That night when she was 6 months old, when we found ourselves placed on the pediatric oncology floor ... we couldn't see this day. 

For her, it is an incredible milestone, because Mom let her polish her fingernails all by herself.

And that's how it should be.

Take Time to Think About Death

Is that a bummer title?  Sorry.  We often don't want to think about death until suddenly we're thrust into it, having to deal with the death of a loved one.

I've shared in the death journeys of too many families over the past 4 years.  And yet, it has been an honor, to see so many different ways of approaching, and dealing with, the death of a child.

My heart broke a little more than usual this week.  A young teen, SaxGirl, who had the strength and spirit of 50, finally was released from her fight, an amazing kid whom we'd known since the beginning of our own journey.  She fought it off for six years.  She came extremely close to death at least once, as her body reacted not to the cancer, but to the "saving" chemo.  So close her family was making plans ... and then, she pulled through.  So many times, she pulled through.  And lived life, exuberantly.  And then another routine scan would deliver bad news.

I won't tell all of this last journey.  It was very long.  But both she and her mother awed me with their approach that this was simply another part of life, this death journey, and they were going to do it as well as they knew how.  With music, and people that loved her.

The first time I read about a family doing anything other than just leaving it all up to the funeral home was in UU minister Kate Braestrup's Here If You Need Me, when she talked about taking care of her husband's body, all the way through the cremation.  Ms. Kitty talks this week about going with a family to the morgue as they washed their son's body.  For me, it feels like this would be more healing than what my parents went through -- identifying the body, the bag being zipped back up, the ashes delivered to a funeral parlor.  My friend, Bad Bad Man, prefers to be called an "undertaker" rather than "funeral director."  Because undertakers "undertake" those holy things families in modern times can't, or prefer not, to do.

SaxGirl died in her mother's arms.  Later, at the funeral home, her mother and grandmother washed her body, as mothers and grandmothers have done for generations.  Her father accompanied her body to be cremated.  They all rejoiced at the cancer being incinerated to tiny bits.  Yes, there can be beauty in death.

Little Warrior is at that age where she's asking questions about death.  "So, everyone dies?" 

Yes, I tell her.  Everyone dies.  Some people just die sooner than others.  But we all die.

"Well, what if I live to be an old lady?" she asks.

Calmly, I say, "I really hope that you do."

"I do, too," she says.

Monday, she turns five. 

Missional Church

BEEEEEEP.

"Thank you for contacting The Journey.  Lizard Eater is unable to come to the blog right now, as she's busy writing a paper about Missional Theology and Unitarian Universalist ecclesiology, soteriology, pneumatology, eschatology, and missiology.

Please enjoy this short video until her return."

THOSE animals

Went for another soul walk today.  Didn't see any animals.  Probably because there were several people walking or running on the path. 

I walked along, peering in vain for a bird, a turtle, a squirrel -- any kind of animal.  Where are my gifts???

Humans are animals, breathed the wind.

Oh.  Yeah. 

Unlike with other animals, I didn't take any pictures of the human animals.  They might think it strange.  The non-human animals probably do, too, but they haven't figured out a way to report to the YMCA manager that there's a strange human, possibly dangerous, taking pictures down by the pond.

There was a man with a dog down by the edge of the water.  Both were well-behaved.  I think the man was training the dog, but it might have the other way around.

Three people, walking abreast and talking animatedly, came toward me.  They seemed disinclined to break formation.

Round and around I walked.  There was a jogger with a yellow shirt that I crossed paths with about three times. 

Time to leave.  I came upon a man who had just caught a nice-sized trout.  His eyes lit up when he saw me.  He was going to throw it back, but obviously wanted someone to show his catch to.  I get that.  "Spoon?" I asked.  "Spinning lure," he said.  He added that he'd had to walk all the way around the lake to catch it.  I'm not sure why.

Dang.  I bet he would have let me take his picture.

Hardest Working Mom

So ... the event.

About a month ago, I received an email from the mall near our church, congratulating me on being one of 10 finalists in their "Hardest-Working Mom" competition.  I figured it was spam, and deleted it.

A dear friend, adopted grandmother to my children, called me.  "You're a finalist!"

Huh?

Apparently, she and another sweet older lady, had conspired to enter me in this contest, writing a lovely essay for why I should be named the Hardest-Working Mom.  What love.  What a honor.


Except I'm not.

I'm not saying that as some kind of blushing, modest, "Who, little ole me?" kind of thing.  I am SO not even remotely the hardest working mom.  When my own mom heard the news, she requested the phone number of the mall so she could call and set them straight.  "Have you seen her laundry room?"

I'm not the hardest-working mom; I would hesitate to even refer to myself as a hard working mom.  That's just not my priority.  I'm a slacker Mom, and damn proud of it.  I'm a fan of Free-Range Kids, responding to any child of mine who says, "I'm hungry!" with "Okay, go make yourself a sandwich," and sending the kids outside to play.  I'm a huge fan of Boredom and Benign Neglect, finding that together, they foster all kinds of creative mayhem.  I have been known to say, "Shoo" to my kids when in the middle of a book. 

I sincerely admire the hard-working Moms, but I'm not one.  I am, however, a cancer mom, a point made in my friend's essay.  "Cancer mom" trumps logic and reason.

The Husband laughed when I told him about the contest, quickly sobering up to say, "Oh, but dear, you are."  He is a smart man.  Horrible liar, too.

"You have to do it, though," he said.  I knew it.  My dear friend was so happy.  And it had come from a place of love.  Beer goggles ain't got nothing on love.  She knows I work my butt off at school, she knows I love my children fiercely, ergo, hardest-working mom.

So, I showed up for the photo shoot.  Oh my.  9 polished women, what the Brits call "yummy mummies" and the Yanks call something far cruder.  And me.

It was explained to us.  There would be a ceremony!  In the middle of the food court!  With a fashion show!  That we would be in!  Wearing our own outfit!

Whimpering, I requested some guidance as to what to wear.  "Oh, just whatever you're comfortable in!" the coordinator said brightly.

Okay.  So, yoga pants and I don't know ... "Should I wear my 'Does this pulpit make my butt look big?' tshirt, or my 'F--- Cancer' tshirt?" I asked the Husband and a Knowledgeable Friend.

The Knowledgeable Friend uncharacteristically recommended wearing yoga pants, bunny slippers, my F--- Cancer tshirt and a tiara.  The Husband cheered that idea on.

Clothing aside, when I thought about the event, it made me feel a little sick.  Society loves making moms compete -- working/SAHM, breastfeeding/formula ... heck, even how we birth our babies has become a competition.  Would I have felt better about the competition if I didn't feel on the losing end? 

"The thing is," I said to The Husband, "the only way to get put in this competition is to be at the mall in the first place.  And most of the women there said their husbands submitted them.  Who's going to submit the name of the single mom?"  He agreed, but seemed a little bemused at the effect this was having on me.

(I must confess, in a moment of frantic insecurity/lunacy, I wondered if I could build a Habitat House, mentor an underprivileged child, and coach my daughter's soccer team, all in one weekend.  But none of my kids play soccer, apart from trying to see who can kick a ball over the neighbor's fence and into their pool.  And I had three papers due the next week.) 

I guessed I'd just have to be me.

So I dressed in black slacks and a black shirt, with my big UU pendant.  I chatted with my fellow contestants, several of whom were Junior Leaguers.  I made some good contacts, since I'm organizing a St. Baldrick's event for next September.   When I told them that I'd be shaving my head, their eyes got very big.  When I said I'd be contacting them to see if they'd be involved, their faces went white. When I assured them I'd wouldn't be asking them to shave their heads, they were suddenly quite amenable to helping.

I didn't win, no surprise there. Disappointing to me was the fact that neither the Hispanic mom who works as a waitress AND volunteers for an inner-city program nor the African-American mom who works a 70 hour a week job at a car dealership, has 3 kids, plus is a foster Mom, won.  But they were all nice people.

We stopped for ice-cream on the way home, our family tradition after any one of us incurs honor.  After we got the kids in bed, The Husband went to the grocery store to get stuff for the next day's lunches.  When he returned home, he said, "I get it."

It was about 9:00 pm.  At the store, he'd run into a woman he knew from a previous job.  She's still there, doing accounts payable from 8-5.  And she was at the store, her second job.  She has two kids.  She was cheerful, as always, wanted to know how he was doing, encouraging him to stop by and tell everyone hello.

Yep.  She's not just the Hardest Working Mom, she's an Amazon Warrior Princess.

The Swag Bag

Before I even got out bed this morning, Soul had hopped up on top of the covers, bouncing around, "Can we go for a walk today?  You don't have class and there's no rain!  Can we, can we?"

I ignored it and headed for the coffee.  I'd been up late the night before finishing a short paper and have a Big Mondo Paper to finish by next week.

I sat down with my laptop, coffee, and lowcarb bagel and began checking emails, reading the headlines, and trying to wake up.  Kissed children, kissed husband.  House to myself.

A cold nose poked at my knee.  Soul had its leash in its mouth and wagged its tail hopefully.

"No," I told it.  "I need to feel bad about myself for a while."

Soul sat on its haunches and cocked an ear, confused.

I have something to go to tonight, a story for another time.  It's a function that has come about because someone loves me, but it's ... well, it's an outfit that doesn't fit.  I've been fairly comfortable in the identity I've carved out for myself, and suddenly, I feel like Pretty Woman at the polo match, a cover I didn't want, blown.  "I say who!  I say when!   I say who ..."

(LE wishes to clarify that she is not turning tricks.)

Soul began alternately whining and barking.  "Now, stop!  Timmie is not in the well!"

Soul didn't stop, so with a sigh, I pulled on shoes, grabbed phone, and headed out.

I got down to the pond where the air was surprisingly cool.  Aaaah.  Turned on some new songs that friends had recommended and walked, Soul happily trotting beside me.  Lost in my own thoughts, I was suddenly startled when the grass in front of me moved.

Aaa!  A turtle!  Quick, get the camera!  I fumbled with my iPhone hurriedly, then laughed at myself.


It's a turtle.  What's it going to do, dart away?

He didn't seem to mind posing for pictures, though I thought it best to not ask for his autograph.  I couldn't help but interpret it as a reminder to  just be myself.  The turtle is a turtle.  He doesn't dart off into the bushes, he just gets where he's going in his own sweet time.  I doubt he feels bad that he's not doing this or that.  He's a turtle.  And God Bless Him for being that.  A world with no turtles -- perish the thought!

A smile on my face, I stepped along.  Responding to my uplift in spirits, Soul quickened its pace, straining a bit on the leash.  No one was around.  I bent down and disconnected the leash.  Soul streaked up the path and back, giddy with pleasure.  We went over a little bridge and there she was, right in front of us.

Oh! I said, drawing in my breath.  Two gifts in a row, just like that.  Now I felt giddy.  A surprise party?  For me?

I ventured a little closer, marveling at the unexpected.  A cardinal or a sparrow here and there is normal.  An egret is not. 

I ventured a little too close and she flew away, giving me a last enjoyable look as she stretched her wings and skimmed the pond.

Joyful.

Soul danced in front of me now, twirling and twirling, her pink skirt floating around her, her plastic tiara tilted over her forehead.  She hummed softly under her breath, dancing to a song only she heard.

We walked on, blissful. And ignorant that I'd left the camera on.













This is my new friend, Stripey.

 Stripey is also my new hero.

See how Stripey is in the sand?

The sand made hills and valleys.  Stripey would inch along ... not even an inch, then the sand would cause her to roll on her back.  She'd right herself, then inch along another millimeter.  Over, she'd go.

I fear that I would have just given up, lain there on my back, looking up at the sky and cursing the forces that gave me a million legs but no rigid spine.

Not Stripey.  She just kept on going.

Soul and I walked, around and around, pausing now and then to look into the water.  I saw Turtle's cousin, swimming in the shallow end.  I saw a fish splashing after a minnow.  I found little surprises everywhere.

I looked at the time.  It had been an hour.  It's time to go, I told Soul, reluctantly.  Soul was fine with that and trotted along, satisfied.

I walked back the way I'd came, lost in thoughts and imaginary conversations with those who will be called to judge me.  I turned a corner and WOW WOW WOW.

A giant, regal, great blue heron and I startled each other.  We stared at each other for just a second, then it flew off across the pond.

Iphone cameras don't zoom.  Here, I'll point to it.

An embarrassment of riches.  I looked up and hollered, "Thank you!"

I have already been promised a swag bag at the event I go to tonight.  Oh, I've already received one.

Soul walked alongside me, humming softly, but giving me a smug grin.  Yeah, yeah.  You were right.

We walked back.  Filled and fulfilled.

And forgetting to turn off the camera again.

UU Salon May: The Soul

“The one thing in the world, of value, is the active soul.” -- Emerson

I have held four babies, seconds after being born, searched their faces, looked in their eyes, and am convinced that each arrived with a soul.

But first, I need to explain what I believe a soul is.

I believe a soul is effectively “on loan” for each human being. Emerson called it the Oversoul, process theology sees it as one encompassing event that has always been, yet is progressive and changeable in nature. From this oversoul, we each are given a part. We humans share in a giant pool of oxygen, it becomes one with us, yet it is still part of the oxygen that exists worldwide. Similarly, we each have a soul within us that becomes part of us, yet is still part of the great oversoul that unites us all.

It seems logical to me that our little part of the oversoul, now called “our soul,” develops in us, in the womb, in a natural way, just as our hearts, lungs, and brain develop. We are born with everything we need, we do not at 20 years suddenly sprout a new organ, so it seems to me that we are born with a soul.

But just like a brain, our soul at birth has a ways to grow. How we are loved, how we are challenged, how we learn to love and exist, all grow and strengthen our inherent soul. I have written about the soul being an organ, but perhaps it is more appropriate to describe it as a muscle. Never using it causes atrophy. Exercising it, through compassion, through working for others in this world, strengthens it. And to continue the metaphor, yes, it is possible to overtax one’s soul; when the balance between serving versus enjoying the gift of existence tilt so far into serving that one forgets the gift of being here, the soul is exhausted. It needs time to heal.

And it can. Our souls are wonderful, elastic things, that in most cases, with the right “medicine,” can heal. As ministers, we are doctors to the soul, prescribing exercise for those who need it, rest for those who need that, love and attention for all the souls. And right now, just as the vast majority of medicine is being done at home, by dads putting on bandaids, moms giving cough syrup, individuals offering an aspirin to a a friend, we each minister to each other. Life circumstances can damage a soul; deeply and lovingly listening to the person is our stethoscope. We listen for where the damage is located, applying compassion and offering a safe place to rest while the healing takes place.

But is the soul eternal? is another point of argument. For me, I say, yes. When we die, our bodies don’t cease to exist. They change form, they become one with the earth. So, too, our souls do not cease to exist. No longer in individual form, carried in our human container, they return to the oversoul. In most cases, it is a different soul that returns to the oversoul (well, really, it never left, just as the oxygen within my body is still part of earthly oxygen). But the portion of the soul carried within an individual has grown, and changed. And thus, it affects the rest of the oversoul, just as the person’s life on earth affected the lives of others, affecting who they became.

In this way, yes, I believe in an eternal soul, that takes residence in us before we are born, and continues to exist after our physical body dies.


UU Salon: May 2010, "What is a Soul?"

Soul Walk

As long time readers know, I do like my walks.  Exercise, schmexercise.  It's more for my head and soul.

And it's been a while.

I went down to my trusty Y.  We were having good weather, so rather than the labyrinth of the indoor track, I headed down to the pond.  From the freeway that goes past it, frankly, it looks like a path around a drainage ditch.  But things are not always as they appear from above.

It's a real, actual, pond, fed by a creek.  A long trail bends around it, then goes off in different directions, finding itself again down the path.  At one end, there's a bench.  I sat down on it, took off my headphones and just listened to the birds, to the scribble scrabble of nature.  Down in the water, there were little fish.  Here, Fishy Fishy Fishy!

While I was sitting there, this big, cool, honeysuckle-scented gust of wind hit me straight in the face.

You can't buy gifts like that.  You can only receive them.

I continued my walk, pausing every now and then to look at a flower, or an interesting branch, or a friendly bird.  I offered her my iPhone, in case she wanted to check her email.  She just looked at me with pity.


When I went to my candidate career assessment last November (one of many  expensive requirements of pursuing UU ministry), the person I saw talked to me about where I have been replenished.  And she urged me to find a local version of such.

I had plans to go up to this town or down to that park, searching for that place with nature, with water, where I could take my soul for a walk.


What do you know, it was located where I already went.  All I had to do was go outside, around a corner, and down a slope. 

Announcing "The UU Salon"

I miss the Blog Carnival, and I like it when a conversation bounces from blog to blog.  I could just wait for these conversations to spring up organically.  But I'm like the vulture who says to his friend, "Patience, Hell.  I'm going to go KILL something!"

So, I'm pleased to present, The UU Salon.  I and the other team members will post one question a month.  Hoping it will take off.

First question:  May 1!

Father Mac

Okay, so I have to tell you about my friend, Father Mac.  Father Mac and I are in seminary together.  He’s not Catholic, at least, not anymore.  He’s UCC, via Metropolitan Community and Catholicism.  Originally studied to be a Catholic priest, had problems with their whole anti-homosexual thing, being gay himself, and wound up UCC.  He works for his church, which requires him to often wear a collar, since he goes straight to meetings after class.  And since he only has black shirts, he looks like a priest.  Well, a tattooed priest.

Being a gay UCC and a heathen UU, we managed to find each other.  We are both far enough along in school (and my school has gone through some amazing changes in the last couple of years) that rather than cling to each other silently in a sea of evangelicals, we take great joy in aggravating each other.  He hisses under his breath, so that only I can hear, "Burn her, burn her!" when I speak out in class.  “I’m not a witch, I’m a heretic,” I primly tell him.  He rolls his eyes.  I remind him that our churches are kissin’ cousins.

Last week, in front of our fairly conservative and nonplussed Worship prof, we darn near got in a knock-down-drag-out over denominational “firsts.”  He claimed ordination of first woman and first openly gay minister.  We argued back and forth about the first woman until we looked it up and realized we were both talking about Antoinette Brown, who was ordained by a Methodist into a Congregational Church, but later became a Unitarian.

We called that one a draw.

I am still trying to find out about the ordination of the first openly gay minister, which UCC claims, in 1972.  But I’m thinking there has to be one before that, possibly of the “openly gay to his/her church, but not the world at large,” like some clergy friends I have right now in conservative denominations.

(Be sure to drop me a line if you know the answer to that one.)

In any case, we still have great affection for each other and the other’s church.  Kissin’ cousins, UU and UCC.  And have you seen their ad that’s making the rounds?

I’d teased Father Mac before about the “Unitarians Considering Christ” label for UCC.  At the end of an email he just sent me, he signed his name, and put under it, “UCC (the Undeniable Children of Christ).”

Damn.  I can’t come up with anything good for UUA.

Ethnic UUs and Lapsed Unitarians

I had an experience last October that I've been meaning to write about -- a post by the Rev. Thomas Perchlik made me take the time.

My parents, my brother, and my sister, are all ethnic UUs.  If you ask them their religion, they will say, "Unitarian."  My parents raised them in this religion, and then me, when I came along.

Other than a handful of times to see me preach, none of them have been in a UU church in the last 30 years.

Last October, my parents, my brother and I, were sitting around talking about going to church.  "Well, I see no need to go to church," said my bro, "Because the older I get, the less important it is to hear about what'll happen when you die."

My parents and I looked at him as if he had sprouted three heads.  "I can't think of the last time I heard a sermon that addressed that," I said.

"No, no, that's not why you go to church," said my parents.  "You go because of the community, all the people you'll meet and talk to."

If you're thinking about the blind men and the elephant, you're not alone.  Well, blind man #3:

"As the only person who actually attends a UU church," sez I, "and the one working toward being a minister, let me tell you that the reason you go to church is because it helps you become a better person."

And they all looked at me like I had sprouted three heads.

None of them go to a UU church.  But I happen to know that in the last year, all three have told someone about Unitarian Universalism.  And urged someone to check it out.

So, we can say, Oh, they're not really UUs, but here's the deal:  they're probably representing UU out there.

Rev. Perchlik asks:

What does our connection to those people mean? What duty or responsibility do we have towards those persons? How do they change our own self-image?

My answers, which I don't claim are any good, since I've got a whole nest of the vampires, I mean, ethnic UUs, in my family:

Connection (religiously) ... well, I think of them as "lapsed UUs."  Duty/responsibility:  if they show up in church, kill the fatted calf and rejoice.  And invite them to attend a new UU class.  And become a member.  (And smile patiently when they say, "Hey, this isn't what Unitarian Universalism is supposed to be!")  How do they change our own self-image?:  My first response was "Sorry, not at all."  Once I got over my grouse about people who think if that sat in a garage once thirty years ago, they're a car ...

Yes, um, once I got through that moment of pique, I got pragmatic.  These folks are out there, with good intentions, probably mentioning every once in a while something about this cool religion that someone should go check out.

They're Lapsed Unitarians.  Their thoughts about Unitarian Universalism may be a bit out-dated.  They call themselves "Unitarians" when the hospital chaplain ask their religion.  And they know that a UU church "is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."

Let's have a feast and celebrate.

"Cancer is a Family Affair"

That's one of those things that experts start telling you as soon as the biopsy stick turns pink*. 

And it's true.  And sometimes you won't know how much.  Until your 7 year old, who was 3 at the initial diagnosis and 5 at the relapse, comes home from school and in her backpack amongst her other assignments, is her penny assignment.

In the penny assignment, they tape a penny with the right year on it next to every year they've been alive and write something significant about that year.

And your 7 year old has:

2002:  I was born.
2003: I turned one year old and learned to crawl.
2004: I learned to crawl out of my crib.
2005: My little sister had cancer for the first time.
2006: I was home schooled.
2007: I went to school for the first time.
2008: "LW" had cancer again.
2009: I went to Disneyworld.

And it's so ordinary.  So mundane.  Nothing traumatic.  A year in the life.

And you look around for something to kick.




*that's a joke. There is no biopsy stick.  Unless you count the surgeon's scalpel.

A New Conversion Practice

In the early Church, they had an extensive conversion practice. I propose that, in lieu of the standard "orientation- sign the book - get asked to be Finance Chair" conversion process that we currently have in place, that we adopt this more detailed protocol:

Inquiry: A presentation of the faith to the seeker with an affirmative response

When a visitor requests information about becoming a member, an interview should be arranged between the visitor and either the minister or a trained membership chairperson. This should be a two-way interview, where the seeker can ask questions about Unitarian Universalism and the local church, and the minister/chairperson can ask probing questions about what the seeker is looking for -- why did they begin coming to the church? What do they understand about Unitarian Universalism? What do they think are the responsibilities of being a member? And how are they hoping membership will affect their personal spiritual journey?

The interview process itself should reveal whether the seeker and the church will be a good fit. Discernment should be emphasized for the seeker, in order to make a decision that will enhance his or her life, and not wind up in frustration if the church doesn't change to meet the perceived needs of the seeker.

Rite of Welcome: Welcome into the church as a new catechumenate. Rituals include the rite of the renunciation of religious cynicism and signing with the double circle as a symbol of belonging to Unitarian Universalism.

Once committed to the program, the catechumenate should be lovingly welcomed into the formation program. Rituals include a retreat to identify past hurts and discouragement received at other churches or religious organizations, familial feelings about religion, (see the "Owning Your Spiritual Past" curriculum), and any other "baggage" that will hold the seeker back from maturing in his or her faith.

Other rituals include a "burning bowl" ceremony to ceremoniously burn pieces of paper labeled with such baggage, and a Ritual of Subconscious Cringe. During this ritual, various religious items will be held up for the seeker to view -- a prayer shawl, a mandala, a Bible, a cross, a crystal, deity figures, the Happy Human symbol, etc. The items that cause the seeker to wince or cringe will be set aside, and the religions they represent will be noted so that the seeker can explore the feelings of revulsion.

The catechumenate: A two or three year period of instruction and personal character formation.

During this time, the catechumenate (or catechuperson, to be more inclusive) will learn deep listening, Roberts Rules of Order, will take several adult RE classes to include one on congregational polity, join at least one small group, and will memorize the church's mission and covenant.

The Rite of Election: The catechumenate affirms a personal relation with the specific Unitarian Universalist congregation by writing his or her name in the book of covenant. This ritual is also known as the enrollment of names.

After signing the book, the chatechuperson will ceremoniously light the chalice with a brightly colored candle of his or her choosing.

Period of Purification and Enlightenment: In the spirit of Ephesians 6:12, the soon-to-be baptized person receives a daily exorcism for personal purity of life and faith.

The goal of this exorcism is to remove knee-jerk reactions to things that either justify their opinions or negate the values of groups with whom they do not identify.

The Rite of Initiation: Baptism is usually held on an Easter Sunday morning after the all-night vigil, finding the best blooms in town for the Flower Communion and meditating on saints such as Norbert Capek who have "won a victory for humanity." (Book of Horace Mann, 20:7)

The rite of baptism is accompanied by numerous signs and symbols such as the removal of clothing and the donning of a new organically-grown cotton or hemp gown, the renunciation of intolerance, the washing in oil as a symbol of the reception of the Holy Spirit, the passing of the peace, and the first bloom received during Flower Communion.

Mystagogue: During this period of time the newly baptized Unitarian Universalist learns more about the mysteries of faith, the use of reason, and is taught to be mindful of the needs of others.

Additionally, having mastered a comprehension of congregational polity, the mystagogue will be required to attend at least one UU-themed event outside of their own church, so that they can understand their connection to Unitarian Universalism as a whole, with all its complexities and character.

April Fools.

The Essay I Won't Be Sending the RSCC

In preparation for meeting with the RSCC (no, I don't have a date ... the spring ones were filled by October, so I'm patiently waiting for the next round), I've been working on my essays. One is How do I hope to serve the UU movement?

I worked on it for a bit, and then realized that I wasn't really reaching deep and getting my truth out. So I put that document aside, and said, "Okay, forget writing in a professional way. It's time to get down and dirty, because LE, you need to know for yourself the real answer to this question. This one ain't for the RSCC -- it's for you."

So ... I'm sharing my answer. I'd love to know what it is you wish to serve. And how.

--

How do I hope to serve the UU movement? How do I hope to serve the UU movement? By pouring my time, energy and soul into making us something other than a “non of the above” option for those who want to be around like-minded people, want their kids to learn something innocuous about religion, but don’t want to actually, you know, have to drive too far or give too much or change.

I want to be an apostle, rooted in the challenging values of Unitarian Universalism, who knocks on doors, and rolls up her sleeves, and sweats and cries and works her ASS off, because this is a *&$!! hard religion to be in. Things that Jesus said, like how not one single sheep is expendable and we’re supposed to give and give and give and then give some more – Unitarian Universalism is about that kind of thing, and we don’t get the easy out of spouting a sentence and knowing then that we’re saved. Because we know down deep in our heart of hearts that salvation is an ongoing process and we are responsible both for saving others and allowing ourselves to be saved, because when we allow someone else to save us, we’re granting them salvation, too. And it’s all mixed up and mashed around and it’s hard hard HARD but not only is the end result one of joy, the process itself can be full of joy.

We each are born with a soul, intact, and ready, but we have to strengthen those souls. They need some nurturing, but they also need some work blisters, because that’s how they grow and expand, and get stronger.

And so my job is to minister. Which means holding someone in my arms whose heart is breaking, and sobbing with her. And lifting up a new baby, a new member, a new marriage, a new adult and saying, THIS is a holy time and a celebration, and consecrating the moment. And pushing someone when they’re ready to hop into a new phase of understanding, but they just keep dipping their toe in, again and again and again. And grabbing someone by the coattails when they feel they’re about to blow away. And standing up in the pulpit and telling an entire community that THIS is who we are and THIS is what we’re supposed to do and GO OUT and fill in the details yourselves because YOUR details will not be the same as HIS details, just be sure to come back and tell us about all those details YOU discovered because your details just might be exactly the details that SHE has been searching for, but didn’t know where to look.

How do I hope to serve the UU movement? With all of my heart, soul, mind, and strength, because anything less would be cheating myself, my friends, my family, my church, all the people who have molded and shaped me, given me their attention, their love, their criticism, and their tortilla soup.

And I don’t know how I’m going to do it yet. It’s going to take a lot of passion and energy and it’s going to mean that I swing for the fences, knowing that sometimes I am going to crash and burn in phenomenal failures. I sympathize with Noah’s God, just toss them all away and start fresh, but I don’t think that’s fair to the people who are already dedicated UUs who want to do great things and are just itching for the chance. I have visited many UU churches and I have yet to walk into one where I did not LOVE the people in them, cranky, change-averse, and obstinate though they might be. Because they are Unitarian Universalists and at the end of the day, they want a world where everyone is fed, clothed, educated, and cared for. They want to live with the privilege of the “illimitable mind.” They want justice and fairness and heavenly earth. They want The Kingdom of God even if they choke on the word God and try to replace Kingdom with a more gender- and democratically- inclusive word.

They are my people and together, with all the others who we just have to reach out to, just have to prove a little of ourselves to, we CAN build a world. Because it’s not enough to serve the “UU Movement.” I, and they, are here to BUILD a world and SERVE a world.

So, there, that’s how I’m going to “serve the UU movement.” I’m going to help BUILD a world, and SERVE a world, and most of all, LOVE THE HELL out of this world.

Mob mentality and TV "Authority"

Patrick Murfin has a great post about the Tea Party participant who mocked the man with Parkinson's.

Meanwhile, I've been reading about the documentary everyone in France is talking about:

Eighty people who thought they were participating in the shooting of a pilot for a French reality series were willing to deliver potentially lethal electric shocks to a contestant who had incorrectly answered knowledge questions, according to the documentary, "The Game of Death," airing on French TV on Wednesday night...

In "Zone Xtreme," the faux contestants who gave all the wrong answers were actually actors. Each "contestant" was strapped into an electric chair. The 80 wannabe famesters were each asked to punish the contestant, when a wrong answer was given, by administering up to 460 volts of electricity. The majority of them ignored the contestant's screams and obeyed the orders of the weather-chick hostess to ratchet up the jolt. They also obeyed the chant of "Punishment!" from the studio audience -- which did not know the game show was a fake -- until the contestant fell silent and appeared to have died. Only 16 contestants walked away, according to press reports.

The idea for the show came from the work of psychologist Stanley Milgram, who conducted the experiment at Yale University in the 1960s. Milgram found that most people, if pushed by an authority figure, would administer ostensibly dangerous electric shocks to another person. His experiment became famous, having been conducted at the same time as the trial of Nazi war criminal Adolf Eichmann.

-------

"People never would have obeyed if they didn't have trust," Nick was quoted as saying in the paper's Wednesday edition. "They told themselves, 'TV knows what it's doing.'"

"People were convinced that they'd never succumb to this — and then they discovered they did it in spite of themselves," Nick told The Associated Press in an interview, referring to the participants. "They were stupefied."

Said the Tea Partier, "I snapped. I absolutely snapped and I can't explain it any other way."

Facebook as a Spiritual Practice

Dontcha just love it when it seems like you and others you know are all thinking the same things at the same time? I've been ruminating on how much I like Facebook, and how it has become a part of my daily routine, and then iMinister posts so eloquently about why ministers should be on Facebook.

For me, Facebook is like the lounge that was at my college dorm, except without time. I poke my head in and look around -- a friend may not literally be on Facebook at the same time as I, but she has left a status, so she is still "there." I comment back to her, and so even though we're going in two directions at once, we are "meeting" in the lounge.

But ... spiritual practice?

Well, perhaps in the context of those who say they are "spiritual but not religious," I should say that Facebook is a religious practice to me. It is where I connect with others, on a routine basis.

I pop in, in the morning. I see who has what kind of day planned. For some, it is day in which they need more strength. I say a little prayer for them. Whether the prayer does anything for them ... eh. What is important is that I feel more connected to them. And when it is someone who I know takes strength from the prayer of others, I tell them.

For others, it's more routine, and we swap info back and forth. Hey, try this kind of cloth diaper! And have you tried the low carb bagels?

Some are inspiring, like iMinister's I Ching twitters. Or Rev. Sean's quotes.

And I post. Sometimes a quote, sometimes an "I'm off to ..."

Every now and then through the day, I check in, popping my head into the lounge. Sometimes just for a quick look around, but occasionally a ripping conversation will catch my eye, and I have to give my 2 cents, not even worth that much.

It's a magic way of seeing how parallel so many of our lives are. Christmas morning, many of us logged on to say what was happening at our homes. It just takes a minute, and we are connected. Saturdays, there are often quite a few ministers and seminarians in da house, getting sympathy for sermons unwritten. We touch base, go away, come back to compare notes, back to work, then finally post, "It's done! I can go out and play now!"

Sunday morning Facebook ... oh, there's my joy. Oh so briefly, because there are great works to be done, we check in. My AME and Baptist sisters and brothers, other UUs. We are off to church, ready to raise the roof, ready to do some preaching, ready to hear some wisdom. Praise be! Happy Sabbath!

Yes. I consider Facebook to be a spiritual, religious practice.

Vigil

It is after midnight.

My papers due this week are done.

Everyone is asleep. Except me.

And now I can cry.


Along with the other Wilms' mothers, I have been effectively standing vigil. Two of our precious, human, funny, wonderful children are dying.

We know the routine, now.

It begins with "it's not working."

And then goes to, "We're not sure what to do, we have a meeting scheduled with the doctors to discuss our options."

And then, the one that rips a new gash in all our hearts. "They say there's nothing left to do."

And we begin standing vigil. Through the good days and bad days. Sometimes long, sometimes impossibly short. Through calling hospice. And trying to make their child comfortable. Through, "Grandma stayed home with her today so we could go make plans at the funeral home."

Through, "It's getting so hard. We just want him to not be in pain."

And then we check, and the email has come. It is over.

"She has earned her wings," some say. Or "He has won his fight with cancer. Now he's in Heaven."

And some just say that they are gone.

Those who are not in the club often can't understand. "Why do you do this to yourself?" we are asked by our family or friends. They don't understand that we are family. And we are witnesses. And it is a sacred duty.

And at midnight, when everyone else has gone to bed ... we weep.

And get up in the morning to stand vigil again.

Church Plants - Where and Why?

The BFF-DRE and I have a question.

Do you know of any UU churches that were planted in the last 20 years that were not planted as a function of "we want a UU church that is more convenient to us."?

(Other than Micah's Porch and A Third Place.)

Edited to add: (And other than all of the UU Albuquerque satellite churches.) Kit's already mentioned some congregations planted as outreach churches. Keep 'em coming. And if they were deliberately planted in low-income areas, let me know that, too.

A snappy new day

"It's such a good feeling ...."

After a somewhat stressful morning -- they went back and redid scans, I swear the techs wouldn't meet my eyes, so you know my stomach was churning -- we finally got the news.

N.E.D.

No Evidence of Disease.

So many friends were along with us, checking my incessant tweets. (I ask you -- "Living on a Prayer" done as music therapy on the pediatric cancer floor? Really?) And we are celebrating tonight. Not just the good news, but all the love. As Rev. Sean said, Ice Cream for Everyone!

So, it's that time again

So ... life is good. Seminary is good. My parents come in town today. They haven't seen their grandkids since last July. Spoiling will ensue. Spring Break starts today. I'm planning for a wedding. (as an officiant. I'm not quite at Mother of the Bride stage yet.)

And ...

Scans are Monday. Early early.

4 months have gone by, and here we are again. By Tuesday, our lives could completely change again. God, it freaks me out just to write that. Is there a superstition that I shouldn't acknowledge it?

By Tuesday, we could be celebrating in a big way. Wood, salt ... really, where is the Letitia Baldridge Guide to Superstitions that Will Protect You Against Cancer when you need one?

Some things put me in a pretty good place. Three of the folks just a few months or a year ahead of us, on the same treatment protocol, came back recently with clear scans.

But I'm also carrying around some grief. Long time Wilms' friends, who have reached the end, no more treatment, and are figuring out how to meaningfully and lovingly navigate their children's last days. With one, I share When I breathe in, I breathe in peace; when I breathe out, I breathe out love. She thanks me, said it was just what she needed.

They teach me lessons I pray to my depths that I will never use.

Life is messy and all mixed up mashed together. "To Do" list for today includes 1) vacuum house, 2) Do SKSM reading, 3) Email bride/groom, 4) Find BFF-DRE's bday present, 5) cry.

So, I've blogged, shed a few tears. Time to go vacuum. Shoot, I forgot to put "eat lunch" on that list...

The Birditarian Birdaversalists

And what prompted the story of the Penguins and Purple Martins:

Two seemingly related worlds sharply diverging from each other.

Purple Martin World: UU seminary/ministerial world. Here, everyone I run into – UU seminarians, UU ministers, UU professors – would agree that the number one mission in a UU church should not be community. It should be a result, not the raison d'être.

Penguin World: small minister-less UU churches who agree that their number one mission is community.

(Yes, there may be UU ministers who don’t fit Purple Martin World and small minister-less UU churches who don’t fit Penguin World. But these are what I have had experience with.)

On Facebook, I reposted a quote I saw on Peacebang’s status:

"Transforming Congregational Culture" by Anthony B. Robinson: "Too many churches have adopted as their implicit purpose the maintenance of a congenial community for their members."

A member of Penguin World posted:

“And this is wrong because …………….?”

Ms. Kitty responded:

I think "Community" is only one of the reasons for being a church. Without a common purpose that is larger than "community", a congregation will be hard-pressed to really be a community. Our churches need to be striving for something larger, like feeding the poor or housing the homeless or working for justice.

And more folks responded, the majority of them revealing whether they live in Penguin World or Purple Martin World.

At the same time, I was talking to someone helping a Penguin congregation figure out their values. Their top 3 values are all permutations of inward “community.”

Two different understandings about the purpose of church.

Rosemary posted:

Sad Story.
These poor penguins did want to fly but they didn't have the wings...

And poor Rev Purple Martin who now has a mess on her hands....

Can the Association of Birditarian Birdiversalists do a better job of preparing Rev Purple Martin to understand and navigate congregational dynamics?

Love that!

But I have to argue with point 1 … the penguins didn’t want to fly, not for some selfish reason, but because in their world, that’s not their purpose. Their purpose is to swim.

So I think that in answering the greater issue: what do we do about these penguins and purple martins? -- we have to address both sides.

• Yes, the Birditarian Birdiversalists need to prepare Rev. Purple Martin in understanding the difference between a Penguin church and a Purple Martin church, and how to better navigate, teach, work with, etc, her beloved Penguins.

• AND, the Birditarian Birdiversalists need to discover how can they affect the evolutionary process of the birds. Because it’s an evolution. In this metaphor, the penguin and the purple martin both start as the same thing, but they evolve in different ways. Is there a way for new church start-ups, the ones who say they want to be minister-led, to evolve with wings? Wouldn’t that work better than try to figure out how to retrofit them with wings later on?

Is anyone else envisioning Opus lighting a chalice at Bloom County UU Fellowship?

Now, I am revealing what world I identify with, in that there is an assumption on my part that it is better to "fly" than to "swim." Yup, I'll own that.

But you often can live for a long time just swimming and eating fish. Might not grow the flock much, but they could be content in their penguin-ness.

So I think we need to figure it out all around, own it, and move on. During search, don't tell the minister, "Sure, we want to fly!" if you want the benefits of flying, but don't actually want to fly. And minister, if you see that they are swimmers and don't want to change, are you sure you want to play the "I can change him after we get married" game?

But hey, I don't know. I'm still a Lizard Eater.

Penguins and Purple Martins

I believe a church evolves, just like animals do, albeit a lot faster.

A church that has evolved without a minister is a different animal than a church that has evolved with a minister. So the church without a minister has evolved into -- let's say, a penguin. And they look at themselves at say, Yes, this is what a church looks like, and this is what a church is supposed to do -- swim.

But they're not doing much growing, because all they do is swim and eat fish in their tiny little pocket of the world. So they hire a minister, who evolved to be a purple martin. And the martin says, Okay, it's time to fly! But the penguins look at her and say, "What are you talking about, birds are supposed to swim!"

The martin somehow manages to convince them to come up on the roof with her. They're looking a little leery, so she gets them to the edge and then pushes them off, expecting them to be like baby martins and open their wings and fly.

Splat splat splat.

They didn't evolve to fly.

Authentic Gift

I purchased “The Gift, Poems by Hafiz” translations by Daniel Ladinsky recently. I had for years been a fan, picking up stray poems here and there; I don’t know why I wasn’t prompted to buy one of the Hafiz books.

But I have it now, and love it. Even if

It
Makes me
Think
In a peculiar sort of
Rhythm and
Meter.

It puts my thoughts into a Hafiz-type meter, and even the words of my thoughts themselves seem affected.

I can’t read Hafiz
Without Weeping
I say to
Myself

Somehow,
These Words
Reach me on another level
My box of
Emotions
Opens wide

It is not so much
That I
Read
These poems
As I
Feel
Them.

I know there are those who quibble with Daniel Ladinsky’s interpretations (for interpretations are what he calls them, not translations); they say they are not authentic to the original.

To which I say, “Who cares?”

I respond to the words themselves, not to who wrote them.

A few years ago, many people fell in love with this:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

It was often incorrectly attributed to Nelson Mandela. Truth is, it was written by Marianne Williamson in A Return to Love. Oh, but it had so much more value when people thought it was written by Mandela!

I’ve seen the same happen over Oriah Mountain Dreamer. When they thought the writings were written by an old Indian man, they were treasures. But then they found out Oriah was a white middle class mom … oh no!

Phhbt, I say. Like the words or dislike the words for themselves.

And back into The Gift I go.

What Moves Us -- making it hit home

It's the details, good and bad, that bring our stories alive.

Sam Sanders talks about this in his article, Taking Black History Out of the Peanut Gallery. When we just talk about the positives, the over-arching accomplishments of our heroes, we're just reporting dry history.

It's those details that make stories come alive. And we have some fabulous stories in our UU history.

That's why I love, love, LOVE the new What Moves Us curriculum by Rev. Dr. Thandeka.

The program uses the stories of our theological forebears. But wait, don't change the channel yet. The purpose of the program is not to learn about the forebears. That's ancillary. The program is about going into your memories, your experiences, prompted by their stories. Finding out ... well, what moves you.

So, to do that, details of our forebears lives are brought out. They become alive. Learning that by age 9, Margaret Fuller would spend a grueling day having her head stuffed with knowledge, only to be awoken at night by her father who would make her come to his study and report everything she learned that day. You can see it -- the demanding father coming into her bedroom, intrusively waking her with a kiss on the lips, carrying her to his study and quizzing her about the day's lessons. It comes alive, warts and all.

I've mentioned before that, being a Southerner, I come from a long line of storytellers. My father integrated the stories he learned about the Unitarians into his rotation, and oh, how he would make them come alive. Michael Servetus was his favorite -- he related to a guy whom he said, "up until the end, still believed that if he and Calvin could sit down together and talk, he could persuade Calvin to his argument." Like other fathers telling ghost stories, he recounted how they strapped Servetus' book to his side, adorned him with a crown of thorns, and, on Calvin's orders, used green wood when they burned him at the stake, so as to make the misery last longer. I get chills just remembering it!

It's the details that catch hold of our imagination. Learning that Olympia Brown had a falling out with Susan B. Anthony, (whom we think of as such a militant feminist -- hmm), because the latter said that Brown should work for suffrage of both Negro and woman, not speaking one extra word on behalf of women. (Meanwhile, Brown was out on the circuit with Black men who spoke in favor of Negro suffrage, but not votes for women.) It was complex. Life is today, and it was yesterday. Simplifying the stories only renders them lifeless.

We are human, and we have weaknesses. Learning about the internal and external battles of our heroes, their clay feet, makes them relatable. Knock them off the pedestals so we can all reach them! It won't make us love them less, it will make us understand them more.

Why the Hell Are You Doing This Sermon???

I have a dear friend who asked me to coach her in writing a sermon. It has wound up being a great gift to me, as it’s forced me to think through the steps I take. Some are obvious – Big Idea, main points, explanation/illustration/application, but as we’ve done this process, step by step, I realized there are other things I always do, that I never thought about as steps.

The biggie is The Reassess.

After she was more or less done with her sermon – it was all out there, but no tweaking and editing yet – I said, okay, time to reassess. Send me a paragraph or so, explaining why you're doing this sermon. I told her to imagine a bitchy person at her elbow, asking, "Why should I come hear this sermon on Sunday? I could be in bed, or seeing a movie, or outside playing golf. What is so important that I should spend my free time coming to hear this?"

She wrote me a polite little paragraph, the kind of thing you could drop into a church newsletter.

Nuh-uh, I told her.

And I opened up a can of Sermon Whoop-Ass.

1) Have confidence! You have a VITALLY important message to give. This could, literally, be a matter of life and death. You have the power to SAVE someone on Sunday. OWN IT!

2) Translate this into your own theological language: You are in this place, at this time, for a reason. This is not just to fill empty time on a Sunday. A Holy Spirit (whether God/Goddess involved or not) is moving in you and through you. This is not about feeling too proud. It's about being confident in the life-giving message you are to give. As Thandeka says, "Salvation is NOT a solo act!"

Now ... write back to me, no fancy language, use expletives if you need to: tell me why the hell you're doing this sermon on Sunday, what you want someone to walk away with, what is going to feed them, challenge them, and keep them going for one more week of this existence!!!

In case I didn’t mention it, we’re very good friends.

She dug down deep, wrote back with an on-fire answer, looked back over her sermon, did some tweaking to make sure it matched her fiery answer. It rocks.

I’ve always kind of done that step automatically, but I’m glad I have it down in words. “Can of Sermon Whoop-Ass.” It will be one of my official steps now, too.

Your House Is On Fire

Many groups of people have ways of getting folks to find out what they most value. For chefs, as Anthony Bourdain has reported, they play "last meal" -- it's your last meal, what will be on your plate? For fashionistas, it's about the closet -- you're leaving on a long trip, but can only take one small duffel. Go to your closet - what do you take? For home organizers, it's "house on fire" -- your house is on fire, and you have 5 minutes to get out. Assuming those you love are safe, what are the objects you grab?

So, okay, UUs. Prompted by a couple of columns, I say to you ... your UU house is on fire. You can only grab 3 things. What do you grab?

Of course, I don't mean "things" and this isn't the joke about the UU minister grabbing the coffee pot. I'm serious. I think we're at a point where our house is on fire and we have to decide what are the elements most important to us, so that we can discard the rest, and open our doors to let in new people. We've got some volunteers ready to help us put out the fire, but they're not sure if they're welcome.

So, culturally, what do you grab? I'm not talking theology. I'm not talking Principles and Purposes. I'm talking about those cultural things that aren't written down, and yet, often define us, whether we want them to or not.

How do you feel about people standing outside your front door, smoking? What about pickups in the parking lot, with gunracks in the back window? How about for a fundraiser, selling hot dogs outside a Walmart?

Your UU house is on fire. What are the three things you grab?

I'll go first.

* Inclusive language -- saying "they" rather than "he," saying "parents" rather than specifying "mommy and daddy," etc.

* Being known as the "gay friendly" church. I walk in a world of evangelicals. All I have to do is say, "I'm UU" and the glbt folks I meet know that I'm "safe." What a wonderful religion, where just revealing you're a member is taken as "code" for being accepting of others.

I'm still thinking about that third one.

Reverend First Name

A conversation arose on Facebook recently about the use of “Rev” in front of a first name. Reverend John. Reverend Jane.

The question was posed in terms of ministers using it themselves, as in signing a note, “Rev. Jane.”

I wonder, however, if this is being driven by the ministers as much as it is the parishioners.

Some history: if you want to be puuuuurfectly correct, not only is “Rev. John” incorrect, but so is “Rev. Smith.” Reverend is an adjective. So an envelope is addressed to The Reverend John Smith, and when you speak to him, he is Mr. Smith. And if you are not using the first name on that envelope or in an introduction, what is proper would be “The Rev. Mr. Smith.”

(a little background)

But language does change according to the needs of a society. Sometimes, a correction can take hold and stop the evolution. For instance, a few years ago, “penultimate” became the trendy word, but with incorrect usage: many used it to mean “beyond-ultimate” rather than correctly, “one shy of ultimate.” But then enough people spoke out to say, “No, that’s wrong,” and suddenly, it seemed, everyone knew the correct usage.

Other things are losing battles. I was one of those passionately explaining to all and a sundry that the year 2000 was not the first year of the new century, 2001 was. Guess what? I lost.

“Raised” is another one. It was not correct to say that you were “raised” UU, you were “reared” UU. But even William Safire had to give up that one.

And some are decisions of priority. I, an English major, fought against the increasing usage of “them, they,” etc. as a singular tense word to avoid the exclusivity of “him, he,” etc. when gender wasn’t specified. But eventually, I had to make the decision that inclusive language was more important to me than proper subject-pronoun agreement. A minister should understand that they have the right to be flexible …

So back to, for me at least, the important issues at hand – who/what is driving the “Reverend First Name” bus and does it fill a need?

I think “congregations” and “yes.”

UU congregations, especially those who haven’t always had a minister of their own, have two forces at work: on one hand, they understand that ministry is something we all do together. They are teammates with the minister; especially in small churches, the minister is not someone removed, several steps away from the laiety. He’s the guy in jeans next to you at the planning meeting, she’s the gal squatting down to show where the leak is in the nursery. So calling them by their last name would seem artificial, and a bit odd.

But, I am also seeing a move to set apart the minister. Perhaps because of that intimacy, perhaps as a reaction against the devaluing of ministers, (those who have ever been involved in a “why do we need a minister anyway?” discussion known what I’m talking about), a congregation wants to make sure everyone knows that this is the minister, and that the position itself is accorded a certain level of ceremonial respect. Hence, Rev. John and Rev. Jane.

I saw this happen in my own church. After a stretch with no minister, they got Rabbi Shaman. A bit to his surprise, they began calling him Rev. John.

It fulfilled two purposes. He was sanctified – set apart – but they also had the feeling that he was down in the trenches with them.

Was it that reasoned out? I don’t think so. I think it arrived fairly organically – we have a lot of children in our church, and being in the south, children here don’t call adults in church by their first names. They call them Mr. First Name and Ms. First Name. And so this was Rev. First Name. And it fit the adults’ needs as well. So Rev. John went with the flow.

Will this be one of those things where correction pulls us back to what is proper, or another evolution of language? I dunno. I kind of imagine it will be the latter. To paraphrase someone else’s remarks, Call me Rev. First Name, call me Rev. Last Name, call me Rev. Nickname, call me by my name. It’s all good …


p.s. And now you must excuse me to go play some music to try and get an pesky earworm removed. As I child, I was a fan of Mr. Green Jeans, on Captain Kangaroo. So when I heard, “Forever in Blue Jeans,” I thought it was, “Reverend Blue Jeans.”

Money talks
But it don't sing and dance and it don't walk.
And long as I can have you here with me
I'd much rather be
Reverend Blue Jeans.

Suicide

Okay, okay, I’ll talk.

Suicide has been swirling around me recently. Not, thank God, anyone I know. But the subject. Songs. A celebrity here, someone in town there, a movement against it. People losing jobs, losing themselves, feeling without hope.

Yes. Love is written on my arm.

“I don’t have time to talk about it,” I tell the universe as yet another reference drops into my lap. And today, Kinsi is writing about it, personally, and heartfully.

Okay. Let’s talk.

As I’ve written about before, my elder brother committed suicide.

I was 10 – almost. It was late at night, and I thought I heard my mother laughing. I opened my parents’ bedroom door, and my mother was sobbing. I had never seen her cry before.

They had just received a cold, brutal phone call. “You son was found dead, hanging from a tree.”

Since their other son was in the guestroom with his new wife, they knew who it was. They would have known anyway. He had had “problems” for years. It’s like he was born without that little bubble each of us has, that bubble that provides a bit of protection from the pain of living. Things that would make other people sad – injustice, starving children – would just slice him to the core.

He was a genius. Literally. A brilliant mind. And it extended into creativity. He could pick up a musical instrument the very first time, and within 30 minutes, be playing songs on it. He was a visual artist, crafting things out of found objects.

He hadn’t yet found the drive in himself to do the work you need to do in life. Schoolwork. Responsibility. So he dropped out of high school, decided to join the air force. My father signed the papers. They had already tried counselors, programs. Maybe this would do it.

Instead, he was introduced to drugs, hard drugs. Which only fed his demons inside.

He came home, tried doing different things. He wandered.

He was only 23 when he killed himself. He laid out his military papers so he could be buried for free. He laid out his little life insurance policy.

My parents had to identify the body. My father saw the rope burn marks on his neck, and something broke inside him.

My other brother, 21, newly married, newly graduated, took the job of cleaning out our brother’s apartment. A job my parents will always regret letting him shoulder. Because as those who have done it know, it is excruciating.

My parents still grieve. My dad still hates Father’s Day.

My children, as they became old enough to hear the stories that included “Uncle J,” have asked, “What did he die from?”

And I have explained, that just as you can get sick in the tummy, you can get sick in the head. And you can get help for it, just like with your tummy.

“You know how when you have a bad stomachache, it feels like you’ll never get well again?” Yes, they know that feeling.

“Well, you can get so sad, that you feel you’ll never be happy again. But what happens with your tummy?” It finally gets better, they say.

“Yes. But you had to tell Mama or Daddy so we could get you medicine or take you to the doctor, right?” Uh-huh.

“Well, it’s the same with getting that sad. You have to tell someone. Even if you don’t believe you can ever be happy again, you have to tell someone. You can tell us, or a grownup friend, or a teacher. But you need to tell someone. Just say, ‘I’m sad, and I don’t know what to do about it.’”

So, right now … if you feel like this, if you find this … please.

Tell someone. “I’m sad and I don’t know what to do about it.”


If you are thinking about suicide, read this first.