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R.E.S.P.E.C.T.
I posted a question on my FaceBook page yesterday morning and a very spirited conversation ensued.
My question was this: My new rector is "Fr. Max". Long tradition of calling rectors "Fr." here. So, he asked me what I wanted to be called. Hmmmm . . . "Mother" is the logical choice, but . . . having said that. . . Not. Really. Comfortable. It's mostly for the kids. Everyone else will call us by our first name. What do you think?Last time I checked, there were almost 90 comments. Guess I hit a nerve, huh?
I've been in places where I've been called "Mother" or "Mother Elizabeth" - mostly inner city congregations with High Anglo-Catholic traditions. In churches from broad-church traditions, I've been mostly known as "Reverend Elizabeth," - which is still grammatically incorrect but better than being called "Reverend Kaeton," I suppose - if there can be degrees of grammatical incorrectness.
I mean, think about it. The title for a Judge is "The Honorable So-and-So" but s/he is called "Judge So-and-So," or simply, "Your Honor." Not, "Honorable So-and-So."
My title is "The Reverend" but it is grammatically incorrect to use that in a direct address. Folks from more free-church traditions seem to be fine with it. Episcopalians seem to have a particular sticking-point with this.
It's parents who either ask me about - or assume to call me by - my title as a way to emulate and teach respect in front of their children.
Their teachers are called "Mr. Smith" or "Mrs. Jones" or "Ms. Anderson." So are their neighbors. The crossing guard is "Mr. White". The Librarian is "Ms. Black." Police Officers are also called "Officer Johnson." So, referring to their clergy person with a title is a sign of respect - which I think is good.
Privately, their parents call me by my first name. Well, most do. There have been parents who insist on calling me "Reverend Elizabeth" even in private, personal conversations - even after I've said, "Please, call me 'Elizabeth'". I have come to accept that as their way of reminding me - and them - of how they see me and what they expect of me. And, it's okay.
Funny. In almost every other profession, titles are not gender specific. Doctor. Nurse. Attorney. Judge. Mayor. Senator. Officer. Private. Corporal. Sargent.
Bishop. Deacon. Chaplain. Dean. Canon.
Not Priest.
Lutherans have long used "Pastor" - which I sorta like. "Parson" has a quaint sound. I guess I'm of a certain age that "Elder" rubs me the wrong way.
The Quaker tradition of "Friend" - no matter the status of ordination - is lovely. Egalitarian. Biblical, in fact. It's what Jesus called us - well, those of us he didn't call "Beloved." He saved that title for the "anawim" - the outcast.
As one clergy colleague commented, "I guess the important thing is to make sure you answer when you're called."
Absolutely.
My dilemma has to do with the fact that personally, I don't like the title "Mother". Or, "Father". I think it sets up a very negative relational dynamic. I think it can be infantilizing for parishioners which has the potential to communicate a kind of "respect" that is simply fraught with psychological baggage that is less than helpful in Christian community.
Actually, I think it's hysterical when newly ordained 30-somethings are called "Mother" or "Father". And, if I'm in a group of clergy who are referring to each other as "Mother" or "Father" I almost always, at some point, get a really, really bad case of the giggles and have to leave the room.
Some commented on FaceBook that "Mother" carries a lot of social/cultural baggage. Well, for others, so does "Father". Sometimes, a lot more social/cultural baggage.
However, I think it's important, when there's been a norm established in the community, and the male has a certain title, the woman ought to have the equivalent title. This, for me, is the deal-breaker.
Yes, it's about parity. It's more about respect.
One clergy woman commented on FaceBook: "I went with no title and have now been told that the lack of respect I get is because people call me by my first name ..."
I think there's probably more to the situation, but she may be onto something symptomatic of the larger problem.
I know. I know. Respect has to be earned. Well, let me tell you from personal experience: in the institutional church, a woman who is a priest could walk hand stands for 10 miles, while chanting the Angelus in perfect pitch and key - twice before breakfast - and still not get the respect her male colleagues get just for walking into a room.
In the church, for women, respect is not easily 'earned'. Oh, it may have the outward and visible signs of respect, but it's really just the social graces of learned behavior.
Respect, when afforded to women, is not done so easily or well. In my experience in the church, respect must be the expectation of the ordained woman from her congregation.
This is key: She must first respect herself enough to expect respect from others.
Let me say that again: A woman must first respect herself enough to expect respect from others.In my experience, anyway, that's how it works. Other women's experience may be different. The experience of other clergy men may be different - or, the same, depending on their age.
This has been MY experience. This is how I conduct myself and the expectations I go in with in a new social situation. It has changed - modified some - as I've collected wrinkles and gray hair. I suspect some of that may be more respect for my age than my gender or my authority.
Bottom line: I have learned to respect myself and to expect respect from others.
When necessary, I insist on it.
You knew I had a story about this:
Very early in my ordained ministry, I was called for jury duty. I did NOT want to serve. It's not that I didn't want to perform my civic duty. At that particular time, I just didn't have time. I had previously served on jury duty. I would have been happy to serve at another time, but this was just a HUGE imposition on me and my community at that time.
So, I wore my collar to jury duty, figuring that no one really wants a clergy person in the jury box. This was one time I thought the negative press about "religious people" might just work in my favor.
Not so. After several hours of milling around a large room filled with other Very Unhappy People. I was called into a jury pool for a case where several employees were suing a large company for asbestosis.
The judge wanted to interview the possible jurors. I was called to take the stand, sworn in by the bailiff, and then the judge addressed me.
"Ummm . . . I see you're a clergy person."
"Yes, your honor," I said, dutifully.
"Well, I'm Catholic," he said, "and we call our clergy 'Father'. What shall I call you?" It was hard not to notice the smirk on his face.
"Well, I'm Anglo-Catholic (I meant that as my theological position but we had not yet begun to think of ourselves as Anglican the way we do now)," I said, "and you may call me 'Mother'."
He just about chocked.
"Uh. . . well . . .in the Catholic church, 'Mother' is a nun."
"Yes, I understand. I used to be Roman Catholic," I said, "But I'm not Roman Catholic any longer. I'm Anglo-Catholic. So, if you call your priests, 'Father', you may call this priest 'Mother'."
"Priest?" he chocked again, "I mean, don't they call you 'Minister'?"
"We're all ministers in baptism," I said, trying to contain my growing disdain for him. "In The Episcopal Church, I am called a 'priest'." I paused for effect: "Not 'priestess'. Priest."
"Well, isn't there anything else I can call you? I mean, like Reverend? I mean, isn't that what all Protestant clergy are called?"
"You could, I suppose, but you would be grammatically incorrect, your honor. I mean, I wouldn't call you 'Honorable ______'. I'd call you 'Judge _____ ' or simply, 'Your Honor'. And, by the way, I'm not Protestant. I'm Anglo-Catholic."
He grimaced. He shuffled papers. He cleared his throat.
"Well, then . . . . um . . .'Mother' . . . um . . . my first question to you is this: Is there any reason you know that would disqualify you from this case?"
"I'm not sure, your Honor," I said.
"You're not sure?" he raised his eyebrow in response as he lowered his chin onto the palm of his hand and tilted his head to listen to my response.
"No. I mean, well, does it matter that I think the real trial here is not whether or not the company is responsible for these men having asbestosis? Rather, I think that corporate greed is on trial here, and how the bottom line in Corporate America is always more important to the men in those hand-tailored suits and imported Italian shoes than the health and well being of those who work for them."
Yes, I was trying to get out of jury duty, but I had just sworn to tell the "truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth." So, I did.
The legal team for the plaintiffs broke into broad smiles. The legal team for the defense looked down at their shoes while they shuffled papers.
I looked back at the judge who was still resting his chin in his hand as he allowed a deep sigh of frustration to escape his lips. He stared at me for a while before the turned to the plaintiff's bench - never moving his chin from his hand.
"Gentlemen?" he asked.
"Oh, we'd LOVE this juror, your Honor. Thank you."
He looked over at the defense team.
"Need I ask?"
"The defense respectfully declines this potential juror, your Honor."
The judge looked back at me in total befuddlement.
"You are excused .. . 'Mother' (he said it like it was half a word) . . .but I reserve the right to keep you for the rest of the day in the potential jury pool."
"Yes, sir," I said. I couldn't resist adding, "I suppose I could find something to do for the next hour or so. If you'd like, I would be happy to provide pastoral care to these gentlemen here - the plaintiff's - while their legal team interviews potential jurors."
"No . . . no . . . um, thank you. That's very . . . um . . . nice of you . . .um . . . but that won't be necessary. You are excused. I mean, if you want, you can leave now. You don't have to wait around."
"Thank you, your honor," I said as I started to leave my seat.
"No, wait," he said. "One more question: Who is your bishop?"
"Excuse me?" I asked, startled.
"Who is your bishop? I want to write him a note and send him my condolences. He certainly has his hands full with you in his diocese."
The courtroom burst into a nervous giggle. I blushed and said, "Well, thank you, I think," and then got the hell out of there before answering his question or risking being sent to another jury pool.
It wasn't until later that I became furious. I mean, really! The judge making a joke about calling my bishop was the absolute HEIGHT of patriarchy. One man in authority sending condolences to another man in authority about "the little woman."
Harumph!
No, I probably hadn't earned his respect, even though I made him use a term that was equal to the status of male clergy in his life. Ultimately, he didn't even fully treat me with respect - making a joke so I would know who was really "in charge".
I just taught him how to behave in public. I can only imagine how I might have been treated - or how he might have treated other ordained women - if I hadn't insisted on at least the social pretense of equality. I know when I'm being "managed" or "tolerated".
I'd like to think that times have changed. Attitudes have changed. There are now three women who serve on the Supreme Court. There are more than a dozen women who are bishops in the Anglican Communion.
Then again, there is a woman who is Presiding Bishop and Primate.
And, we've seen how the Archbishop of Canterbury treats her.
Someone left this comment on my FaceBook page, which I just loved: "I am reminded of a (perhaps apocryphal) story from the Diocese of Western Michigan where, so it is said, there was a diocesan convention floor debate on what to call women priests. In frustration, someone said, "Well, what DO Anglicans call women in authority?" And someone else said, "Your Majesty." Works for me."Truth be told, the title of respect I've always loved is "Momma" - which is what my children call me.
I must admit that the title I love most is "Nana".
Only five people in the whole world can call me by that name. They were born into that privilege. I trust there will be a few more yet to come.
I hope to always be found worthy of the respect and trust and honor inherent in that title. I think I work the hardest to earn that one. I'd like to think I deserve it - and always will strive to do so.
All the rest of ya'll, just call me Elizabeth.
It's what God calls me. And, I always respond. Because I know God respects and loves me - even when I haven't exactly been loving and respectful to myself.
And, that's all that really matters.
My question was this: My new rector is "Fr. Max". Long tradition of calling rectors "Fr." here. So, he asked me what I wanted to be called. Hmmmm . . . "Mother" is the logical choice, but . . . having said that. . . Not. Really. Comfortable. It's mostly for the kids. Everyone else will call us by our first name. What do you think?Last time I checked, there were almost 90 comments. Guess I hit a nerve, huh?
I've been in places where I've been called "Mother" or "Mother Elizabeth" - mostly inner city congregations with High Anglo-Catholic traditions. In churches from broad-church traditions, I've been mostly known as "Reverend Elizabeth," - which is still grammatically incorrect but better than being called "Reverend Kaeton," I suppose - if there can be degrees of grammatical incorrectness.
I mean, think about it. The title for a Judge is "The Honorable So-and-So" but s/he is called "Judge So-and-So," or simply, "Your Honor." Not, "Honorable So-and-So."
My title is "The Reverend" but it is grammatically incorrect to use that in a direct address. Folks from more free-church traditions seem to be fine with it. Episcopalians seem to have a particular sticking-point with this.
It's parents who either ask me about - or assume to call me by - my title as a way to emulate and teach respect in front of their children.
Their teachers are called "Mr. Smith" or "Mrs. Jones" or "Ms. Anderson." So are their neighbors. The crossing guard is "Mr. White". The Librarian is "Ms. Black." Police Officers are also called "Officer Johnson." So, referring to their clergy person with a title is a sign of respect - which I think is good.
Privately, their parents call me by my first name. Well, most do. There have been parents who insist on calling me "Reverend Elizabeth" even in private, personal conversations - even after I've said, "Please, call me 'Elizabeth'". I have come to accept that as their way of reminding me - and them - of how they see me and what they expect of me. And, it's okay.
Funny. In almost every other profession, titles are not gender specific. Doctor. Nurse. Attorney. Judge. Mayor. Senator. Officer. Private. Corporal. Sargent.
Bishop. Deacon. Chaplain. Dean. Canon.
Not Priest.
Lutherans have long used "Pastor" - which I sorta like. "Parson" has a quaint sound. I guess I'm of a certain age that "Elder" rubs me the wrong way.
The Quaker tradition of "Friend" - no matter the status of ordination - is lovely. Egalitarian. Biblical, in fact. It's what Jesus called us - well, those of us he didn't call "Beloved." He saved that title for the "anawim" - the outcast.
As one clergy colleague commented, "I guess the important thing is to make sure you answer when you're called."
Absolutely.
My dilemma has to do with the fact that personally, I don't like the title "Mother". Or, "Father". I think it sets up a very negative relational dynamic. I think it can be infantilizing for parishioners which has the potential to communicate a kind of "respect" that is simply fraught with psychological baggage that is less than helpful in Christian community.
Actually, I think it's hysterical when newly ordained 30-somethings are called "Mother" or "Father". And, if I'm in a group of clergy who are referring to each other as "Mother" or "Father" I almost always, at some point, get a really, really bad case of the giggles and have to leave the room.
Some commented on FaceBook that "Mother" carries a lot of social/cultural baggage. Well, for others, so does "Father". Sometimes, a lot more social/cultural baggage.
However, I think it's important, when there's been a norm established in the community, and the male has a certain title, the woman ought to have the equivalent title. This, for me, is the deal-breaker.
Yes, it's about parity. It's more about respect.
One clergy woman commented on FaceBook: "I went with no title and have now been told that the lack of respect I get is because people call me by my first name ..."
I think there's probably more to the situation, but she may be onto something symptomatic of the larger problem.
I know. I know. Respect has to be earned. Well, let me tell you from personal experience: in the institutional church, a woman who is a priest could walk hand stands for 10 miles, while chanting the Angelus in perfect pitch and key - twice before breakfast - and still not get the respect her male colleagues get just for walking into a room.
In the church, for women, respect is not easily 'earned'. Oh, it may have the outward and visible signs of respect, but it's really just the social graces of learned behavior.
Respect, when afforded to women, is not done so easily or well. In my experience in the church, respect must be the expectation of the ordained woman from her congregation.
This is key: She must first respect herself enough to expect respect from others.
Let me say that again: A woman must first respect herself enough to expect respect from others.In my experience, anyway, that's how it works. Other women's experience may be different. The experience of other clergy men may be different - or, the same, depending on their age.
This has been MY experience. This is how I conduct myself and the expectations I go in with in a new social situation. It has changed - modified some - as I've collected wrinkles and gray hair. I suspect some of that may be more respect for my age than my gender or my authority.
Bottom line: I have learned to respect myself and to expect respect from others.
When necessary, I insist on it.
You knew I had a story about this:
Very early in my ordained ministry, I was called for jury duty. I did NOT want to serve. It's not that I didn't want to perform my civic duty. At that particular time, I just didn't have time. I had previously served on jury duty. I would have been happy to serve at another time, but this was just a HUGE imposition on me and my community at that time.
So, I wore my collar to jury duty, figuring that no one really wants a clergy person in the jury box. This was one time I thought the negative press about "religious people" might just work in my favor.
Not so. After several hours of milling around a large room filled with other Very Unhappy People. I was called into a jury pool for a case where several employees were suing a large company for asbestosis.
The judge wanted to interview the possible jurors. I was called to take the stand, sworn in by the bailiff, and then the judge addressed me.
"Ummm . . . I see you're a clergy person."
"Yes, your honor," I said, dutifully.
"Well, I'm Catholic," he said, "and we call our clergy 'Father'. What shall I call you?" It was hard not to notice the smirk on his face.
"Well, I'm Anglo-Catholic (I meant that as my theological position but we had not yet begun to think of ourselves as Anglican the way we do now)," I said, "and you may call me 'Mother'."
He just about chocked.
"Uh. . . well . . .in the Catholic church, 'Mother' is a nun."
"Yes, I understand. I used to be Roman Catholic," I said, "But I'm not Roman Catholic any longer. I'm Anglo-Catholic. So, if you call your priests, 'Father', you may call this priest 'Mother'."
"Priest?" he chocked again, "I mean, don't they call you 'Minister'?"
"We're all ministers in baptism," I said, trying to contain my growing disdain for him. "In The Episcopal Church, I am called a 'priest'." I paused for effect: "Not 'priestess'. Priest."
"Well, isn't there anything else I can call you? I mean, like Reverend? I mean, isn't that what all Protestant clergy are called?"
"You could, I suppose, but you would be grammatically incorrect, your honor. I mean, I wouldn't call you 'Honorable ______'. I'd call you 'Judge _____ ' or simply, 'Your Honor'. And, by the way, I'm not Protestant. I'm Anglo-Catholic."
He grimaced. He shuffled papers. He cleared his throat.
"Well, then . . . . um . . .'Mother' . . . um . . . my first question to you is this: Is there any reason you know that would disqualify you from this case?"
"I'm not sure, your Honor," I said.
"You're not sure?" he raised his eyebrow in response as he lowered his chin onto the palm of his hand and tilted his head to listen to my response.
"No. I mean, well, does it matter that I think the real trial here is not whether or not the company is responsible for these men having asbestosis? Rather, I think that corporate greed is on trial here, and how the bottom line in Corporate America is always more important to the men in those hand-tailored suits and imported Italian shoes than the health and well being of those who work for them."
Yes, I was trying to get out of jury duty, but I had just sworn to tell the "truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth." So, I did.
The legal team for the plaintiffs broke into broad smiles. The legal team for the defense looked down at their shoes while they shuffled papers.
I looked back at the judge who was still resting his chin in his hand as he allowed a deep sigh of frustration to escape his lips. He stared at me for a while before the turned to the plaintiff's bench - never moving his chin from his hand.
"Gentlemen?" he asked.
"Oh, we'd LOVE this juror, your Honor. Thank you."
He looked over at the defense team.
"Need I ask?"
"The defense respectfully declines this potential juror, your Honor."
The judge looked back at me in total befuddlement.
"You are excused .. . 'Mother' (he said it like it was half a word) . . .but I reserve the right to keep you for the rest of the day in the potential jury pool."
"Yes, sir," I said. I couldn't resist adding, "I suppose I could find something to do for the next hour or so. If you'd like, I would be happy to provide pastoral care to these gentlemen here - the plaintiff's - while their legal team interviews potential jurors."
"No . . . no . . . um, thank you. That's very . . . um . . . nice of you . . .um . . . but that won't be necessary. You are excused. I mean, if you want, you can leave now. You don't have to wait around."
"Thank you, your honor," I said as I started to leave my seat.
"No, wait," he said. "One more question: Who is your bishop?"
"Excuse me?" I asked, startled.
"Who is your bishop? I want to write him a note and send him my condolences. He certainly has his hands full with you in his diocese."
The courtroom burst into a nervous giggle. I blushed and said, "Well, thank you, I think," and then got the hell out of there before answering his question or risking being sent to another jury pool.
It wasn't until later that I became furious. I mean, really! The judge making a joke about calling my bishop was the absolute HEIGHT of patriarchy. One man in authority sending condolences to another man in authority about "the little woman."
Harumph!
No, I probably hadn't earned his respect, even though I made him use a term that was equal to the status of male clergy in his life. Ultimately, he didn't even fully treat me with respect - making a joke so I would know who was really "in charge".
I just taught him how to behave in public. I can only imagine how I might have been treated - or how he might have treated other ordained women - if I hadn't insisted on at least the social pretense of equality. I know when I'm being "managed" or "tolerated".
I'd like to think that times have changed. Attitudes have changed. There are now three women who serve on the Supreme Court. There are more than a dozen women who are bishops in the Anglican Communion.
Then again, there is a woman who is Presiding Bishop and Primate.
And, we've seen how the Archbishop of Canterbury treats her.
Someone left this comment on my FaceBook page, which I just loved: "I am reminded of a (perhaps apocryphal) story from the Diocese of Western Michigan where, so it is said, there was a diocesan convention floor debate on what to call women priests. In frustration, someone said, "Well, what DO Anglicans call women in authority?" And someone else said, "Your Majesty." Works for me."Truth be told, the title of respect I've always loved is "Momma" - which is what my children call me.
I must admit that the title I love most is "Nana".
Only five people in the whole world can call me by that name. They were born into that privilege. I trust there will be a few more yet to come.
I hope to always be found worthy of the respect and trust and honor inherent in that title. I think I work the hardest to earn that one. I'd like to think I deserve it - and always will strive to do so.
All the rest of ya'll, just call me Elizabeth.
It's what God calls me. And, I always respond. Because I know God respects and loves me - even when I haven't exactly been loving and respectful to myself.
And, that's all that really matters.
2010 Emergent Village Theological Conversation Synchroblog [1]
“Creating Liberated Spaces in a Post-Colonial World”
During the week of August 30 through September 3, a group of people from a variety of perspectives will blog on the topic for this year’s Emergent Village Theological Conversation: “Creating Liberated Spaces in a Post-Colonial World”. The bloggers have been given the topic and asked to give their honest reaction.
Bloggers include:
– Jonathan Brink at jonathanbrink.com/blog
– Annie Bullock at Marginal Theology marginaltheology.wordpress.com
– Julie Clawson at onehandclapping julieclawson.com
– Nelson Costa (in Portuguese and English) at www.nelsoncostajr.com
– Natanael Disla (in Spanish) at karmatarsis.wordpress.com
– Carol Howard Merritt at TribalChurch.org tribalchurch.org
– Dave Ingland at www.daveingland.com
– Mihee Kim-Kort at first day walking miheekimkort.com
– Crystal Lewis at Jesus Was A Heretic, Too. jesuswasaheretictoo.blogspot.com
– Katie Mulligan at The Adventures of Tiny Church tinychurchnj.blogspot.com
– Ann Pittman at anncpittman.blogspot.com
– Danielle Shroyer at danielleshroyer.com
Registration for the Theological Conversation is still open! Find out more information and register here.
" . . .babes in Christ."
It was just a small thing, really. A silly little poem tucked away on page 20 of an otherwise serious, conservative periodical. Just a few lines written down that raised more than a few eyebrows:It's All In Her Genes
It's all in her genes
She likes to say
When avoirdupois
Won't go away.
Yes, look from behind
To see what she means
No doubt that you'll find
It's all in her JEANS.
- Anonymous Ancient EgyptianSusan Russell, Senior Associate at All Saints Church, Pasadena, posted this wee ditty on her blog, having been first alerted by Mary Glasspool, Bishop Suffragan of the Diocese of LA. Someone named "John" identified the author as a "female octogenarian" in the comment section of Susan's blog.
Now, one might find this little poem vaguely amusing, considering the source. One might even be impressed by the somewhat clever interplay of "genes" and "jeans". One might be further impressed by the use of the word "avoirdupois" - unless, of course, one is a fan of Scrabble or the NY Times Crossword puzzle in particular or of wordsmithing in general.
One might expect such a poem to appear on the pages of the AARP or in a newsletter which features works by people of that generation.
One does not expect something like this to appear in a publication like The Anglican Digest which declares its mission as
"Our goal is to connect the Church by gathering articles that tell the vital story of our faith.
The material in each issue is for a varied audience and includes ministry ideas for clergy and laity, devotional and historical material, as well as humor and news briefs from around the Anglican Communion."TAD, whose "pocket-size pages are made up of some things old, some things new, most things borrowed, everything true," has been around since 1958. It is published bimonthly by SPEAK, the Society for Promoting and Encouraging the Arts and Knowledge (of the Church) at Eureka Springs, Arkansas.
The Editor is the Rev'd Dr. Kendall Harmon, Canon Theologian of the Diocese of South Carolina and well known across the broad spectrum of the church as an outspoken "orthodox" critic of The Episcopal Church and her "progressive" leadership. We have Dr. Harmon to thank for coining the now ubiquitous if not odious and annoying and essentially inaccurate terms "reasserter" ("conservative" or "orthodox") and "revisionist" ("liberal" or "progressive").
Its web page states that the "market" of TAD is "the entire Church, clergy and lay, those highly theologically educated and 'babes in Christ'."
So, as a somewhat highly theologically educated babe. . . in Christ, of course, I took laptop in hand and wrote to Dr. Harmon.
After quoting the offensive poem, I wrote I don't know what I find more objectionable and offensive - the obvious sexism of the "poem" or the fact that the author is hiding behind a pseudonym.
We have had our theological and political differences in the past, Kendall, but I've always experienced you as a gentleman.
I rely on that personal experience as I anticipate a full apology.
As National Convener of The Episcopal Women's Caucus, I insist on one.I have not received an apology. I'm not holding my breath.
"Wait, what's the big deal?" someone is asking. "It's a little poem - perhaps in bad taste - but it's not like it's the end of the world."
Well, yes. Yes, in fact, it is. Some of us are trying to end of the world of the prominent social paradigm of patriarchy which is resisting its long-overdue but eventual death with every fiber of its still considerable muscle.
There's a word for this. It's called "micro-oppression."
Micro-oppression is subtle, not as obvious and therefore harder to point out or confront than oppression. Sexist micro-oppression occurs frequently and has a tendency to wear a person down over time. All micro-oppression tends to be “invisible” and we often experience the cumulative effect of it as tension between ourselves.
Micro-oppression is death by a thousand paper cuts.
This poem has a particular sting because the mis-education of a woman of a particular generation was published by an otherwise reputable Christian journal.
In December, 1987, in an essay entitled "Spirituality: An African View", Dr. Clarence Glover wrote: "The greatest weapon that the oppressor has in his hand is the mind of the oppressed."Media often reduces women to objects of sexual desire and not much else. Women are still seen as the bearer of children and the home maker. Little girls are socialized at a young age to look pretty for men so they can fulfill the life long dream of finding that husband, having that wedding and making those babies.
Now, being a wife and a mother is a noble calling, to be sure, but one person's nobility can be another person's shackles.
When you have been brought up with shame and guilt because you are "the weaker sex," - when you are barraged daily by subtle and not-so-subtle messages and images about the shape and form of a "perfect" woman's body - even "innocent little poems" like this make it easy to give in to the despair and the daunting odds of reversing your negative civil rights and social situation.
Thomas Jefferson said, "The price of liberty is eternal vigilance".
It's the small, unexpected appearances of sexism which require vigilance - and persistence.
Yes, it's tedious, thankless work. Yes, it is work that is often misunderstood and criticized or minimized and dismissed as insignificant. It is especially painful when other women - knowingly or unknowingly - are the vehicles of micro-oppression.
The price of liberty is worth it. To quote that national hair care product for women: "Because you're worth it." And, so are our children - male and female - who are also being shaped and formed by a culture which is still deeply imbued with the sometimes indelible stains of oppression and micro-oppression.
We may be "babes in Christ" but our baptismal vows charge us to "grow into the full stature of Christ," and to "respect the dignity of every human being."
That journey can lead us, in the words of Martin Smith, to the "crucifyingly obscure boundaries of our faith."
So, put on your 'jeans' and allow the 'genes' of your faith to carry you forward into that journey - no matter the shape 'avoirdupois' lends to that which is behind you.
It's all in her genes
She likes to say
When avoirdupois
Won't go away.
Yes, look from behind
To see what she means
No doubt that you'll find
It's all in her JEANS.
- Anonymous Ancient EgyptianSusan Russell, Senior Associate at All Saints Church, Pasadena, posted this wee ditty on her blog, having been first alerted by Mary Glasspool, Bishop Suffragan of the Diocese of LA. Someone named "John" identified the author as a "female octogenarian" in the comment section of Susan's blog.
Now, one might find this little poem vaguely amusing, considering the source. One might even be impressed by the somewhat clever interplay of "genes" and "jeans". One might be further impressed by the use of the word "avoirdupois" - unless, of course, one is a fan of Scrabble or the NY Times Crossword puzzle in particular or of wordsmithing in general.
One might expect such a poem to appear on the pages of the AARP or in a newsletter which features works by people of that generation.
One does not expect something like this to appear in a publication like The Anglican Digest which declares its mission as
"Our goal is to connect the Church by gathering articles that tell the vital story of our faith.
The material in each issue is for a varied audience and includes ministry ideas for clergy and laity, devotional and historical material, as well as humor and news briefs from around the Anglican Communion."TAD, whose "pocket-size pages are made up of some things old, some things new, most things borrowed, everything true," has been around since 1958. It is published bimonthly by SPEAK, the Society for Promoting and Encouraging the Arts and Knowledge (of the Church) at Eureka Springs, Arkansas.
The Editor is the Rev'd Dr. Kendall Harmon, Canon Theologian of the Diocese of South Carolina and well known across the broad spectrum of the church as an outspoken "orthodox" critic of The Episcopal Church and her "progressive" leadership. We have Dr. Harmon to thank for coining the now ubiquitous if not odious and annoying and essentially inaccurate terms "reasserter" ("conservative" or "orthodox") and "revisionist" ("liberal" or "progressive").
Its web page states that the "market" of TAD is "the entire Church, clergy and lay, those highly theologically educated and 'babes in Christ'."
So, as a somewhat highly theologically educated babe. . . in Christ, of course, I took laptop in hand and wrote to Dr. Harmon.
After quoting the offensive poem, I wrote I don't know what I find more objectionable and offensive - the obvious sexism of the "poem" or the fact that the author is hiding behind a pseudonym.
We have had our theological and political differences in the past, Kendall, but I've always experienced you as a gentleman.
I rely on that personal experience as I anticipate a full apology.
As National Convener of The Episcopal Women's Caucus, I insist on one.I have not received an apology. I'm not holding my breath.
"Wait, what's the big deal?" someone is asking. "It's a little poem - perhaps in bad taste - but it's not like it's the end of the world."
Well, yes. Yes, in fact, it is. Some of us are trying to end of the world of the prominent social paradigm of patriarchy which is resisting its long-overdue but eventual death with every fiber of its still considerable muscle.
There's a word for this. It's called "micro-oppression."
Micro-oppression is subtle, not as obvious and therefore harder to point out or confront than oppression. Sexist micro-oppression occurs frequently and has a tendency to wear a person down over time. All micro-oppression tends to be “invisible” and we often experience the cumulative effect of it as tension between ourselves.
Micro-oppression is death by a thousand paper cuts.
This poem has a particular sting because the mis-education of a woman of a particular generation was published by an otherwise reputable Christian journal.
In December, 1987, in an essay entitled "Spirituality: An African View", Dr. Clarence Glover wrote: "The greatest weapon that the oppressor has in his hand is the mind of the oppressed."Media often reduces women to objects of sexual desire and not much else. Women are still seen as the bearer of children and the home maker. Little girls are socialized at a young age to look pretty for men so they can fulfill the life long dream of finding that husband, having that wedding and making those babies.
Now, being a wife and a mother is a noble calling, to be sure, but one person's nobility can be another person's shackles.
When you have been brought up with shame and guilt because you are "the weaker sex," - when you are barraged daily by subtle and not-so-subtle messages and images about the shape and form of a "perfect" woman's body - even "innocent little poems" like this make it easy to give in to the despair and the daunting odds of reversing your negative civil rights and social situation.
Thomas Jefferson said, "The price of liberty is eternal vigilance".
It's the small, unexpected appearances of sexism which require vigilance - and persistence.
Yes, it's tedious, thankless work. Yes, it is work that is often misunderstood and criticized or minimized and dismissed as insignificant. It is especially painful when other women - knowingly or unknowingly - are the vehicles of micro-oppression.
The price of liberty is worth it. To quote that national hair care product for women: "Because you're worth it." And, so are our children - male and female - who are also being shaped and formed by a culture which is still deeply imbued with the sometimes indelible stains of oppression and micro-oppression.
We may be "babes in Christ" but our baptismal vows charge us to "grow into the full stature of Christ," and to "respect the dignity of every human being."
That journey can lead us, in the words of Martin Smith, to the "crucifyingly obscure boundaries of our faith."
So, put on your 'jeans' and allow the 'genes' of your faith to carry you forward into that journey - no matter the shape 'avoirdupois' lends to that which is behind you.
Glenn Beck: Did the Holy Spirit speak?
If the Holy Spirit spoke through Glenn Beck, or through any part of his "Restoring Honor" event, I didn't hear the words. Or the tune. Maybe others did.
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2010 Emergent Village Theological Conversation Synchroblog [1]
“Creating Liberated Spaces in a Post-Colonial World”
During the week of August 30 through September 3, a group of people from a variety of perspectives will blog on the topic for this year’s Emergent Village Theological Conversation: “Creating Liberated Spaces in a Post-Colonial World”. The bloggers have been given the topic and asked to give their honest reaction.
Bloggers include:
– Jonathan Brink at jonathanbrink.com/blog
– Annie Bullock at Marginal Theology marginaltheology.wordpress.com
– Julie Clawson at onehandclapping julieclawson.com
– Nelson Costa (in Portuguese and English) at www.nelsoncostajr.com
– Natanael Disla (in Spanish) at karmatarsis.wordpress.com
– Carol Howard Merritt at TribalChurch.org tribalchurch.org
– Dave Ingland at www.daveingland.com
– Mihee Kim-Kort at first day walking miheekimkort.com
– Crystal Lewis at Jesus Was A Heretic, Too. jesuswasaheretictoo.blogspot.com
– Katie Mulligan at The Adventures of Tiny Church tinychurchnj.blogspot.com
– Ann Pittman at anncpittman.blogspot.com
– Danielle Shroyer at danielleshroyer.com
Registration for the Theological Conversation is still open! Find out more information and register here.
The Handfasting Ceremony
Note: I am - we are - deliriously, deliciously, dramatically happy. And, thoroughly exhausted. I think we got about four hours sleep last night. I am posting the Handfasting Ceremony we used as I know many of you have expressed an interest in how it all was done. I'll write more on it later and post more pictures - hopefully those done by the professional - later. For now, thank you all for your wonderful kind words of love and support. Mia and Bob make a wonderful couple. We are thrilled that our family is growing in such unexpectedly blessed and wonder-full ways.
A few words about the history of Handfasting
Handfasting is an ancient custom - before the Council of Trent required the presence of a priest - especially common in Ireland and Scotland but also in Poland and Czechoslovakia with roots in the Nordic Cultures, in which a man and woman came together at the start of their marriage relationship. Their hands, or more accurately, their wrists, were literally tied together. This practice gave way to the expression "tying the knot" which has come to mean getting married.
During this particular ceremony, six cords are tied around the couple's wrists, each representing a vow made between them. These particular cords were fashioned by the couple, with "family artifacts" of jewelry from various family members woven in among the ribbon.
Handfasting tradition holds that these cords remain tied together for a year and a day, at which point, the couple gathers the witnesses to their vows and has a celebration of their first year of married life.
The rings exchanged are the lasting and constant reminder of those vows made on this day.
The Handfasting Ceremony
To the assembled: Greetings and welcome to you all! We are gathered here today to witness and to celebrate one of life's greatest moments, to give recognition to the worth and beauty of love, and to add our best wishes and blessings to the union of Maria Conroy Kaeton and Robert Gordon Leong. We have come here this day to share in their joy as they come now to be united in the state of holy matrimony.
To Bob and Mia: Know now that since your lives have crossed, you have formed ties between each other. The promises you make today and the ties that are bound here will cross the years and will greatly strengthen your union. With full awareness, know that you declare your intent to be handfasted before your friends and family.
Do you still seek to enter this ceremony?
Mia and Bob: Yes, we seek to enter.
Does anyone here have any objections to this couple being handfasted in marriage? If so, speak now or forever hold it to your heart (wait for the space of three heartbeats).
I bid you look into each others eyes. Bob and Mia, these cords are a symbol of the lives you have chosen to lead together. Up until this moment, you have been separate in thought, word and action. As your hands are bound together by these cords, so too, shall your lives be bound as one.
The First Cord
Mia, will you honor him?
I will.
Bob, will you honor her?
I will.
[To Both] Will you seek never to give cause to break that honor?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. Join your hands. (First chord is draped across the bride and groom's hands.)
The Second Cord
Bob, might you ever cause her anger?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
Mia, might you ever cause him anger?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
[To Both] Will you together take the heat of anger and use it to temper the strength of this union?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Drape second chord across the couple's hands.)
The Third Cord
Mia, might you ever burden him?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
Bob, might you ever burden her?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
[To Both] Will you share the burdens of each so that your spirits may grow in this union?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Third chord is draped across the couple's hands.)
The Fourth Cord
Mia, will you share his dreams?
I will .
Bob, will you share her dreams?
I will .
[To Both] Will you dream together to create new realities and hopes?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Drape fourth chord across the couple's hands.)
The Fifth Cord
Bob, might you ever cause her pain?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
Mia, might you ever cause him pain?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
[To Both] Will you share each other's pain and seek to ease it?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Drape fifth chord across the couple's hands.)
The Sixth Cord
Bob, will you share her laughter?
I will .
Mia, will you share his laughter?
I will .
[To Both] Will both of you look for the brightness in life and the positive in each other?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Drape sixth chord across the couple's hands.)
(The cords are tied together and the couple’s hands are bound in the priest’s stole.)
Just as your hands are now bound together, so too, are your lives. May you be forever one, sharing in all things, in love and loyalty for all time to come.
As it is, you cannot always be physically joined.
(The Handfasting Cords are removed, without untying them, and replaced on the altar.)
And so, we use the wedding ring to symbolize that connection. It is a constant reminder of the sacred bond shared between a husband and a wife.
Who holds the rings?
(The rings are given to the Bride and Groom)
Bob and Mia, you hold here in your hands the wedding rings that you will exchange with one another. When you give a ring to someone in marriage, you are giving them a symbol of your eternal love, a love that, like the circle formed by each of these rings, has no beginning and no end.
As you understand this, and wish to affirm the love that the giving and receiving of these rings represents, please, exchange your rings with one another, and state for each, “With this ring, I thee wed”.
Beginning with you, Bob
(Bob places the ring on Mia’s finger and states,)
“With this ring, I thee wed.”
And now you, Mia
(Mia places the ring on Bob’s finger and states,)
“With this ring, I thee wed.”
Bob and Mia, now that you have joined yourselves in matrimony, may you strive always to meet this commitment with the same spirit you now are now exhibiting. Inasmuch as you have consented together to enter into the holy bonds of marriage; and having pledged, and sealed your vows by the giving and receiving of rings, it gives me great pleasure to pronounce that you are now husband and wife.
Congratulations! You may share the first kiss of your marriage!
A few words about the history of Handfasting
Handfasting is an ancient custom - before the Council of Trent required the presence of a priest - especially common in Ireland and Scotland but also in Poland and Czechoslovakia with roots in the Nordic Cultures, in which a man and woman came together at the start of their marriage relationship. Their hands, or more accurately, their wrists, were literally tied together. This practice gave way to the expression "tying the knot" which has come to mean getting married.
During this particular ceremony, six cords are tied around the couple's wrists, each representing a vow made between them. These particular cords were fashioned by the couple, with "family artifacts" of jewelry from various family members woven in among the ribbon.
Handfasting tradition holds that these cords remain tied together for a year and a day, at which point, the couple gathers the witnesses to their vows and has a celebration of their first year of married life.
The rings exchanged are the lasting and constant reminder of those vows made on this day.
The Handfasting Ceremony
To the assembled: Greetings and welcome to you all! We are gathered here today to witness and to celebrate one of life's greatest moments, to give recognition to the worth and beauty of love, and to add our best wishes and blessings to the union of Maria Conroy Kaeton and Robert Gordon Leong. We have come here this day to share in their joy as they come now to be united in the state of holy matrimony.
To Bob and Mia: Know now that since your lives have crossed, you have formed ties between each other. The promises you make today and the ties that are bound here will cross the years and will greatly strengthen your union. With full awareness, know that you declare your intent to be handfasted before your friends and family.
Do you still seek to enter this ceremony?
Mia and Bob: Yes, we seek to enter.
Does anyone here have any objections to this couple being handfasted in marriage? If so, speak now or forever hold it to your heart (wait for the space of three heartbeats).
I bid you look into each others eyes. Bob and Mia, these cords are a symbol of the lives you have chosen to lead together. Up until this moment, you have been separate in thought, word and action. As your hands are bound together by these cords, so too, shall your lives be bound as one.
The First Cord
Mia, will you honor him?
I will.
Bob, will you honor her?
I will.
[To Both] Will you seek never to give cause to break that honor?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. Join your hands. (First chord is draped across the bride and groom's hands.)
The Second Cord
Bob, might you ever cause her anger?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
Mia, might you ever cause him anger?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
[To Both] Will you together take the heat of anger and use it to temper the strength of this union?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Drape second chord across the couple's hands.)
The Third Cord
Mia, might you ever burden him?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
Bob, might you ever burden her?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
[To Both] Will you share the burdens of each so that your spirits may grow in this union?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Third chord is draped across the couple's hands.)
The Fourth Cord
Mia, will you share his dreams?
I will .
Bob, will you share her dreams?
I will .
[To Both] Will you dream together to create new realities and hopes?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Drape fourth chord across the couple's hands.)
The Fifth Cord
Bob, might you ever cause her pain?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
Mia, might you ever cause him pain?
I might...
Is that your intent?
No.
[To Both] Will you share each other's pain and seek to ease it?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Drape fifth chord across the couple's hands.)
The Sixth Cord
Bob, will you share her laughter?
I will .
Mia, will you share his laughter?
I will .
[To Both] Will both of you look for the brightness in life and the positive in each other?
Yes.
And so the binding is made. (Drape sixth chord across the couple's hands.)
(The cords are tied together and the couple’s hands are bound in the priest’s stole.)
Just as your hands are now bound together, so too, are your lives. May you be forever one, sharing in all things, in love and loyalty for all time to come.
As it is, you cannot always be physically joined.
(The Handfasting Cords are removed, without untying them, and replaced on the altar.)
And so, we use the wedding ring to symbolize that connection. It is a constant reminder of the sacred bond shared between a husband and a wife.
Who holds the rings?
(The rings are given to the Bride and Groom)
Bob and Mia, you hold here in your hands the wedding rings that you will exchange with one another. When you give a ring to someone in marriage, you are giving them a symbol of your eternal love, a love that, like the circle formed by each of these rings, has no beginning and no end.
As you understand this, and wish to affirm the love that the giving and receiving of these rings represents, please, exchange your rings with one another, and state for each, “With this ring, I thee wed”.
Beginning with you, Bob
(Bob places the ring on Mia’s finger and states,)
“With this ring, I thee wed.”
And now you, Mia
(Mia places the ring on Bob’s finger and states,)
“With this ring, I thee wed.”
Bob and Mia, now that you have joined yourselves in matrimony, may you strive always to meet this commitment with the same spirit you now are now exhibiting. Inasmuch as you have consented together to enter into the holy bonds of marriage; and having pledged, and sealed your vows by the giving and receiving of rings, it gives me great pleasure to pronounce that you are now husband and wife.
Congratulations! You may share the first kiss of your marriage!
Oh, Happy Day!
Could these two people look any happier?
I think not.
Well, we had the rehearsal and the dinner last night.
Everyone and everything looks absolutely lovely.
The Very Big Tent is in the yard - all set up for the reception - complete with dance floor.
The deck - where the ceremony will take place - is beautifully festooned with flowers. Bob and Mia and Bob's parents, family and friends have done an amazing job getting the house and yard ready. I'm so grateful.
The "hand fasting cords" were handmade by the bride and groom into which they wove various "trinkets" from some old jewelry given to them by various family members.
We practiced tying them on their wrists. Celtic tradition says that they come off all bound together and then stay bound for a year and a day, at which point, the couple gathers kith and kin and renews the vows and promises they made, one by one.
I think that's perfectly lovely, don't you? And, inherently wise.
After the rehearsal, we all went out to dinner.
This is our granddaughter, the incomparable "Ms. Mackie J" who is flower girl, and our daughter, "The Fabulous UES Girl, Ms. Julie", who is a bridesmaid.
We traveled together to the restaurant from the rehearsal with Ms. Lucy True Bug's top down, singing along with Black Eyed Peas "Tonight's Gonna Be A Good Night" at the top of our voices.
Dinner was several courses in true Northern NJ Italian style - amazing hot Italian bread, mozzarella, tomato and fresh pimento salad, fried calamari. And then, we had dinner. I had the veal piccata, which was incredible.
In between courses, we played "Hangman" and "Tick Tack Toe". And laughed and giggled and tried to contain our excitement, but only barely.
I'm about to run out to do various errands. Gotta get Ms. Lucy True Bug washed and sparkling clean. Hang out with Ms. Mackie J. Get my ensemble for tonight assembled. Hang out with Ms. Mackie J. Get my hair done while Ms. Mackie J gets hers done. Wait excitedly while the rest of the grandchildren arrive later this afternoon.
Oh - did I mention that there's a wedding today?
Why yes. Yes, in fact, there is.
Mia and Bob are "tying the knot". A more beautiful, loving couple you'd be hard pressed to find.
Thanks for your prayers and expressions of love and good wishes. They will continue to hold us all up as we make our way into this beautiful day which the Lord of Life has fashioned to be blessed by Love.
I'll post pictures tomorrow.
Today, I'm just savoring the sublime happiness of this Most Happy Day.
I think not.
Well, we had the rehearsal and the dinner last night.
Everyone and everything looks absolutely lovely.
The Very Big Tent is in the yard - all set up for the reception - complete with dance floor.
The deck - where the ceremony will take place - is beautifully festooned with flowers. Bob and Mia and Bob's parents, family and friends have done an amazing job getting the house and yard ready. I'm so grateful.
The "hand fasting cords" were handmade by the bride and groom into which they wove various "trinkets" from some old jewelry given to them by various family members.
We practiced tying them on their wrists. Celtic tradition says that they come off all bound together and then stay bound for a year and a day, at which point, the couple gathers kith and kin and renews the vows and promises they made, one by one.
I think that's perfectly lovely, don't you? And, inherently wise.
After the rehearsal, we all went out to dinner.
This is our granddaughter, the incomparable "Ms. Mackie J" who is flower girl, and our daughter, "The Fabulous UES Girl, Ms. Julie", who is a bridesmaid.
We traveled together to the restaurant from the rehearsal with Ms. Lucy True Bug's top down, singing along with Black Eyed Peas "Tonight's Gonna Be A Good Night" at the top of our voices.
Dinner was several courses in true Northern NJ Italian style - amazing hot Italian bread, mozzarella, tomato and fresh pimento salad, fried calamari. And then, we had dinner. I had the veal piccata, which was incredible.
In between courses, we played "Hangman" and "Tick Tack Toe". And laughed and giggled and tried to contain our excitement, but only barely.
I'm about to run out to do various errands. Gotta get Ms. Lucy True Bug washed and sparkling clean. Hang out with Ms. Mackie J. Get my ensemble for tonight assembled. Hang out with Ms. Mackie J. Get my hair done while Ms. Mackie J gets hers done. Wait excitedly while the rest of the grandchildren arrive later this afternoon.
Oh - did I mention that there's a wedding today?
Why yes. Yes, in fact, there is.
Mia and Bob are "tying the knot". A more beautiful, loving couple you'd be hard pressed to find.
Thanks for your prayers and expressions of love and good wishes. They will continue to hold us all up as we make our way into this beautiful day which the Lord of Life has fashioned to be blessed by Love.
I'll post pictures tomorrow.
Today, I'm just savoring the sublime happiness of this Most Happy Day.
Learning About Religious Tolerance Through the Recent Mosque Controversy
In recent weeks, there has been a controversy in New York City involving a Muslim center that is a few blocks from where the Twin Towers once were. This controversy highlights the misperceptions that many people in this country have about Muslims.
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Family Artifacts
Part of the difficulty - and the joy - of the last few weeks has been the slow pace of packing for this move.
There's a reason for that.
I call them "family artifacts".
I keep stumbling onto them as I clean and sort and clear and pack - or, pitch.
This is one of them.
Well, not this exact one, but it's the closest image I could find to the original.
Yes, it's an African American Baby Doll. Our youngest daughter, Mia, had one. It was her very first doll.
I clearly remember the day she asked for it.
She was almost three years old. Christmas was coming. We were out shopping, she strapped securely in the shopping cart, and happened to wander by the toy section of the department store. Suddenly, she gasped.
"There she is!" she said.
"What, darling?" I asked.
"Right there! Go! Go! Go, Mama!" she squealed and wiggled in excitement, pointing her finger to the rows and rows of baby dolls on the shelf.
"This one! This one! This one!" she pointed as we got closer. It was hard to tell among the rows of "newborn infants" - looking still and quiet, so unlike a real newborn - in their plastic and cardboard boxes, but promising to "burp" or "giggle" or "wet" or "drink from a bottle or a cup". Just like a "real live baby."
Her choice surprised me on two accounts. First, because she clearly wanted the African American Baby Doll. And second, because this baby doll promised to do absolutely nothing. No bells. No whistles. Just a cute, cuddly baby doll.
Mia spoke in such hushed, reverent tones, it was almost like a prayer. "Could you please ask Santa to bring me that Baby Doll for Christmas, Mama? Please?"
I looked at our youngest child in utter amazement as I realized that this was, in fact, a prayer. "Well, I'll see what we can do," I said. I had learned long ago to never make a promise that I knew I couldn't keep. Anything could happen in the six weeks before Christmas. That particular model could be sold out.
Of course, I resolved right then and there to go back to the store the very next day to buy it for her.
You should have seen her face when she opened the package on Christmas morning! She stood still in utter amazement. Her mouth stayed open long after she gasped in surprise. She actually got pale.
Slowly, slowly, she opened the box as if savoring the magic of the moment. It seemed obscene that her Baby Doll was tied down to a cardboard cradle with those little plastic ties. Arms. Legs. Neck. Waist. As if this doll might run away before she could be purchased and brought to her new home.
I carefully undid each tie as Mia did a "happy-happy-joy-joy" dance in place. As soon as the Baby Doll was free, Mia took her into her arms and hugged and rocked her with such love and gentleness I thought my heart would break.
"What are you going to name her?" Ms. Conroy asked.
Mia picked up her head, pulled back her shoulders, and said, as if she were announcing the Queen, "Baby Kaeton."
Not "Suzy". Not "Anabelle." Not "Carrie". Not "Betsy".
"Baby Kaeton".
And, so it was.
And, rightly so.
Baby Kaeton was soon introduced to "Bun-Bun" - a small blanket in the shape of a bunny that had been Mia's "blankie" since she was an infant. All along the border of the small blanket was a silk ribbon which Mia used to take between her thumb and index finger and rub repetitiously, the way some kids suck their thumb or twirl their hair.
She used to call it "softing". She'd say to her siblings, "Please be quiet. I'm 'softing'." Or, she'd announce in the middle of the afternoon, "I need to do 'a soft'"
Bun-Bun and Baby Kaeton slept with her every night and kept vigil on her bed every day of her life until she was 10 years old. When she had sleep overs at her friends homes, Bun-Bun and Baby Kaeton had to be packed in her overnight case. I suspect Mia waited for everyone to go to sleep before she got up and sneaked them out of her bag and into bed with her.
Then, one day, without any warning or drama, it stopped. Baby Kaeton and Bun-Bun were moved from their residence on bed and onto the chair in her room. A few years later, when Mia went off to college at age 16, they got packed away in a box where they've stayed all these many, many years later.
Mia never made an announcement about it. Never talked about it. We all knew. It was time. Not necessarily to "put away childish things" - but to begin to move on. Grow up. Become more fully the person God created her to be.
And, so it was.
And, rightly so.
Shortly after the sun sets on August 28th, and as the wanning gibbous moon begins to rise in the sky, Mia Conroy Kaeton will be married. She is taking the last name of her new husband.
She has made her own wedding gown - even covering the buttons with material from her 8th Grade Graduation Dress - and festooned with lace and pearls from her future mother-in-law's wedding gown. She will be wearing my pearl necklace and earrings.
She and her beloved have made the cords they will use in the Handfasting Ceremony they have created.
And as I see her coming toward her husband to be, I will think to myself, "There she is! Right there! Baby Kaeton!"
So it once was.
In my heart, so it will always be.
And, rightly so.
There's a reason for that.
I call them "family artifacts".
I keep stumbling onto them as I clean and sort and clear and pack - or, pitch.
This is one of them.
Well, not this exact one, but it's the closest image I could find to the original.
Yes, it's an African American Baby Doll. Our youngest daughter, Mia, had one. It was her very first doll.
I clearly remember the day she asked for it.
She was almost three years old. Christmas was coming. We were out shopping, she strapped securely in the shopping cart, and happened to wander by the toy section of the department store. Suddenly, she gasped.
"There she is!" she said.
"What, darling?" I asked.
"Right there! Go! Go! Go, Mama!" she squealed and wiggled in excitement, pointing her finger to the rows and rows of baby dolls on the shelf.
"This one! This one! This one!" she pointed as we got closer. It was hard to tell among the rows of "newborn infants" - looking still and quiet, so unlike a real newborn - in their plastic and cardboard boxes, but promising to "burp" or "giggle" or "wet" or "drink from a bottle or a cup". Just like a "real live baby."
Her choice surprised me on two accounts. First, because she clearly wanted the African American Baby Doll. And second, because this baby doll promised to do absolutely nothing. No bells. No whistles. Just a cute, cuddly baby doll.
Mia spoke in such hushed, reverent tones, it was almost like a prayer. "Could you please ask Santa to bring me that Baby Doll for Christmas, Mama? Please?"
I looked at our youngest child in utter amazement as I realized that this was, in fact, a prayer. "Well, I'll see what we can do," I said. I had learned long ago to never make a promise that I knew I couldn't keep. Anything could happen in the six weeks before Christmas. That particular model could be sold out.
Of course, I resolved right then and there to go back to the store the very next day to buy it for her.
You should have seen her face when she opened the package on Christmas morning! She stood still in utter amazement. Her mouth stayed open long after she gasped in surprise. She actually got pale.
Slowly, slowly, she opened the box as if savoring the magic of the moment. It seemed obscene that her Baby Doll was tied down to a cardboard cradle with those little plastic ties. Arms. Legs. Neck. Waist. As if this doll might run away before she could be purchased and brought to her new home.
I carefully undid each tie as Mia did a "happy-happy-joy-joy" dance in place. As soon as the Baby Doll was free, Mia took her into her arms and hugged and rocked her with such love and gentleness I thought my heart would break.
"What are you going to name her?" Ms. Conroy asked.
Mia picked up her head, pulled back her shoulders, and said, as if she were announcing the Queen, "Baby Kaeton."
Not "Suzy". Not "Anabelle." Not "Carrie". Not "Betsy".
"Baby Kaeton".
And, so it was.
And, rightly so.
Baby Kaeton was soon introduced to "Bun-Bun" - a small blanket in the shape of a bunny that had been Mia's "blankie" since she was an infant. All along the border of the small blanket was a silk ribbon which Mia used to take between her thumb and index finger and rub repetitiously, the way some kids suck their thumb or twirl their hair.
She used to call it "softing". She'd say to her siblings, "Please be quiet. I'm 'softing'." Or, she'd announce in the middle of the afternoon, "I need to do 'a soft'"
Bun-Bun and Baby Kaeton slept with her every night and kept vigil on her bed every day of her life until she was 10 years old. When she had sleep overs at her friends homes, Bun-Bun and Baby Kaeton had to be packed in her overnight case. I suspect Mia waited for everyone to go to sleep before she got up and sneaked them out of her bag and into bed with her.
Then, one day, without any warning or drama, it stopped. Baby Kaeton and Bun-Bun were moved from their residence on bed and onto the chair in her room. A few years later, when Mia went off to college at age 16, they got packed away in a box where they've stayed all these many, many years later.
Mia never made an announcement about it. Never talked about it. We all knew. It was time. Not necessarily to "put away childish things" - but to begin to move on. Grow up. Become more fully the person God created her to be.
And, so it was.
And, rightly so.
Shortly after the sun sets on August 28th, and as the wanning gibbous moon begins to rise in the sky, Mia Conroy Kaeton will be married. She is taking the last name of her new husband.
She has made her own wedding gown - even covering the buttons with material from her 8th Grade Graduation Dress - and festooned with lace and pearls from her future mother-in-law's wedding gown. She will be wearing my pearl necklace and earrings.
She and her beloved have made the cords they will use in the Handfasting Ceremony they have created.
And as I see her coming toward her husband to be, I will think to myself, "There she is! Right there! Baby Kaeton!"
So it once was.
In my heart, so it will always be.
And, rightly so.
Waiting for the Holy Spirit with Glenn Beck
Glenn Beck is certainly aiming high. Tonight, at the Kennedy Center in Washington, he will "help heal your soul" at his "America's Divine Destiny" event. Then tomorrow, at his "Restoring Honor" event at the Lincoln Memorial, he expects the Spirit to speak.
Categories: Gay Christian Feed by IPC, Progressive Adventists Feed by IPC, Progressive Baptist Feed by IPC, Progressive Black Christian Feed by IPC, Progressive Catholic Feed by IPC, Progressive Christian Peace and Justice Feed by IPC, Progressive Episcopal/Anglican Feed by IPC, Progressive Evangelical Feed by IPC, Progressive Lutheran Feed by IPC, Progressive Methodist Feed by IPC, Progressive Presbyterian Feed by IPC, Progressive United Church of Christ (UCC) Feed by IPC, Streaming Progressive Christianity by IPC, Streaming Progressive Faith by IPC
Reasons of the Heart
I don't know about you, but am astounded that the controversy continues to burn white-hot surrounding the proposed building of Park51 - the Islamic Community Center in New York City (formerly known as Cordoba House).
The arguments seems to come down to "religious freedom" - the foundational, constitutional right, in this country, to practice your religious beliefs - vs. "insensitivity" - the complaint that, since almost 3,000 people at the Twin Towers at the World Trade Center were killed by Muslims in the name of their religious beliefs, Park51 is a painful, "insensitive" insult to the survivors of those who perished. (Some of whom, of course, were, themselves, Muslim.)
I'm not going to rehash the arguments about this. Most of the readers of this blog know how I feel. I know how most of you feel. We'll only just pat each other on the back and move on.
Those who disagree will write me anonymous comments, making outrageous claims about my "insensitivity" or "hypocrisy" or "intolerance" which I won't publish because they are (1) ad hominem attacks and (2) patently banal and vapid.
I am a great fan but not a great student of history. Although I always find it fascinating and helpful, I have trouble storing all that information in my progressively addled brain.
So, when I saw the following Brief History of American Religious Intolerance in the August 30 edition of TIME magazine, it sparked some thinking for me.
It looks like this:1654 Peter Stuyvesant, director general of New Netherland, tries to have Jewish Refugees expelled, claiming they would "infect" the colony.
1732 Founders of the Georgia colony, which is seen as a religious haven, draw up a charter that explicitly bans Catholicism.
1844 Mormon founder Joseph Smith is murdered in an Illinois prison by a lynch mob. Soon after, many of his followers migrate to Utah.
1854-56 Nativists form the Know-Nothing Party, which calls for strict limits on immigration, especially from Catholic countries.
1866 Riots erupt during Reconstruction, and African-American churches are burned in Memphis and New Orleans.
1882 Strong anti-Chinese sentiment in California leads to the federal Chinese Exclusion Act which suspends immigration of Chinese laborers.
1883 Department of the Interior declares many Native American rituals to be "offenses" punishable by prison sentences of up to 30 years.
1915 The Ku Klux Klan re-emerges on a national level to preach anti-Semitism and anti-Catholicism; it amasses more than 4 million members.
1928 New York's Catholic governor Al Smith loses the presidential election to Hoover in a landslide; a Catholic President won't be elected until JFK in 1960.
1938 On November 20, Father Charles Coughlin, a Catholic priest, delivers an anti-Semitic radio address in which he defends Nazi violence.
1942 FDR signs an Executive Order establishing "exclusion zones," which leads to the internment of some 120,000 Japanese and Japanese Americans.
1970s Middle-class youths join religious groups such as the Unification Church, the Children of God and the Hare Krishna, spawning fear of cults.It's pretty sobering, isn't it?
Religious intolerance is always sobering in its shocking, stunning Evil, whenever it rears its ugly head.
With the exception of Fred Phelps and the occasional emergence of a chapter of the Klu Klux Klan requesting a parade permit, I suspect part of the impact this list had on me is that we've gone more than thirty years without a major, significant incident of religious intolerance.
Our country has been more absorbed in racism than religious intolerance. I'm thinking, however, that the current wave of Islamophobia we are experiencing over the proposed Park51 Center is a thread in the same fabric.
The fact that we have our first Black President whose name happens to be Barack Hussein Obama is no coincidence. Franklin (Billy's son) Graham's recent comment that Mr. Obama's "problem" was that he was “born a Muslim” because the religion’s “seed” is passed from the father is a prime example. Here's what he said, in context: “The seed is passed through the father,” Graham said. “He was born a Muslim. His father was a Muslim; the seed of Muslim is passed through the father like the seed of Judaism is passed through the mother. He was born a Muslim; his father gave him an Islamic name.”
Graham, the son of evangelist Billy Graham, acknowledged that Obama has said he is a Christian.
"He has renounced Islam, and he has accepted Jesus," Graham said. “That's what he has said he has done. I cannot say that he hasn't, so I just have to believe the president is what he has said.”
“But the confusion is because his father is a Muslim; he was born a Muslim. The Islamic world sees the president as one of theirs. That's why Qadhafi calls him his son. They see him as a Muslim,” he added. “But, of course, the president says he is a Christian, and we just have to accept it as that.”Yeah, right. Mr. Obama's father was, of course, African. His mother was Caucasian.
If you believe that Mr. Graham believes that Mr. Obama is a "real" Christian, I've got a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn. He can't be a "real" anything in they eyes of people like Mr. Graham because of his father's "seed".
It's pretty clear to me that statement stands as a manifestation of our xenophobia and racism, hiding this time, under a pulpit gown and behind a cross.
There, I said it.
Now, the vast army of cowardly "Anonymouses" out there will write and say that, when "people like you" don't have a "real" argument" we "always play the race card."
Well, my darlings, if the shoe fits . . . .
The problem with the Racism Shoe is that it always hurts the ones you are trying to force into being shackled by it, and it invariably pinches when someone puts it back on your foot.
The only "exclusion zone" - to use FDRs euphemism - this country needs is the one for intolerance based on race, religion, creed, national origin, gender, age, sexual orientation, class status, educational background, or physical, emotional or intellectual ability.
No, this is not a Rodney King plea asking that "we all just get along".
It's deeper than that.
I'm asking us all to grow up.
At some point in our growth and development we mature and come to the realization that we can't all have our own way, even if/when we think it's the best way.
I'm asking those of us who are Christian to heed the prayer that was said at our baptism and "grow into the full stature of Christ."
I'm asking that we follow the vows made at our Baptism and confirmed when we were of age to speak for ourselves to "seek and serve Christ in all persons" and "respect the dignity of every human being."
As Christians, we are all invited, by the free gift of Grace, to feast at the Table of the Lord. But, Jesus says we are not only invited and welcomed, we must invite and welcome others. Without stipulation.
As freely as we were invited, so must we invite others. In so doing, we are reminded by St. Paul, we may entertain angels unaware.
History gives us a good perspective - especially about what can happen when fear and hysteria rule the day - but I think the lens of the gospel is the perspective needed when looking at the situation at Park51.
Love is not exclusive. Love is expansive.
And, as St. Paul reminds us, perfect love casts out fear.
French mathematician and philosopher, Blaise Pascal once wrote: "The heart has reasons which Reason cannot understand."
This is the reason for Park51. Nothing more. Nothing less.
The arguments seems to come down to "religious freedom" - the foundational, constitutional right, in this country, to practice your religious beliefs - vs. "insensitivity" - the complaint that, since almost 3,000 people at the Twin Towers at the World Trade Center were killed by Muslims in the name of their religious beliefs, Park51 is a painful, "insensitive" insult to the survivors of those who perished. (Some of whom, of course, were, themselves, Muslim.)
I'm not going to rehash the arguments about this. Most of the readers of this blog know how I feel. I know how most of you feel. We'll only just pat each other on the back and move on.
Those who disagree will write me anonymous comments, making outrageous claims about my "insensitivity" or "hypocrisy" or "intolerance" which I won't publish because they are (1) ad hominem attacks and (2) patently banal and vapid.
I am a great fan but not a great student of history. Although I always find it fascinating and helpful, I have trouble storing all that information in my progressively addled brain.
So, when I saw the following Brief History of American Religious Intolerance in the August 30 edition of TIME magazine, it sparked some thinking for me.
It looks like this:1654 Peter Stuyvesant, director general of New Netherland, tries to have Jewish Refugees expelled, claiming they would "infect" the colony.
1732 Founders of the Georgia colony, which is seen as a religious haven, draw up a charter that explicitly bans Catholicism.
1844 Mormon founder Joseph Smith is murdered in an Illinois prison by a lynch mob. Soon after, many of his followers migrate to Utah.
1854-56 Nativists form the Know-Nothing Party, which calls for strict limits on immigration, especially from Catholic countries.
1866 Riots erupt during Reconstruction, and African-American churches are burned in Memphis and New Orleans.
1882 Strong anti-Chinese sentiment in California leads to the federal Chinese Exclusion Act which suspends immigration of Chinese laborers.
1883 Department of the Interior declares many Native American rituals to be "offenses" punishable by prison sentences of up to 30 years.
1915 The Ku Klux Klan re-emerges on a national level to preach anti-Semitism and anti-Catholicism; it amasses more than 4 million members.
1928 New York's Catholic governor Al Smith loses the presidential election to Hoover in a landslide; a Catholic President won't be elected until JFK in 1960.
1938 On November 20, Father Charles Coughlin, a Catholic priest, delivers an anti-Semitic radio address in which he defends Nazi violence.
1942 FDR signs an Executive Order establishing "exclusion zones," which leads to the internment of some 120,000 Japanese and Japanese Americans.
1970s Middle-class youths join religious groups such as the Unification Church, the Children of God and the Hare Krishna, spawning fear of cults.It's pretty sobering, isn't it?
Religious intolerance is always sobering in its shocking, stunning Evil, whenever it rears its ugly head.
With the exception of Fred Phelps and the occasional emergence of a chapter of the Klu Klux Klan requesting a parade permit, I suspect part of the impact this list had on me is that we've gone more than thirty years without a major, significant incident of religious intolerance.
Our country has been more absorbed in racism than religious intolerance. I'm thinking, however, that the current wave of Islamophobia we are experiencing over the proposed Park51 Center is a thread in the same fabric.
The fact that we have our first Black President whose name happens to be Barack Hussein Obama is no coincidence. Franklin (Billy's son) Graham's recent comment that Mr. Obama's "problem" was that he was “born a Muslim” because the religion’s “seed” is passed from the father is a prime example. Here's what he said, in context: “The seed is passed through the father,” Graham said. “He was born a Muslim. His father was a Muslim; the seed of Muslim is passed through the father like the seed of Judaism is passed through the mother. He was born a Muslim; his father gave him an Islamic name.”
Graham, the son of evangelist Billy Graham, acknowledged that Obama has said he is a Christian.
"He has renounced Islam, and he has accepted Jesus," Graham said. “That's what he has said he has done. I cannot say that he hasn't, so I just have to believe the president is what he has said.”
“But the confusion is because his father is a Muslim; he was born a Muslim. The Islamic world sees the president as one of theirs. That's why Qadhafi calls him his son. They see him as a Muslim,” he added. “But, of course, the president says he is a Christian, and we just have to accept it as that.”Yeah, right. Mr. Obama's father was, of course, African. His mother was Caucasian.
If you believe that Mr. Graham believes that Mr. Obama is a "real" Christian, I've got a bridge to sell you in Brooklyn. He can't be a "real" anything in they eyes of people like Mr. Graham because of his father's "seed".
It's pretty clear to me that statement stands as a manifestation of our xenophobia and racism, hiding this time, under a pulpit gown and behind a cross.
There, I said it.
Now, the vast army of cowardly "Anonymouses" out there will write and say that, when "people like you" don't have a "real" argument" we "always play the race card."
Well, my darlings, if the shoe fits . . . .
The problem with the Racism Shoe is that it always hurts the ones you are trying to force into being shackled by it, and it invariably pinches when someone puts it back on your foot.
The only "exclusion zone" - to use FDRs euphemism - this country needs is the one for intolerance based on race, religion, creed, national origin, gender, age, sexual orientation, class status, educational background, or physical, emotional or intellectual ability.
No, this is not a Rodney King plea asking that "we all just get along".
It's deeper than that.
I'm asking us all to grow up.
At some point in our growth and development we mature and come to the realization that we can't all have our own way, even if/when we think it's the best way.
I'm asking those of us who are Christian to heed the prayer that was said at our baptism and "grow into the full stature of Christ."
I'm asking that we follow the vows made at our Baptism and confirmed when we were of age to speak for ourselves to "seek and serve Christ in all persons" and "respect the dignity of every human being."
As Christians, we are all invited, by the free gift of Grace, to feast at the Table of the Lord. But, Jesus says we are not only invited and welcomed, we must invite and welcome others. Without stipulation.
As freely as we were invited, so must we invite others. In so doing, we are reminded by St. Paul, we may entertain angels unaware.
History gives us a good perspective - especially about what can happen when fear and hysteria rule the day - but I think the lens of the gospel is the perspective needed when looking at the situation at Park51.
Love is not exclusive. Love is expansive.
And, as St. Paul reminds us, perfect love casts out fear.
French mathematician and philosopher, Blaise Pascal once wrote: "The heart has reasons which Reason cannot understand."
This is the reason for Park51. Nothing more. Nothing less.
A lot on my plate
Indeed. I've got more on my plate than I can say grace over.
Most of our "stuff" is already in Delaware. There are a few odds and ends in Chatham. We've taken the last load of clothes - just out of the dry cleaner - to Good Will. I washed all the bed linens and some table cloths and napkins and sent them off to Good Will as well.
I keep walking around the house - which now has an odd, annoying echo - with my check list and colored stickers. Stuff for a local church yard sale in October = orange sticker. Stuff for the Good Will = green sticker. Black plastic bag = take to the dump. No sticker = pack in the car and take to Rehoboth Beach.
I've also been closing out stuff at the church. My Parish Administrator is also leaving. He starts his new job September 1st. We've worked together for the past five years. He's really the BEST. I'm thrilled for him but sad the church is losing such a wonderful, talented, skilled, competent staff person. We're having lunch together on Tuesday, his last day. I'm really looking forward to that.
I'm still having looonnnnggg conversations - on the phone and with those who "just drop by the rectory" - with members of the congregation who call me to see how I'm doing and whether or not they can help. Or, to talk about "what really happened".
My gracious! I don't know how some clergy give six months or even a year's notice. It will have been 10 weeks from the time I announced my resignation to the time I leave town. Suffice it to say, it's been an interesting ride on The Kubler-Ross "Grief Train."
Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
Check. Check. Check. Check. And, Check - well, not exactly flat out acceptance. Oh, I'm sure there are many who have accepted and moved on, but not the folk who are contacting me. The delicate balance is not engaging with the person as a member of the congregation but, rather, as an individual person, remaining pastoral and compassionate and redirecting the energy.
Oh, and did I mention that there's a wedding on Saturday? Our youngest daughter's wedding? We're having mani-pedi's on Friday at 4. There's a rehearsal at 6 PM and a rehearsal dinner at 7 PM.
The wedding is Saturday - at around 7:30-ish, or whenever the sun sets and the waning gibbous moon begins to show itself in the heavens.
Ms. Conroy and I are the "Mothers of the Bride". I am also the Officiant at what's called, "A Hand Fasting Ceremony." It's really wonderful. Ancient, in fact. I can't wait to see it all on video.
Oh, wait. Wait. Wait. You thought this was a complaint, right? You thought I was whining about all the work and anxiety.
Absolutely. No. Way.
I have never felt more alive. More connected with the cosmos. More in tune with God. I am, all at once, thoroughly exhausted and positively exhilarated - if that makes any sense at all.
If it doesn't, it's okay. It's exactly the way I fee.
My life - our life - is rich and full and deeply profoundly blessed. We are surrounded by a wonderful, loving family. Some amazing things are happening.
Even more amazing things are about to happen. It's right there. Just around that corner. Or, perhaps, the next. I can feel it. Smell it. Taste it.
I just can't see it right now because my plate is so full.
So, if you'll excuse me, I'll just graze on all this for awhile until some of this begins to disappear and the way forward becomes a little more clear.
Even with the bad stuff and the hassle and the annoyance and the unknowing - the beginnings and endings and beginnings all over again - it's a great time to be alive.
I'm so very, deeply grateful.
Most of our "stuff" is already in Delaware. There are a few odds and ends in Chatham. We've taken the last load of clothes - just out of the dry cleaner - to Good Will. I washed all the bed linens and some table cloths and napkins and sent them off to Good Will as well.
I keep walking around the house - which now has an odd, annoying echo - with my check list and colored stickers. Stuff for a local church yard sale in October = orange sticker. Stuff for the Good Will = green sticker. Black plastic bag = take to the dump. No sticker = pack in the car and take to Rehoboth Beach.
I've also been closing out stuff at the church. My Parish Administrator is also leaving. He starts his new job September 1st. We've worked together for the past five years. He's really the BEST. I'm thrilled for him but sad the church is losing such a wonderful, talented, skilled, competent staff person. We're having lunch together on Tuesday, his last day. I'm really looking forward to that.
I'm still having looonnnnggg conversations - on the phone and with those who "just drop by the rectory" - with members of the congregation who call me to see how I'm doing and whether or not they can help. Or, to talk about "what really happened".
My gracious! I don't know how some clergy give six months or even a year's notice. It will have been 10 weeks from the time I announced my resignation to the time I leave town. Suffice it to say, it's been an interesting ride on The Kubler-Ross "Grief Train."
Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
Check. Check. Check. Check. And, Check - well, not exactly flat out acceptance. Oh, I'm sure there are many who have accepted and moved on, but not the folk who are contacting me. The delicate balance is not engaging with the person as a member of the congregation but, rather, as an individual person, remaining pastoral and compassionate and redirecting the energy.
Oh, and did I mention that there's a wedding on Saturday? Our youngest daughter's wedding? We're having mani-pedi's on Friday at 4. There's a rehearsal at 6 PM and a rehearsal dinner at 7 PM.
The wedding is Saturday - at around 7:30-ish, or whenever the sun sets and the waning gibbous moon begins to show itself in the heavens.
Ms. Conroy and I are the "Mothers of the Bride". I am also the Officiant at what's called, "A Hand Fasting Ceremony." It's really wonderful. Ancient, in fact. I can't wait to see it all on video.
Oh, wait. Wait. Wait. You thought this was a complaint, right? You thought I was whining about all the work and anxiety.
Absolutely. No. Way.
I have never felt more alive. More connected with the cosmos. More in tune with God. I am, all at once, thoroughly exhausted and positively exhilarated - if that makes any sense at all.
If it doesn't, it's okay. It's exactly the way I fee.
My life - our life - is rich and full and deeply profoundly blessed. We are surrounded by a wonderful, loving family. Some amazing things are happening.
Even more amazing things are about to happen. It's right there. Just around that corner. Or, perhaps, the next. I can feel it. Smell it. Taste it.
I just can't see it right now because my plate is so full.
So, if you'll excuse me, I'll just graze on all this for awhile until some of this begins to disappear and the way forward becomes a little more clear.
Even with the bad stuff and the hassle and the annoyance and the unknowing - the beginnings and endings and beginnings all over again - it's a great time to be alive.
I'm so very, deeply grateful.
Liberal Christianity
I firmly believe that religion or rigorous practice can't be applied with pressure and intimidation because that only brings force and violence, not wisdom so it must be fulfilled with reason, debate and intuition.
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A place of our own
That chair you see above used to be in the office at the rectory. We've carted it around for the last 15 years in three different rectories.
It sits, now, in Ms. Conroy's favorite spot in the sun room at Llangollen, our wee cottage which used to be our vacation/retreat place, which we are now making our year-round home on the marsh lands of Rehoboth Bay, part of the Delmarva Peninsula, in the 'first state' of Delaware.
Ms. Conroy's position as Clinical Director of an inpatient hospice unit in Northern New Jersey is not as "portable" as mine or some others. In a little over a year's time, she will transfer to a new inpatient hospice facility which is being planned just up the road a piece.
Until then, she'll stay in a small apartment with a friend in NJ. We'll commute as often as we can - she coming here two or three weekends a month and me going up to NJ for various commitments I still have to things diocesan and local.
We've done this before, this "commuting thing". It was 1991 when I took my first position in the great Diocese of Newark. It was only supposed to be "for a few months". She and our youngest daughter moved to NJ from Baltimore, MD in 1993. We've called NJ "home" ever since.
On September 1, Delaware will officially become our home. I've just put in a bottle of champagne to chill for the occasion. It's a bit like waiting for Christmas.
If "home is where the heart is" then this has really been our home all along. It's just taking some time to finally "arrive".
It seemed important to me to create a space - a place - for Ms. Conroy in her favorite spot in the house. It's in the South West corner. If she looks toward the West, she can see Indian River just past Long Neck Road where the sea bass have been especially plentiful this year, I understand.
If she looks toward the East, she can see Rehoboth Bay and the boats coming and going on their way to go fishing or crabbing or just the experience of the sheer joy of being on a boat in the water.
If she looks directly ahead, to the North, can see into the living room, the new office/library, and the front door - the place where our two dogs, Mr. Lenny and Ms. CoCo provide endless entertainment in what we've come to call "Dog TV".
Sometimes, for absolutely no discernible reason, Lenny and CoCo get what Ms. Conroy calls "puppy crazies". They chase each other round and round - from the living room to the window in the library/office and back again.
They run and run and run. Stop suddenly, panting. Then, they take off again. Until someone calls - or 'barks' - uncle. And then, it stops and they collapse in an exhausted heap at our feet.
It's great fun to watch them. "Dog TV". We never grow tired of the reruns. And, they're all reruns.
This spot is "her" place. Here. At home. Where the heart is.
We all need that place. Doesn't have to be very big. Indeed, most of the places of the heart are not very fancy or opulent. It needs not be large at all. It simply needs to be big enough to hold your genuine hopes and dreams, your sincere longings and the deep desires of your heart.
This is that place for Ms. Conroy. Mine is directly across the room, past the table where we gather when the family is all together and share a meal, play board or card games, or talk long into the evening with a glass of wine or mug of steaming hot tea.
Sometimes, when it's quiet, we'll both look up from our places, aroused by the memory of laughter or conversation that sometimes floats above that table. And we share a deep, satisfied smile before we return to reading, or needlework or our laptops.
It will be good to have her here, full time.
Until then, she has a place of her own.
Waiting for her. Here. At home.
It sits, now, in Ms. Conroy's favorite spot in the sun room at Llangollen, our wee cottage which used to be our vacation/retreat place, which we are now making our year-round home on the marsh lands of Rehoboth Bay, part of the Delmarva Peninsula, in the 'first state' of Delaware.
Ms. Conroy's position as Clinical Director of an inpatient hospice unit in Northern New Jersey is not as "portable" as mine or some others. In a little over a year's time, she will transfer to a new inpatient hospice facility which is being planned just up the road a piece.
Until then, she'll stay in a small apartment with a friend in NJ. We'll commute as often as we can - she coming here two or three weekends a month and me going up to NJ for various commitments I still have to things diocesan and local.
We've done this before, this "commuting thing". It was 1991 when I took my first position in the great Diocese of Newark. It was only supposed to be "for a few months". She and our youngest daughter moved to NJ from Baltimore, MD in 1993. We've called NJ "home" ever since.
On September 1, Delaware will officially become our home. I've just put in a bottle of champagne to chill for the occasion. It's a bit like waiting for Christmas.
If "home is where the heart is" then this has really been our home all along. It's just taking some time to finally "arrive".
It seemed important to me to create a space - a place - for Ms. Conroy in her favorite spot in the house. It's in the South West corner. If she looks toward the West, she can see Indian River just past Long Neck Road where the sea bass have been especially plentiful this year, I understand.
If she looks toward the East, she can see Rehoboth Bay and the boats coming and going on their way to go fishing or crabbing or just the experience of the sheer joy of being on a boat in the water.
If she looks directly ahead, to the North, can see into the living room, the new office/library, and the front door - the place where our two dogs, Mr. Lenny and Ms. CoCo provide endless entertainment in what we've come to call "Dog TV".
Sometimes, for absolutely no discernible reason, Lenny and CoCo get what Ms. Conroy calls "puppy crazies". They chase each other round and round - from the living room to the window in the library/office and back again.
They run and run and run. Stop suddenly, panting. Then, they take off again. Until someone calls - or 'barks' - uncle. And then, it stops and they collapse in an exhausted heap at our feet.
It's great fun to watch them. "Dog TV". We never grow tired of the reruns. And, they're all reruns.
This spot is "her" place. Here. At home. Where the heart is.
We all need that place. Doesn't have to be very big. Indeed, most of the places of the heart are not very fancy or opulent. It needs not be large at all. It simply needs to be big enough to hold your genuine hopes and dreams, your sincere longings and the deep desires of your heart.
This is that place for Ms. Conroy. Mine is directly across the room, past the table where we gather when the family is all together and share a meal, play board or card games, or talk long into the evening with a glass of wine or mug of steaming hot tea.
Sometimes, when it's quiet, we'll both look up from our places, aroused by the memory of laughter or conversation that sometimes floats above that table. And we share a deep, satisfied smile before we return to reading, or needlework or our laptops.
It will be good to have her here, full time.
Until then, she has a place of her own.
Waiting for her. Here. At home.
Fish Dance Prayer
Have you ever been so tired - or your mind so full of stuff - that you couldn't sleep?
That's the way I was last night.
My body felt like lead. My eyelids were heavy. But my mind was in such a whir, I couldn't turn it off, causing my body to toss and turn around in my bed like the so much flour and butter, sugar and eggs in my KitchenAid mixer.
Finally, a little after midnight, I got up, made a steaming hot cup of tea, and sat out on the deck in the delightfully cool night air.
It had rained on and off most of the evening. Bursts of gentle, warm rain that were sometimes preceded by loud claps of thunder and a few streaks of lightening.
Mostly, though, it sounded gentle. Soothing. Like a shower of blessings come down from heaven.
The storms rolled past Rehoboth Bay, one by one. At one point, the Internet service was knocked out for about four hours. I found myself slightly annoyed to be inconvenienced, but then found a sort of satisfied delight that a gentle rain had the strength to take down the power of communication in cyberspace.
I imagined the cosmos playing "Rock. Paper. Scissors," with Cybernerds. "My rain stops your electric waves." Or, whatever it is that carries messages in cyberspace.
There was a Waxing Gibbous Moon high in the sky, more than half-lighted but less than full. The word gibbous comes from a root word that means hump-backed, the thought of which always makes me giggle.
I love the phrase, 'waxing gibbous moon'. I also love 'waning gibbous moon' - when the moon is past full but still fully lit.
Sounds like poetry, doesn't it?
No sense looking for The Summer Triangle — the stars Vega, Deneb, and Altair — which highlights the eastern half of the sky in August. Too many clouds tonight.
There will be a full moon tonight, which, in August is known as the Grain Moon or Green Corn Moon. It's also the smallest full moon (say my Islamic friends - who are observing Ramadan, so it's important to know) and it will be 15% less brighter than the regular full moon.
The full moon will become a waning gibbous moon for our daughter's wedding this Saturday night, which, she tells me, should happen at "around 7:30-ish, whenever the sun sets". No, she's not Jewish. Neither is the groom. That's just the way they are.
"We were married at sunset by the light of a waning gibbous moon." Sounds positively romantic, doesn't it?
Did I mention that there's a wedding this coming weekend? Why, yes. Yes, in fact, there is. Our youngest daughter is getting married in just a few days.
These were a few of the things whirring around in my rapidly addling brain - that and things like, "Should I put the wine glasses on that shelf or the one closer to the wine rack?" And, "Is that really the best place for the Christmas Lenox?"
I tried to take some slow, deep, meditative breaths, but something kept disturbing my concentration.
I wasn't out on the deck more than five minutes when I first heard it.
"Bloop. . . . . Bloop. . . . .SPLASH!"
Quiet.
I looked up and down the pier to see if I might see someone doing a little fishing, but there was no one in sight.
"Bloop. . . . . Bloop. . . . .SPLASH!"
Quiet.
Curious, I got up from my deck chair and went over to the rail, and was richly rewarded for my efforts by a magnificent sight.
The light of the waxing gibbous moon was dancing on the water when up popped a fish - probably a pike - maybe three, four inches long.
Before my throat could gasp in surprise, there popped up another. Then another.
It looked like a Summer Fish Dance out on the marsh, after midnight, in the cool, clean just-washed-by-the-rain air, and all by the light of a waxing gibbous moon.
As I watched them for awhile, I wondered what caused them to dance like that. Was it the light of the moon? The beautiful clean night air?
Perhaps they danced because it was now safe to do so - no birds flying about to pluck them out, mid-dance, from the water?
Was this their midnight prayer? Dancing in praise and joy and thanksgiving to the glory of the God of their creation?
Nah, probably just sea lice, all stirred up by the rain on the water. I'm told by some of the Bay men in the neighborhood that fish often jump to rid themselves of the bother and itch of them.
Still, it was a beautiful sight. I felt a bit like a voyeur, a very privileged spectator watching them in their unabashed display of whatever it was, just after midnight, distracting me from the myriad of mundane thoughts that had been whirring around in my head.
That's when I remembered something.
Entering into actual prayer while presiding at a Eucharistic Service can sometimes be an impossible task. There are so many details to which one has to attend. What are the acolytes doing? (The rule of the Adolescent Acolyte: "It's all fun until something goes wrong. And then, it's hysterical.")
Where is the lector for the second reading? So-and-so looks distressed - I wonder if s/he got downsized? Has her husband's condition gotten worse? Didn't she have some tests this week? Is the surgery this week or next? Make sure to connect with him . . her . . . them . . . after the service.
One must also be ever-mindful of one's 'audience'. I mean, my task is to lead the people of God in prayer. It's what a 'presider' does. That's difficult to do when one looks like one is distracted and not actually in prayer.
I remember Ms. Conroy saying to me once, years ago, "You know, we see you. You may be fooling yourself, but you're not fooling us. We see you counting us. Stop that. Let the ushers do it. You just lead us in prayer."
Sometimes, the only time I can really pray is during the hymns. I know many of them by heart. Yes, after 24 years of singing them, it's not hard. Sing a hymn that many times over the years and memorization is not a difficult task. It just happens.
The truth is that sometimes, when I'm on retreat, or when I'm going through spiritual dry spells, singing hymns is the only way I can pray.
Little bits of verses, memorized by heart, will float up through the cracks in my broken heart, soothing and surrounding my weary soul."Come my Joy, my Love, my Heart. . . such a joy as none can move. . . such a love that none can part. Such a heart as joys in love. "
"Seven whole days, not one in seven, I will praise thee. In my heart though not it heaven, I can raise thee. Small it is in this poor sort to enroll thee. E'en eternity's too short to extol thee."
"Perverse and foolish oft I strayed, but yet in love He sought me, and on His shoulder gently laid and home rejoicing brought me."
"Each newborn servant of the Crucified bears on the brow the seal of Him who died."
"Oh day of peace that dimly shines through all our hopes and prayers and dreams . . . Then shall the wolf dwell with the lamb, nor shall the fierce devour the small. As beasts and cattle calmly graze, a little child shall lead them all. . . ."
"And, when from death I'm free, I'll sing on, I'll sing on . . . . . And through eternity, I'll sing on . . ."There are many, many others, but those are among my favorites.
Sometimes, right there in the middle of the service, I'll close my eyes and sing the words that have inscribed themselves on the walls of my heart and come as close as I ever do to really praying in the midst of the very public practice of presiding.
Every now and again, I'll open my eyes and look out over the congregation. Ninety-nine percent of the congregation will have their noses buried in the Hymnal. Every now and again, some will lift their eyes from the page, tilt their heads toward heaven, close their eyes and, like me, sing from the words written on their hearts.
I always loved to see parents with children who were just beginning to read words and/or music singing together from the hymnal.
Some parents juggle a babe in one arm, holding the hymnal in the other, while trying to fish out a toddler from under the pews.
But there are always the same small handful of people, staring at me. The same ones who have been my sharpest critics. Every Sunday. Without fail.
There were some really mean-spirited people in some churches. Not many. Enough to make it really difficult. Predators. Like pike. With bland tasting white flesh. So filled with tiny, prickly bones that fishermen often throw them back into the water. Definitely not a good catch.
I remember one man who always looked at me with a sort of cynical bemusement. The expression on his face was always, "Hmm . . .Look at that. . . she seems to know all the words . . .nice trick."
One or two others were clearly disgusted, the expression on their faces clearing communicating their thoughts: "Harumph! Show off!"
But the other four or so were clearly curious, "What is she doing? Looks like she's . . . hmmm . . .what is that?. How odd! Father 'Whatshisface" never did THAT! Whatever IS she doing? Why is she doing that? How does she remember the words?"
At least, as I read their expressions every Sunday and heard their gossip, that's what I thought they might be thinking. A few of them in one church eventually stopped coming into church for the Service of the Word. They would hang out in the glass Narthex, having animated conversations. You know. So I could actually see they weren't paying attention. Popping in just for the announcements and for communion.
Maybe I confused them by actually praying in public.
Nah. Probably just thought I had a bad case of sea lice.
Besides, while most people in churches are wonderful, the few who make it difficult are also among those in the community who disdained of any PDAs = Public Displays of Affection. And prayer for me is often a sublime act of love. Ms. Conroy and I would be scrupulous to avoid PDAs in church. Don't want to scare the horses with even a hint of 'the ick-factor'.
Interestingly enough, I would find myself being embarrassed. Like I had been caught with all my clothes off in public. Public prayer - like preaching - is often times the most naked thing I do.
The term, "resident alien" comes to mind.
Never mind, I would tell myself. Lead by example. Show them what real prayer can be like. Maybe they'll actually try it sometime in the not-too-distant future.
"Bloop. . . . . Bloop. . . . .SPLASH!"
My wandering, whirring thoughts wound their way back into the beautiful night on my deck over looking the marshes off Rehoboth Bay.
Suddenly, it was I who felt embarrassed, watching their naked dance.
Just then, a cloud moved away from the moon and I felt its light bathe my face, melting my embarrassment and pulling at my feet. Suddenly, I found myself dancing with the fish by the light of the waxing gibbious moon.
I felt healed of some ancient, unknown wound. I felt release and freedom. I felt joy and peace.
I heard myself begin to sing one of my favorite hymns as prayer, "The peace of God, it is no peace, but strife clothed in the sod. Yet let us pray for but one thing, the marvelous peace of God."I finished my tea, came in the house, and slept, as they say in Ghana, "like a foolish man."
Prayer will do that for you.
That's the way I was last night.
My body felt like lead. My eyelids were heavy. But my mind was in such a whir, I couldn't turn it off, causing my body to toss and turn around in my bed like the so much flour and butter, sugar and eggs in my KitchenAid mixer.
Finally, a little after midnight, I got up, made a steaming hot cup of tea, and sat out on the deck in the delightfully cool night air.
It had rained on and off most of the evening. Bursts of gentle, warm rain that were sometimes preceded by loud claps of thunder and a few streaks of lightening.
Mostly, though, it sounded gentle. Soothing. Like a shower of blessings come down from heaven.
The storms rolled past Rehoboth Bay, one by one. At one point, the Internet service was knocked out for about four hours. I found myself slightly annoyed to be inconvenienced, but then found a sort of satisfied delight that a gentle rain had the strength to take down the power of communication in cyberspace.
I imagined the cosmos playing "Rock. Paper. Scissors," with Cybernerds. "My rain stops your electric waves." Or, whatever it is that carries messages in cyberspace.
There was a Waxing Gibbous Moon high in the sky, more than half-lighted but less than full. The word gibbous comes from a root word that means hump-backed, the thought of which always makes me giggle.
I love the phrase, 'waxing gibbous moon'. I also love 'waning gibbous moon' - when the moon is past full but still fully lit.
Sounds like poetry, doesn't it?
No sense looking for The Summer Triangle — the stars Vega, Deneb, and Altair — which highlights the eastern half of the sky in August. Too many clouds tonight.
There will be a full moon tonight, which, in August is known as the Grain Moon or Green Corn Moon. It's also the smallest full moon (say my Islamic friends - who are observing Ramadan, so it's important to know) and it will be 15% less brighter than the regular full moon.
The full moon will become a waning gibbous moon for our daughter's wedding this Saturday night, which, she tells me, should happen at "around 7:30-ish, whenever the sun sets". No, she's not Jewish. Neither is the groom. That's just the way they are.
"We were married at sunset by the light of a waning gibbous moon." Sounds positively romantic, doesn't it?
Did I mention that there's a wedding this coming weekend? Why, yes. Yes, in fact, there is. Our youngest daughter is getting married in just a few days.
These were a few of the things whirring around in my rapidly addling brain - that and things like, "Should I put the wine glasses on that shelf or the one closer to the wine rack?" And, "Is that really the best place for the Christmas Lenox?"
I tried to take some slow, deep, meditative breaths, but something kept disturbing my concentration.
I wasn't out on the deck more than five minutes when I first heard it.
"Bloop. . . . . Bloop. . . . .SPLASH!"
Quiet.
I looked up and down the pier to see if I might see someone doing a little fishing, but there was no one in sight.
"Bloop. . . . . Bloop. . . . .SPLASH!"
Quiet.
Curious, I got up from my deck chair and went over to the rail, and was richly rewarded for my efforts by a magnificent sight.
The light of the waxing gibbous moon was dancing on the water when up popped a fish - probably a pike - maybe three, four inches long.
Before my throat could gasp in surprise, there popped up another. Then another.
It looked like a Summer Fish Dance out on the marsh, after midnight, in the cool, clean just-washed-by-the-rain air, and all by the light of a waxing gibbous moon.
As I watched them for awhile, I wondered what caused them to dance like that. Was it the light of the moon? The beautiful clean night air?
Perhaps they danced because it was now safe to do so - no birds flying about to pluck them out, mid-dance, from the water?
Was this their midnight prayer? Dancing in praise and joy and thanksgiving to the glory of the God of their creation?
Nah, probably just sea lice, all stirred up by the rain on the water. I'm told by some of the Bay men in the neighborhood that fish often jump to rid themselves of the bother and itch of them.
Still, it was a beautiful sight. I felt a bit like a voyeur, a very privileged spectator watching them in their unabashed display of whatever it was, just after midnight, distracting me from the myriad of mundane thoughts that had been whirring around in my head.
That's when I remembered something.
Entering into actual prayer while presiding at a Eucharistic Service can sometimes be an impossible task. There are so many details to which one has to attend. What are the acolytes doing? (The rule of the Adolescent Acolyte: "It's all fun until something goes wrong. And then, it's hysterical.")
Where is the lector for the second reading? So-and-so looks distressed - I wonder if s/he got downsized? Has her husband's condition gotten worse? Didn't she have some tests this week? Is the surgery this week or next? Make sure to connect with him . . her . . . them . . . after the service.
One must also be ever-mindful of one's 'audience'. I mean, my task is to lead the people of God in prayer. It's what a 'presider' does. That's difficult to do when one looks like one is distracted and not actually in prayer.
I remember Ms. Conroy saying to me once, years ago, "You know, we see you. You may be fooling yourself, but you're not fooling us. We see you counting us. Stop that. Let the ushers do it. You just lead us in prayer."
Sometimes, the only time I can really pray is during the hymns. I know many of them by heart. Yes, after 24 years of singing them, it's not hard. Sing a hymn that many times over the years and memorization is not a difficult task. It just happens.
The truth is that sometimes, when I'm on retreat, or when I'm going through spiritual dry spells, singing hymns is the only way I can pray.
Little bits of verses, memorized by heart, will float up through the cracks in my broken heart, soothing and surrounding my weary soul."Come my Joy, my Love, my Heart. . . such a joy as none can move. . . such a love that none can part. Such a heart as joys in love. "
"Seven whole days, not one in seven, I will praise thee. In my heart though not it heaven, I can raise thee. Small it is in this poor sort to enroll thee. E'en eternity's too short to extol thee."
"Perverse and foolish oft I strayed, but yet in love He sought me, and on His shoulder gently laid and home rejoicing brought me."
"Each newborn servant of the Crucified bears on the brow the seal of Him who died."
"Oh day of peace that dimly shines through all our hopes and prayers and dreams . . . Then shall the wolf dwell with the lamb, nor shall the fierce devour the small. As beasts and cattle calmly graze, a little child shall lead them all. . . ."
"And, when from death I'm free, I'll sing on, I'll sing on . . . . . And through eternity, I'll sing on . . ."There are many, many others, but those are among my favorites.
Sometimes, right there in the middle of the service, I'll close my eyes and sing the words that have inscribed themselves on the walls of my heart and come as close as I ever do to really praying in the midst of the very public practice of presiding.
Every now and again, I'll open my eyes and look out over the congregation. Ninety-nine percent of the congregation will have their noses buried in the Hymnal. Every now and again, some will lift their eyes from the page, tilt their heads toward heaven, close their eyes and, like me, sing from the words written on their hearts.
I always loved to see parents with children who were just beginning to read words and/or music singing together from the hymnal.
Some parents juggle a babe in one arm, holding the hymnal in the other, while trying to fish out a toddler from under the pews.
But there are always the same small handful of people, staring at me. The same ones who have been my sharpest critics. Every Sunday. Without fail.
There were some really mean-spirited people in some churches. Not many. Enough to make it really difficult. Predators. Like pike. With bland tasting white flesh. So filled with tiny, prickly bones that fishermen often throw them back into the water. Definitely not a good catch.
I remember one man who always looked at me with a sort of cynical bemusement. The expression on his face was always, "Hmm . . .Look at that. . . she seems to know all the words . . .nice trick."
One or two others were clearly disgusted, the expression on their faces clearing communicating their thoughts: "Harumph! Show off!"
But the other four or so were clearly curious, "What is she doing? Looks like she's . . . hmmm . . .what is that?. How odd! Father 'Whatshisface" never did THAT! Whatever IS she doing? Why is she doing that? How does she remember the words?"
At least, as I read their expressions every Sunday and heard their gossip, that's what I thought they might be thinking. A few of them in one church eventually stopped coming into church for the Service of the Word. They would hang out in the glass Narthex, having animated conversations. You know. So I could actually see they weren't paying attention. Popping in just for the announcements and for communion.
Maybe I confused them by actually praying in public.
Nah. Probably just thought I had a bad case of sea lice.
Besides, while most people in churches are wonderful, the few who make it difficult are also among those in the community who disdained of any PDAs = Public Displays of Affection. And prayer for me is often a sublime act of love. Ms. Conroy and I would be scrupulous to avoid PDAs in church. Don't want to scare the horses with even a hint of 'the ick-factor'.
Interestingly enough, I would find myself being embarrassed. Like I had been caught with all my clothes off in public. Public prayer - like preaching - is often times the most naked thing I do.
The term, "resident alien" comes to mind.
Never mind, I would tell myself. Lead by example. Show them what real prayer can be like. Maybe they'll actually try it sometime in the not-too-distant future.
"Bloop. . . . . Bloop. . . . .SPLASH!"
My wandering, whirring thoughts wound their way back into the beautiful night on my deck over looking the marshes off Rehoboth Bay.
Suddenly, it was I who felt embarrassed, watching their naked dance.
Just then, a cloud moved away from the moon and I felt its light bathe my face, melting my embarrassment and pulling at my feet. Suddenly, I found myself dancing with the fish by the light of the waxing gibbious moon.
I felt healed of some ancient, unknown wound. I felt release and freedom. I felt joy and peace.
I heard myself begin to sing one of my favorite hymns as prayer, "The peace of God, it is no peace, but strife clothed in the sod. Yet let us pray for but one thing, the marvelous peace of God."I finished my tea, came in the house, and slept, as they say in Ghana, "like a foolish man."
Prayer will do that for you.
Almost home.
Slowly, slowly, it's coming together.
Home.
We've been gradually converting this wee vacation/retreat cottage we call Llangollen into a year-round home.
Phase I was completed this weekend. We moved all of our "stuff" here. Well, most of it. Those things about which we haven't yet decided - or what will be in the way during renovation - we put in storage on Saturday.
Renovation is Phase II, which will begin in a few weeks. All new insulation, siding, windows, doors, a new sun room and deck.
More on that. Later.
What you see above is the former dining room which has been converted into a library/office. My beautiful antique desk is off to the left. The bookcases will eventually be replaced with an entire wall unit (During Phase III next year. Phase IV is the yard, car port and outside shower - next summer).
That's Ms. Manning's rocking chair in the middle of the picture. She gave it to me just before she died in 2000, and I've had it in my office ever since. She was an amazing woman. Truly.
I'll tell you that story. Later.
That table is the one our daughter and future son-in-law made for us last Christmas. The top is a mosaic tile of a Celtic tree. I'm delighted to finally have a place for it where it can be used and seen.
Oh, did I mention that the wedding is this Saturday? The 28th?
I'll be telling you that story. Later. Count on it.
I confess to being very proud of that ficus tree you see up against the window. It was a gift to our youngest daughter when it was just 'this big'. That was about five, six years ago.
I can't believe we actually fit it in the back of the U-Haul Truck. That it made the trip here unharmed. That it actually seems to Really Like the light in that window. I'll be watching it very carefully over the next few weeks.
I have another plant - an Elephant Ear (at least, I think that's what it is) - which I've put in the corner in the sun room. It was a gift six years ago. It almost died once, but I nursed it back to health. I'm afraid I'm going to have to move it, but right now, it's the only place I've got where it fits. I've drawn the shade so it doesn't get direct sunlight.
I sure wouldn't mind if anyone has any experience in moving plants and would like to share any helpful hints or 'tips' for longevity. I'm really rather fond of these plants - especially this ficus tree. She's a beauty, isn't she? The real miracle is that they are alive and thriving.
Because, you see, I really don't know what I'm doing. They are thriving despite my ignorance and stupidity.
It's a real miracle.
This is the breakfast nook that's part of the kitchen. That window overlooks the water. There, near the window, are my two Christmas cactus. Got them about five years ago when they were only 'that big'. They are Very Happy with the sunlight in the kitchen. (The door to the left goes out to the laundry room which leads out to pier.)
Our dear friend Bill (who worked like a dog to help us move - on both ends of the trip) took down the old table (which was attached to the wall) and then moved the dining room table and put it in the kitchen. (Thanks so much, Bill!) We have a Huge Table out on the sun porch which comfortably seats eight to ten. This little nook is a lovely option when it's just me and/or Ms. Conroy.
Now this, THIS is my favorite place in the whole house. It's where I say my morning prayers. Drink my morning coffee. Do most of my writing. Out on the sun porch. Facing the water. Where it's so peaceful it sometimes takes my breath away.
Tonight, I got all the bins of clothes emptied and put in the bureau or hung in the closet. I've still got some summer shoes, cosmetics, my TV with VCR/DVD to bring here. The coffee pot. Some odds and ends. We've still got to clean up the rectory. Polish the floors. Wash the carpets. Like that.
That's a Very Boring story I don't want to tell and you don't need to hear.
That place is rapidly becoming part of the past.
This is rapidly becoming home.
Home.
We've been gradually converting this wee vacation/retreat cottage we call Llangollen into a year-round home.
Phase I was completed this weekend. We moved all of our "stuff" here. Well, most of it. Those things about which we haven't yet decided - or what will be in the way during renovation - we put in storage on Saturday.
Renovation is Phase II, which will begin in a few weeks. All new insulation, siding, windows, doors, a new sun room and deck.
More on that. Later.
What you see above is the former dining room which has been converted into a library/office. My beautiful antique desk is off to the left. The bookcases will eventually be replaced with an entire wall unit (During Phase III next year. Phase IV is the yard, car port and outside shower - next summer).
That's Ms. Manning's rocking chair in the middle of the picture. She gave it to me just before she died in 2000, and I've had it in my office ever since. She was an amazing woman. Truly.
I'll tell you that story. Later.
That table is the one our daughter and future son-in-law made for us last Christmas. The top is a mosaic tile of a Celtic tree. I'm delighted to finally have a place for it where it can be used and seen.
Oh, did I mention that the wedding is this Saturday? The 28th?
I'll be telling you that story. Later. Count on it.
I confess to being very proud of that ficus tree you see up against the window. It was a gift to our youngest daughter when it was just 'this big'. That was about five, six years ago.
I can't believe we actually fit it in the back of the U-Haul Truck. That it made the trip here unharmed. That it actually seems to Really Like the light in that window. I'll be watching it very carefully over the next few weeks.
I have another plant - an Elephant Ear (at least, I think that's what it is) - which I've put in the corner in the sun room. It was a gift six years ago. It almost died once, but I nursed it back to health. I'm afraid I'm going to have to move it, but right now, it's the only place I've got where it fits. I've drawn the shade so it doesn't get direct sunlight.
I sure wouldn't mind if anyone has any experience in moving plants and would like to share any helpful hints or 'tips' for longevity. I'm really rather fond of these plants - especially this ficus tree. She's a beauty, isn't she? The real miracle is that they are alive and thriving.
Because, you see, I really don't know what I'm doing. They are thriving despite my ignorance and stupidity.
It's a real miracle.
This is the breakfast nook that's part of the kitchen. That window overlooks the water. There, near the window, are my two Christmas cactus. Got them about five years ago when they were only 'that big'. They are Very Happy with the sunlight in the kitchen. (The door to the left goes out to the laundry room which leads out to pier.)
Our dear friend Bill (who worked like a dog to help us move - on both ends of the trip) took down the old table (which was attached to the wall) and then moved the dining room table and put it in the kitchen. (Thanks so much, Bill!) We have a Huge Table out on the sun porch which comfortably seats eight to ten. This little nook is a lovely option when it's just me and/or Ms. Conroy.
Now this, THIS is my favorite place in the whole house. It's where I say my morning prayers. Drink my morning coffee. Do most of my writing. Out on the sun porch. Facing the water. Where it's so peaceful it sometimes takes my breath away.
Tonight, I got all the bins of clothes emptied and put in the bureau or hung in the closet. I've still got some summer shoes, cosmetics, my TV with VCR/DVD to bring here. The coffee pot. Some odds and ends. We've still got to clean up the rectory. Polish the floors. Wash the carpets. Like that.
That's a Very Boring story I don't want to tell and you don't need to hear.
That place is rapidly becoming part of the past.
This is rapidly becoming home.
Strange Awakenings: A Call to Faithful Vocation
by Mihee Kim-Kort
Moments of irony hit me hard…I think it’s because I subconsciously hold up my worldview like a blanket wrapped around me, these expectations and preconceived notions woven together tightly in my brain, so when something outside of my usual assumptions happens to me, it knocks me out cold and stays with me for awhile.
I grew up in a traditional Presbyterian home…culturally Korean on the inside, culturally attempting-to-be-American (whatever that means) on the outside. But, no doubt there was an undeniable hierarchy in the house, as well as at our church home. My father was the bread-winner, and my mother the homemaker, while at the church, only men were the elders, the leaders of the church, and certainly the pastor and any visiting preacher during the yearly weekend revivals. The women were always deacons, literally servants of compassion and hospitality for the church, which essentially meant they rotated bringing food, washing dishes, and cleaning the kitchen every Sunday after the fellowship lunch, and heading up the church bazaar fundraisers. This was my world, and I never gave it any thought until my dad attended seminary while I was beginning my undergraduate studies.
At the same time, as I reflect back, I remember there were moments it wasn’t so black-and-white, and there were little moments of contradiction that I brushed off, but kept on the back burner. Our Korean faith community adhered to a very “Biblical” understanding of males and females and their specific roles. The Presbyterian “system” of community seemed to naturally fit the Confucianist philosophy of these same roles. However, there were some subtle inconsistencies.
My mother, solely responsible for taking care of the home, also managed a few stores; that is, businesses that my parents attempted to start up in various parts of the city during various parts of my childhood. Over and over again they would tell me their dreams for me were to enter into some kind of successful, public profession (medicine, law, education), but very little mention of marriage, family, and a home life. At one point I went to a church service where a woman preached that Sunday morning, and I was shocked, but simultaneously repelled and enthralled by it.
Perhaps these moments caused the little rips and tears that would make my entire blanketing worldview almost completely unravel at the seams during one pivotal conversation with my Father.
When I started my undergraduate studies, I had planned on going pre-med (I know, so stereotypical of Asian Americans, though a number of my Asian American friends are actually in medicine). But I fell in love with the humanities courses I was taking, particularly in the religion, English, history and philosophy departments. I was also involved in various ministries to high school and college students, and felt a tug towards church and ministry. But I would never have considered it in a million years until that one conversation with my father in the middle of my freshman year. He was attending Princeton Seminary at the time and enjoying the classes and community with numerous women who were studying to also become…pastors. “Pastors??? But the Bible says that women are supposed to submit to men…and church leaders are just supposed to be only men; I can’t imagine a woman being able to do it!!!” I argued with him over the phone, citing Pauline scripture, passage after passage, and evidence from our own faith community. We went back and forth.
And there’s the irony.
My father, the symbol of Asian patriarchy, was trying to persuade me, a woman (but a young girl at the time), that women could and should do much more in the church. My father argued for an egalitarian view on the role of men and women in the church, especially in the Korean church. He told me stories of how women had been leaders of the church for a long time, and many were elders in the Presbyterian church, and also becoming pastors all around him…and he admired and respected them, in fact, supported them. He reminded me that the first people to preach the gospel after Jesus’ resurrection were women, and that the early church would not have survived without the faithful leadership of women. Even though it was a little over the top for him at times, he was even taking a class on feminist/womanist theologies…the same class that would impact me deeply some years later during my own seminary coursework.
“And, you can be a leader, too, an elder, a pastor, anything you believe God is calling you to be in your own life…” he said to me, citing the parable of the ten talents.
That one conversation, and my Dad’s support, stayed with me throughout my entire call process until today. I will never forget the look on my parents’ faces at my ordination service, when during the charge to the minister, I saw tears of joy streaming down their faces – I had never seen my father cry before that moment.
I know it seems a little cliché, a little after-school special, like too “you can be anything you want to be.” But for me, moments like the conversation with my Dad or seeing my parents cry at my ordination were truly radical. They turned everything upside down, in a frightening, but truly redemptive way…one of the first few tastes of grace for me. The whole universe opened up for me through those moments.
I can’t help but remember the words to a Christian song called Add to the Beauty by Sara Groves: Redemption comes in strange places, small spaces calling out the best of who we are…I look back and see that was certainly the case here. While I was left with bits and pieces of yarn, string, remnants of my blanketing worldview… a shroud I had hung onto for so long… I realized that these pieces were an invitation to create and make something new. I was given the ability, power, and freedom to do and be something more… This is grace, an invitation to be beautiful…This is grace, an invitation…So here I am on the other side thankful for that one moment, and all the small invitations and inspirations in this journey that have helped me become more of me, a more faithful me, encouraging me to respond to God’s call courageously, and most of all, to share it…And I want to add to the beauty…to tell a better story…
Mihee Kim-Kort is an associate pastor at a Presbyterian church for youth and children in Pennsylvania. Previously, she worked at churches in Flanders, Palisades Park, and Somerset, NJ as well as a volunteer in various para-church youth ministries during her undergraduate studies in Colorado. She enjoys the outdoors, books, farmers’ markets, and journeying with young people. She blogs at www.miheekimkort.com.
Women and Men As Corn: Campesino Gathering in Nicaragua
by Natanael Disla
In October of 2008, I was sent to Nicaragua by the Dominican Republic Baptist Seminary (where I study) to participate in a campesino gathering organized by the Latin American and Caribbean Community of Ecumenical Theological Education (CETELA). The purpose of these campesino gatherings is to visit environmental projects and take the principles back home.
Corn is the main ingredient of the Mesoamerican diet. It is said that women and men came from corn seeds, growing straight out of the earth. Therefore, it is important to take care of the soil that produces corn, wheat, and other components of the daily diet.
The first part of our trip, we went to Loma de Viento, a community in the hills of Nicaragua where they have an eco-friendly community-operated hotel. There is no electricity, but they have managed to build a solar power system. Tourists come there to explore the hills and swim in the Acayo River. Agriculture there is sustained by the farmers and community. Hotel bookings supply funds required to buy seed and instruments to work the land. Turtles and iguanas are also raised there to maintain a proper balance of fauna.
The project has been very successful, and more and more communities have requested workshops to learn the principles behind Loma de Viento. They hope to repeat the same experience from Loma de Viento and promote a sustainable lifestyle in a rural context without electricity.
Ten water springs have been found again that were buried by deforestation and soil mismanagement, restoring hope and water supplies for the forty families that live there. The community planted trees around the river basins in order to protect the springs from further contamination. “Discovering these water springs again brings new life to this community. We never imagined that this could happen again,” said Jáenz Marcial Umaña, the manager of the community rural project.
Churches have been an important part of this new life. After beginning to work on restoring the land, the Loma de Viento community partnered with the Inter-Church Center for Social and Theological Studies in Managua. The center came with their Agro-Ecological Formation and Community Development Program to train some of the farmers in agro-ecological techniques. These farmers then served as catalysts for engaging the entire community in this process of change. Since then, they have become a successful communitarian tourism project.
But in most parts of Nicaragua, things have not been like in Loma de Viento. Rampant deforestation and limited knowledge of soil cultivation have led farmers to grow crops unsuitable for these types of soil, causing resource waste and poverty among families. Land contamination is a big issue in Nicaragua. Many farmers and their families suffer from diseases caused by improper use of pesticides. Many initiatives have been formed to help the farmers to discontinue pesticide use, but many parts of the land are still contaminated, causing thousands of people to suffer from indirect exposure for the rest of their lives. Every three days a person in Nicaragua dies from Nemagon, a dangerous pesticide, one of the so-called “dirty dozen,” the twelve most hazardous pesticide products in the world.
There is a great need to rediscover ancient wisdom on the use of land and soil. Technology has permeated rural techniques and management of nature resources and become a way to gain money for a few rather than a resource for the common good, which should demand all respect from us. When ancient Mayan people needed to work the land, they lifted up prayers to Mother Earth, asking for forgiveness: for them, to respect the environment was at the core of social organization.
When the last river has been drowned…
When the last tree has been cut down…
When there were no fishes to eat…
Then you will realize that even money can’t feed. (indigenous quote)
During the gathering, fellow theologians from across Latin America talked about the challenges their communities are facing.
– Claudia Tron from Argentina presented a paper about the work the Waldensian Church of Argentina is doing with farmers in the Entre Ríos province.
– Álvaro Pérez from Guatemala talked about the colonial mindset that continues today in the paradigms of rural people that sometimes makes their claims go unheard by the oligarchic government.
– I talked about the Dominican utopia of the areíto and batey as new words of encounter with a new imagination, and the work theological institutions are doing with impoverished Dominican-Haitian communities in rural areas.
– Roberto Zwetsch from Brazil talked about how through the years CETELA has worked to encourage Latin American theological institutions to include environment care-related courses in their educational programs.
– One of the most beautiful moments of the gathering was when Brazilian pastor and poet Louraini Christmann read some of her poems that were inspired by the work she is doing with farmer women groups.
There is a great need today for people who love the land and its people to engage and incarnate initiatives that can bring change where change is most needed. There is a need of more people who were willing to promote communitarian life where everyone cares for everyone, where creation is respected like another human being; where the earth, animals, and trees dance with people in a dance that never ends. Another world is possible if we care for Mother Earth, ask her forgiveness, and ask her, as our sister—Madre Tierra, Pachamama—to bind us together in this dance called life.
This article was originally posted at Mustard Seed Associates website here.
Natanael Disla holds a Licenciate in Business Administration from the Pedro Henríquez Ureña National University and is studying for the Bachelor in Theological Sciences in the Baptist Seminary of Dominican Republic. He is a member of the Latin American Theological Fraternity (LATF) and Coordinator of the Dominican Republic LATF cohort. Natanael ives in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic.
Reflections on God, Nine Months After Cara's Birth and Death [11]
By Laryn Kragt Bakker
To say that our world has been altered since our daughter Caritas died nine months ago would be an understatement. I see that in physical details like our two-year old continuing to reenact with dolls a baby in her tummy who is “so sick” and ends up dying, but also in my daily thoughts and feelings and in the way I view God and the world around us.
In a strange way, I ended up with more questions but my faith feels stronger on a fundamental level. A friend of mine coined the phrase “faith-infused agnostic” and that term has grown on me. It reminds me of Meister Eckhart’s famous prayer that God would rid him of God. Our perceptions of God are always incomplete, and trying to force God into terms we can understand can become a form of idolatry. (1) It seems that humility dictates that we acknowledge our own fallibility and finitude with respect to a God that cannot be contained by any concept within our grasp.
At the same time, I can’t help but continue to wrestle with the events of my life, the kind of world we live in, and God’s role in both. Many of the issues I find myself mulling are not unique to me – most of them have been asked since ancient times and none of them have definitive answers. Knowing this reminds me that I shouldn’t be surprised that I haven’t solved life’s most profound mysteries, and I suspect that my thoughts may continue to change over time.
The world in which we live
Before tragedy struck home, many of these issues were intellectual problems that I could consider and then set aside again without answers. They’ve become much more visceral and harder to ignore. I find myself feeling other tragedies in a deeper way, and theodicy has become very personal.
The boundaries of involvement in the cosmos for a God who values free will are hard to draw or imagine. This is part of a standard defense of God. How can we blame God when we’re the ones who commit so much violence and make such poor choices regarding those around us? There’s truth to that line of thought. But violence and pain are built into this world in such a deep way that the age-old questions rise again: exactly how is God working in the midst of all of this, and how did a world like this come to be?
Earthquakes, floods and other so-called “acts of God”. Sickness, disease, death. Survival of the fittest in the natural world. Where is God? Granted, the free-will debate leaches into even these as we, by our choices, wreak havoc on the climate, pollute air and earth and water, or perpetuate poverty and unjust social conditions which can exacerbate many of these “natural” problems.
I think many Christians would agree that the cosmos is broken, that it is not now as it is intended to be. The fact that all of creation is groaning with us for the day when all things will be renewed does not make it any easier to live surrounded by brokenness. I’m not privy to the hows and whys of the rupture in creation. And while I find theorizing about it to be an interesting side project (2), I am more interested in how God is working in the midst of it.
God’s way of working in the world
As I have thought about this over the last months, I’ve had to deal with some common ideas that come up repeatedly in conversations and the media. Much of my processing has been in relation to these phrases and to the underlying assumptions behind them. I’ll jot some of them below, followed by some questions that are raised in my mind by these concepts.
“God is all powerful” followed closely by “God is all loving”
It’s difficult to square these two affirmations, taken at face value. If you are all powerful but don’t intervene when someone you love is being abused, are you all loving? And if God does intervene, why in some cases and not others? Selective intervention seems capricious. The traditional line seems to say “God has all the power but is not responsible for how God uses it.” To say “you need to take the long view” resonates on a certain level but also smacks of “pie in the sky when you die” and a devaluing of the here-and-now, which it seems to me God cares about very much.
“God is in control” and “God must have had a reason for doing this” and we have to trust “God’s will” and it must be part of “God’s plan for your life”
Is God really a control freak? I wrote in our reflections during the days following Cara’s death that it didn’t seem to me that God “was sacrificing pawns in a cosmic chess game that was going perfectly according to plan.” Instrumentalizing an innocent person does not fit into my (admittedly incomplete) concept of God. This raises the question of whether God always gets God’s way. It seems to me that the answer is no.
I am even less comfortable than before with language like “God told me” or even “God has really blessed me”
Speaking with certainty about what God is doing seems naïve (3), and the language of God’s blessing can unintentionally suggest that if God didn’t do the same for you, God has instead singled you out for cursing or for the withholding of blessings, giving you stones when you asked for bread.
These types of clichés leave me with a bad taste in my mouth, but they seem to have wide circulation. Many folks hold these beliefs sincerely but sometimes it seems people haven’t really thought about what they are saying. I’ve been trying to find another way of thinking about this that makes sense to me, and have identified a few concepts that have been somewhat helpful.
God suffers with us
This was the strong sense we had during our experience with Cara and it still rings true. Rather than a God who is without emotion, detached from our existence, I sensed a God who is intimately involved with us and who suffers with us.
There are various types of power and control, and God works in surprising ways
God’s power in our world seems to be primarily through weakness — an unpredictable, slow-moving, “underneath” power that turns traditional power against itself, gently pushing tendrils of life up in the midst of death, as opposed to an external force exerting itself to bend everything to fit into an intractable plan (4). Rather than dictating specific actions or events, God’s power is nourishing and sustaining life from below; allowing, inviting, and encouraging good to result from the things that happen despite themselves (and despite the fact that they may not be a part of “God’s will”).
I don’t say that it’s easy or even possible to imagine what God is up to, but these metaphors provide me with the hope that God’s work in the world continues, and that the act of believing in redemption despite the evidence of this moment can be a radical protest against the darkness.
I was talking to one of my brothers recently and he mentioned the concepts of “right-handed power” and “left-handed power”, which were explored in a book he is reading by Robert Farrar Capon. Capon describes right-handed power as the kind of power we expect, the kind of power we think of as the very definition of power, forcing itself in some way into a bad situation to straighten it out by might. Left-handed power, on the other hand, is “power that looks for all the world like weakness, intervention that seems indistinguishable from nonintervention.” (5) Weakness and nonintervention describes quite well my experience of God in the midst of Cara’s life and death.
I am reminded that Jesus’ disciples were expecting their Messiah to swoop in, gather an army and usher in a new kingdom by the sword. But Jesus’ method of overthrowing empire involved the empire having its way with him, torturing him, killing him. I find myself frustrated that God hasn’t swooped in and set things right, or surprised that the brokenness is allowed to have its way with us, forgetting that this radical vulnerability and weakness is exactly the kind of power Jesus exhibits. Not only do we worship a God we can beat up, we worship a God we do beat up and one who allows us to get beat up, too.
Conclusion: Ubi caritas
While it makes sense in a certain way that God would use “left-handed power” in situations in which people are making decisions, it is harder to swallow in situations in which human decisions don’t seem to be at play. Why no right-handed power to protect innocent lives in the midst of earthquakes and lightning strikes? Would it be so bad to impose some force to protect children from cancer and disease and random accidents? But as near as I can tell, God’s power consistently shows up as weakness, whether humans appear to be the root cause of the problem or not. We’re planted here among the tares, the cancers, the diseases that were sown among us by an enemy, and apparently we’re too enmeshed with each other to come apart cleanly. Somehow pulling them up would uproot us as well.
I don’t claim that the “answers” I have been pondering are fully satisfying, and much remains outside of my grasp. But I do know that my experience has stripped a lot of periphery from the way I see the world, and given me a new appreciation for the mystery of God and of God’s way of working in the world. With so many unknowns and unanswerables, I can only throw myself and the world on God’s mercy and let the chips fall as they may. In the meantime, I will continue trying to live into the coming kingdom knowing I’m going to continue to fail. It isn’t easy trying to live as though God’s kingdom is here now when it is so clearly is not.
I think Janel and I each felt betrayed and abandoned by God in many ways, but we still loved Cara deeply, which was an indicator to me that God was still profoundly present. That tension between God’s presence and God’s absence continues for me, but the phrase that Cara’s name was taken from (and which I’ve since had tattooed on my arm) has become a mantra of sorts: Ubi Caritas, Deus Ibi Est.
Where love exists, God is present. It seems a strange learning to take from a tragedy and the heartbreaking loss of a daughter, but for all the questions that have been raised in me, the one thing I am more confident of than ever is that love is the core of our calling. If we want to participate in whatever the hell God is up to, love has to be our guide. Or, to put it another way, if it doesn’t involve love, religion is worthless.
References1“The only significant difference between the aesthetic idol and the conceptual idol lies in the fact that the former reduces God to a physical object while the latter reduces God to an intellectual object.” (Peter Rollins, How (not) to speak of God, p. 12)
2 Examples of theories to this effect include:
The fall into sin caused a rupture within creation and now God is trying to restore us and all things.
Evolution is cosmic warfare; there is a battle going on in creation itself. (Greg Boyd has explored this idea.)
God had to “pull back” God’s self to allow room for creation, causing a rift, which God now seeks to heal.
God’s creation was more of an organization of chaos rather than a creation ‘ex nihilo.’ (e.g. See John Caputo’s recent short piece in Tikkun: “God is not a warranty for a well-run world, but the name of a promise, an unkept promise, where every promise is also a risk, a flicker of hope on a suffering planet.”)
3 Quoting Frederick Buechner, Philip Yancey writes,“Some [evangelical Christians], he told me, reminded him of American tourists in Europe who, not knowing the language of their listeners, simply raise their voices. Such Christians spoke confidently about matters Buechner thought veiled in mystery, and their certitude both fascinated and alarmed him. ‘I was astonished to hear students shift casually from small talk about the weather and movies to a discussion of what God was doing in their lives. They spoke of ‘prayer diaries’ and used phrases like ‘God told me…’ If anybody said anything like that in my part of the world, the ceiling would fall in, the house would catch fire, and people’s eyes would roll up in their heads.’” (Soul Survivor, p.251)
4 Peter Rollins describes something similar when he claims that ”...the message of Jesus introduces us to a different way of approaching God—not as a violent power imposed from above, but rather as a powerless presence entering our world from below. This powerless God still instigates a revolution against the powers of this world. However, this revolution is not won through brute strength, but through weakness.” (Orthodox Heretic, p. 141)
5 Capon continues, “More than that, it is guaranteed to stop no determined evildoers whatsoever. It might, of course, touch and soften their hearts. But then again, it might not. It certainly didn’t for Jesus; and if you decide to use it, you should be quite clear that it probably won’t for you either.” (Kingdom, Grace, Judgment: Paradox, Outrage and Vindication in the Parables, pg. 19)
(This article was originally featured at Laryn’s blog here)
Laryn Kragt Bakker is a graphic designer and author currently living in Atlanta with his wife and daughter.
Reflections on God, Nine Months After Cara's Birth and Death [11]
By Laryn Kragt Bakker
To say that our world has been altered since our daughter Caritas died nine months ago would be an understatement. I see that in physical details like our two-year old continuing to reenact with dolls a baby in her tummy who is “so sick” and ends up dying, but also in my daily thoughts and feelings and in the way I view God and the world around us.
In a strange way, I ended up with more questions but my faith feels stronger on a fundamental level. A friend of mine coined the phrase “faith-infused agnostic” and that term has grown on me. It reminds me of Meister Eckhart’s famous prayer that God would rid him of God. Our perceptions of God are always incomplete, and trying to force God into terms we can understand can become a form of idolatry. (1) It seems that humility dictates that we acknowledge our own fallibility and finitude with respect to a God that cannot be contained by any concept within our grasp.
At the same time, I can’t help but continue to wrestle with the events of my life, the kind of world we live in, and God’s role in both. Many of the issues I find myself mulling are not unique to me – most of them have been asked since ancient times and none of them have definitive answers. Knowing this reminds me that I shouldn’t be surprised that I haven’t solved life’s most profound mysteries, and I suspect that my thoughts may continue to change over time.
The world in which we live
Before tragedy struck home, many of these issues were intellectual problems that I could consider and then set aside again without answers. They’ve become much more visceral and harder to ignore. I find myself feeling other tragedies in a deeper way, and theodicy has become very personal.
The boundaries of involvement in the cosmos for a God who values free will are hard to draw or imagine. This is part of a standard defense of God. How can we blame God when we’re the ones who commit so much violence and make such poor choices regarding those around us? There’s truth to that line of thought. But violence and pain are built into this world in such a deep way that the age-old questions rise again: exactly how is God working in the midst of all of this, and how did a world like this come to be?
Earthquakes, floods and other so-called “acts of God”. Sickness, disease, death. Survival of the fittest in the natural world. Where is God? Granted, the free-will debate leaches into even these as we, by our choices, wreak havoc on the climate, pollute air and earth and water, or perpetuate poverty and unjust social conditions which can exacerbate many of these “natural” problems.
I think many Christians would agree that the cosmos is broken, that it is not now as it is intended to be. The fact that all of creation is groaning with us for the day when all things will be renewed does not make it any easier to live surrounded by brokenness. I’m not privy to the hows and whys of the rupture in creation. And while I find theorizing about it to be an interesting side project (2), I am more interested in how God is working in the midst of it.
God’s way of working in the world
As I have thought about this over the last months, I’ve had to deal with some common ideas that come up repeatedly in conversations and the media. Much of my processing has been in relation to these phrases and to the underlying assumptions behind them. I’ll jot some of them below, followed by some questions that are raised in my mind by these concepts.
“God is all powerful” followed closely by “God is all loving”
It’s difficult to square these two affirmations, taken at face value. If you are all powerful but don’t intervene when someone you love is being abused, are you all loving? And if God does intervene, why in some cases and not others? Selective intervention seems capricious. The traditional line seems to say “God has all the power but is not responsible for how God uses it.” To say “you need to take the long view” resonates on a certain level but also smacks of “pie in the sky when you die” and a devaluing of the here-and-now, which it seems to me God cares about very much.
“God is in control” and “God must have had a reason for doing this” and we have to trust “God’s will” and it must be part of “God’s plan for your life”
Is God really a control freak? I wrote in our reflections during the days following Cara’s death that it didn’t seem to me that God “was sacrificing pawns in a cosmic chess game that was going perfectly according to plan.” Instrumentalizing an innocent person does not fit into my (admittedly incomplete) concept of God. This raises the question of whether God always gets God’s way. It seems to me that the answer is no.
I am even less comfortable than before with language like “God told me” or even “God has really blessed me”
Speaking with certainty about what God is doing seems naïve (3), and the language of God’s blessing can unintentionally suggest that if God didn’t do the same for you, God has instead singled you out for cursing or for the withholding of blessings, giving you stones when you asked for bread.
These types of clichés leave me with a bad taste in my mouth, but they seem to have wide circulation. Many folks hold these beliefs sincerely but sometimes it seems people haven’t really thought about what they are saying. I’ve been trying to find another way of thinking about this that makes sense to me, and have identified a few concepts that have been somewhat helpful.
God suffers with us
This was the strong sense we had during our experience with Cara and it still rings true. Rather than a God who is without emotion, detached from our existence, I sensed a God who is intimately involved with us and who suffers with us.
There are various types of power and control, and God works in surprising ways
God’s power in our world seems to be primarily through weakness — an unpredictable, slow-moving, “underneath” power that turns traditional power against itself, gently pushing tendrils of life up in the midst of death, as opposed to an external force exerting itself to bend everything to fit into an intractable plan (4). Rather than dictating specific actions or events, God’s power is nourishing and sustaining life from below; allowing, inviting, and encouraging good to result from the things that happen despite themselves (and despite the fact that they may not be a part of “God’s will”).
I don’t say that it’s easy or even possible to imagine what God is up to, but these metaphors provide me with the hope that God’s work in the world continues, and that the act of believing in redemption despite the evidence of this moment can be a radical protest against the darkness.
I was talking to one of my brothers recently and he mentioned the concepts of “right-handed power” and “left-handed power”, which were explored in a book he is reading by Robert Farrar Capon. Capon describes right-handed power as the kind of power we expect, the kind of power we think of as the very definition of power, forcing itself in some way into a bad situation to straighten it out by might. Left-handed power, on the other hand, is “power that looks for all the world like weakness, intervention that seems indistinguishable from nonintervention.” (5) Weakness and nonintervention describes quite well my experience of God in the midst of Cara’s life and death.
I am reminded that Jesus’ disciples were expecting their Messiah to swoop in, gather an army and usher in a new kingdom by the sword. But Jesus’ method of overthrowing empire involved the empire having its way with him, torturing him, killing him. I find myself frustrated that God hasn’t swooped in and set things right, or surprised that the brokenness is allowed to have its way with us, forgetting that this radical vulnerability and weakness is exactly the kind of power Jesus exhibits. Not only do we worship a God we can beat up, we worship a God we do beat up and one who allows us to get beat up, too.
Conclusion: Ubi caritas
While it makes sense in a certain way that God would use “left-handed power” in situations in which people are making decisions, it is harder to swallow in situations in which human decisions don’t seem to be at play. Why no right-handed power to protect innocent lives in the midst of earthquakes and lightning strikes? Would it be so bad to impose some force to protect children from cancer and disease and random accidents? But as near as I can tell, God’s power consistently shows up as weakness, whether humans appear to be the root cause of the problem or not. We’re planted here among the tares, the cancers, the diseases that were sown among us by an enemy, and apparently we’re too enmeshed with each other to come apart cleanly. Somehow pulling them up would uproot us as well.
I don’t claim that the “answers” I have been pondering are fully satisfying, and much remains outside of my grasp. But I do know that my experience has stripped a lot of periphery from the way I see the world, and given me a new appreciation for the mystery of God and of God’s way of working in the world. With so many unknowns and unanswerables, I can only throw myself and the world on God’s mercy and let the chips fall as they may. In the meantime, I will continue trying to live into the coming kingdom knowing I’m going to continue to fail. It isn’t easy trying to live as though God’s kingdom is here now when it is so clearly is not.
I think Janel and I each felt betrayed and abandoned by God in many ways, but we still loved Cara deeply, which was an indicator to me that God was still profoundly present. That tension between God’s presence and God’s absence continues for me, but the phrase that Cara’s name was taken from (and which I’ve since had tattooed on my arm) has become a mantra of sorts: Ubi Caritas, Deus Ibi Est.
Where love exists, God is present. It seems a strange learning to take from a tragedy and the heartbreaking loss of a daughter, but for all the questions that have been raised in me, the one thing I am more confident of than ever is that love is the core of our calling. If we want to participate in whatever the hell God is up to, love has to be our guide. Or, to put it another way, if it doesn’t involve love, religion is worthless.
References1“The only significant difference between the aesthetic idol and the conceptual idol lies in the fact that the former reduces God to a physical object while the latter reduces God to an intellectual object.” (Peter Rollins, How (not) to speak of God, p. 12)
2 Examples of theories to this effect include:
The fall into sin caused a rupture within creation and now God is trying to restore us and all things.
Evolution is cosmic warfare; there is a battle going on in creation itself. (Greg Boyd has explored this idea.)
God had to “pull back” God’s self to allow room for creation, causing a rift, which God now seeks to heal.
God’s creation was more of an organization of chaos rather than a creation ‘ex nihilo.’ (e.g. See John Caputo’s recent short piece in Tikkun: “God is not a warranty for a well-run world, but the name of a promise, an unkept promise, where every promise is also a risk, a flicker of hope on a suffering planet.”)
3 Quoting Frederick Buechner, Philip Yancey writes,“Some [evangelical Christians], he told me, reminded him of American tourists in Europe who, not knowing the language of their listeners, simply raise their voices. Such Christians spoke confidently about matters Buechner thought veiled in mystery, and their certitude both fascinated and alarmed him. ‘I was astonished to hear students shift casually from small talk about the weather and movies to a discussion of what God was doing in their lives. They spoke of ‘prayer diaries’ and used phrases like ‘God told me…’ If anybody said anything like that in my part of the world, the ceiling would fall in, the house would catch fire, and people’s eyes would roll up in their heads.’” (Soul Survivor, p.251)
4 Peter Rollins describes something similar when he claims that ”...the message of Jesus introduces us to a different way of approaching God—not as a violent power imposed from above, but rather as a powerless presence entering our world from below. This powerless God still instigates a revolution against the powers of this world. However, this revolution is not won through brute strength, but through weakness.” (Orthodox Heretic, p. 141)
5 Capon continues, “More than that, it is guaranteed to stop no determined evildoers whatsoever. It might, of course, touch and soften their hearts. But then again, it might not. It certainly didn’t for Jesus; and if you decide to use it, you should be quite clear that it probably won’t for you either.” (Kingdom, Grace, Judgment: Paradox, Outrage and Vindication in the Parables, pg. 19)
(This article was originally featured at Laryn’s blog here)
Laryn Kragt Bakker is a graphic designer and author currently living in Atlanta with his wife and daughter.
