Morning Watch

I've been impressed with how many people are broadcasting Compline, or some other form of evening prayer.  A few days ago, I had the idea to do some sort of morning version, and I decided to call it Morning Watch.  I would do a Facebook Live broadcast from the church Facebook Page.

Yesterday was supposed to be the first broadcast.  I thought I understood the process, but I couldn't ever get the camera to turn on.  I went over to my own Facebook page and thought I was broadcasting.  It wasn't until I looked for the button to stop the broadcast that I realized I had never started.  And then, I was broadcasting when I clicked on something.

I pivoted.  I read the Psalm again along with a closing prayer.  I wasn't real pleased with the broadcast quality, but I left it up anyway.  I have hopes that one day I'll look back and marvel at how far I've come, how much of an amateur I once was.

Plus, lots of people left a comment to tell me how much it meant to them.

This morning, I did a longer version.  I used the selections for this day in Phyllis Tickle's The Divine Hours--many of the readings seemed handpicked for today, with their references to suffering adversity and God being with us.  Then I was silent for 5 minutes to allow for some individual prayer, meditation, and/or journaling in image or in words.  Then I closed with some words of prayer. 

I ended by saying, "Take precautions, but don't let this pestilence paralyze you.  Take care.  Be well."

If you'd like to experience Morning Watch, I did record it, and you can view it here.  I'll be doing a variation of Morning Watch at 5:30 a.m. (EDT) each week day morning--and maybe week-ends too.  It's open to everyone, so feel free to join, either in real time or later in the day.

Welcome the Virus

I had my first appointment with my spiritual director on Saturday.  It was very fruitful.  I wish I had done spiritual direction before this epidemic broke out--it would be interesting to see if spiritual direction changed at all.

We sat 6 feet apart, which was a bit further than during our getting to know you session of a month ago, but that wasn't too strange.  We began with deep breathing and checking in with our bodies.  It was both a guided meditation and a prayer.

Then we talked about where we are.  I did the bulk of the talking.  It was a bit like therapy, a bit like coaching, a bit like a coffee date with a friend.  I talked about how hard it has been for me to sleep past 2 a.m.  I talked about the few times that I'm awake after my spouse goes to bed, and I don't want to turn out the light, like a scared child.

We talked about nightlights, about God being on watch so that we don't have to be.  We talked about a breathing practice that I could try when I woke up in the middle of the night: inhale saying a word, and then exhale saying a different word.  I tried it as Saturday night moved to Sunday morning:  my exhale word was peace. I was able to soothe myself back into sleep.

We talked a lot about how much life has changed.  We talked about our churches and how we're trying to livestream both worship and other experiences.

We circled back to my experiences not being able to sleep and being on the computer much too much.  We talked about how I might both journal and pray--a swoosh of color representing one prayer, followed by a swoosh of a different color representing a different prayer.  That idea really appeals to me.

At the end of our session, our conversation took a surprising turn.  My spiritual director said, "What if we welcomed the virus?"  We sat with that idea for a bit--we were neither one of us exactly comfortable with that idea.

I hasten to add that we agreed that we weren't saying we should take precautions and use protections.  We weren't saying, "Let's welcome violent men who want to rape us--let's leave the front door open all the time."  It was more about changing our attitude, about not letting this pandemic crisis overwhelm us and change our behavior for the worse.  It was about not letting the pandemic stress us beyond our limits.

I'm still not sure we're either one of us completely on board with this idea.  Sunday morning, I sketched a bit and came up with this sketch:

I'm sure that at some point I may look back and shake my head at how naive we were.  I do think that we're both very clear on how bad this crisis could be.  I don't know that we've let ourselves think of all the implications of the awfulness to come.

Sketching My Way through a Week of Pandemic

In early March, when I first signed up for an online journaling class offered by Vonda Drees and the Grunewald Guild, I had no idea how much life would change in the next few weeks.  I had no idea how much I would need this class.

I knew it had the potential to be life changing.  I took a journaling class with Vonda at the end of 2018, and it was one of the highlights of my year, perhaps of the decade.

We are reading Cynthia Bourgeault's Mystical Hope:  Trusting in the Mercy of God.  We have 3 markers in shades of gray, and a marker color that brings us joy.  I chose lilac.  Here's the first sketch I made from a quote in the book that talks about life seeming to spiral downward--little did I know how quickly it would spiral downward during the week as pandemic cases spiraled out of control:

The next day, this quote from chapter 1 leapt out at me:  "Must we be whiplashed incessantly between joy and sorrow, expectation and disappointment?"  I have spent must of my life in this kind of whiplash.

As the past week has progressed, I have found it more and more difficult to sleep.  I fall asleep quickly, but my brain usually jolts me awake between 12:30 and 2:00 a.m., and most nights I don't fall back asleep.  I've taken to sketching as a way of leaving the various sites that bring me news and stress, as a way of attending to any activity that might bring me relief--or even joy.

In this quote, I tried to create a sketch that looked like weaving.  I was only partially successful:

On Friday, we had an online session where we talked about our favorite sketch.  I chose this one:

I talked about how I tried to sketch the fingers of God, but I thought they looked like odd fingers.  I liked the negative space, which looks like flames to me.  In the end, I loved the sketch.  I also realized how many of my concerns and anxieties take place in the near or far future, not the now.  I've known that before, but it's sobering to make a list and confront this truth again.

I wasn't as sure about Friday's sketch:

Saturday's sketch might be my favorite thus far.  I started it in the morning and finished it in the afternoon:

I love the mystical hope that swirls across and through the sketch.  I like the dots and dashes that I made with a variety of pens.

I plan to keep trying to sketch each day.  It's become a practice that's even more vitally important in these days of pandemic.

Spiritual Directing

This morning, I drive down to Miami to have my first real meeting with my spiritual director--our meeting in February was a getting to know you session, so we could both decide whether or not to enter into this spiritual partnership.

We've been in communication, as her county and mine have tightened down on shelter in place orders.  We've decided to go ahead with today's appointment.  We will sit six feet apart.  I'm sure she'll wipe down any surface that I touch once I leave.

Occasionally, I stop to think about how life has changed.  I have to remind myself that I'm still in this certificate program in spiritual direction.  I have the next book to read and report on.  I need to write an e-mail to my small group.

And I need to continue with spiritual direction as long as I can.  Even when we can't meet in person, we can still do spiritual direction by phone or video session.

Every so often, I think back to how excited I was when I got the official acceptance into this program.  I think about that time, a time that now seems like our last days of innocence, back in January when we met for our on-ground intensive.  Part of me wants to wail about all that we've lost.  Will our onground intensive for June be canceled?  Will life be back to normal by then?  Will we ever be back to normal?

No, we won't be back to the pre-pandemic normal.  I have no doubt about that.  We might like the new normal better.  Perhaps we will all care for each other in deeper ways.  Or maybe we will be more fearful, sanitizing every surface and staying 6 feet apart.

When this pandemic is over, perhaps we will see an increased desire for spiritual direction. Wouldn't it be a lovely surprise if I'm actually trained and ready for a career field that's opening up? That will be a first for me. I'm often training for career fields just as they enter the final death throes (of course, we only know that in retrospect).

Whatever the case, the program feeds me in other ways.  So let me eat some breakfast and get ready for my meeting.

The Value of Repetition and Memorization

When I was a child, I hated the repetition in church services--everything was the same, week after week.  It was so boring.  Why couldn't we have a change?

My parents pointed out the value in repetition.  We would memorize songs and Bible verses, and therefore, they'd always be available to us.  We might not always have a book to consult (and this was WAY before the age of mobile devices).

I huffed and puffed my way through adolescence, shaking my head over all the lost opportunities.  But in the past week, I've been so grateful for all the various words and music that have lodged in my head and bubbled up when I most needed it.

I've been having some trouble sleeping.  I have trouble falling asleep, and then I have trouble staying asleep.  I've had the words and music of Compline drifting through my head.

If you want to have access to those words, here's a site that has the whole Compline service from the Book of Common Prayer.  I've been singing Compline off and on since my teenage years, but I most associate Compline service with Mepkin Abbey.  It's my favorite service. I love ending the day with the simple, dimly lit service, with the Abbot splashing us each with water from the baptismal font.

The Mepkin service uses part of Psalm 91, and some of those words have been percolating during the past week.  That psalm has lots of language about all that might be stalking us, but as you can imagine, it's the imagery of plague and pestilence that I return to.  Verses 5 and 6 seem particularly relevant this week:  "5 You will not fear the terror of the night, or the arrow that flies by day, 6 or the pestilence that stalks in darkness, or the destruction that wastes at noonday."

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, March 29, 2020

First Reading: Ezekiel 37:1-14

Psalm: Psalm 130

Second Reading: Romans 8:6-11

Gospel: John 11:1-45


What a strange picture of Jesus in this Gospel. Remember the Jesus of several miracles ago? The one who instructed people to go and tell no one?

Here we see a Jesus who seems overly aware of the impact of his actions. It's as if we're seeing a man who is aware of his legacy and how he'll be seen--a man who is trying to control the story. And of course, we see foreshadowing in this story, foreshadowing of the death and resurrection of Christ, which we'll be celebrating in two weeks.

Notice that Jesus waits until Lazarus is good and dead before he appears to comfort the sisters and perform a miracle. It's as if he wants no dispute about the miracle. Unlike the past few miracles when Jesus raised people who had only been dead for a few hours, here he waits 4 days. There's no doubt about what he's done once he's raised Lazarus from the dead. We can't easily imagine that Lazarus has been faking his death for 4 days. Even if Lazarus wanted to help Jesus fake a miracle and put on a good show, it's hard to imagine that he'd willingly submit to being sealed in a tomb for 4 days.

As we watch the world around us gear up for Easter, we'll see a certain number of Jesus detractors. We'll see people who want to explain away the resurrection. The liturgical calendar gives us this story of Lazarus to return us to one of the main themes of our religion--we believe in (and are called to practice) resurrection.

And why is the idea of resurrection so hard in our fallen world? Do we not know enough people who have turned their lives around? Think of all the people who have risen again out of the ashes of drug addiction, madness, or domestic turmoil. Why are we so hesitant to believe in miracles?

Although writing about a different miracle, Wendell Berry has said expressed my idea more eloquently than I can today. In his essay, "Christianity and the Survival of Creation," he says, "Whoever really has considered the lilies of the field or the birds of the air and pondered the improbability of their existence in this warm world within the cold and empty stellar distances will hardly balk at the turning of water into wine--which was, after all, a very small miracle. We forget the greater and still continuing miracle by which water (with soil and sunlight) is turned into grapes" (this wonderful essay appears in his wonderful book Sex, Economy, Freedom and Community).

The world has far too many cynics. Christians are called to be different. Choose your favorite metaphor: we're to be leaven in the loaf, the light of the world, the city on a hill, the salt (or other seasoning) that provides flavor, the seed that pushes against the dirt. 

Each day, practice hope. Each day, practice resurrection.

The Feast Day of the Annunciation

Today is the Feast of the Annunciation, the feast day which celebrates the appearance of the angel Gabriel, who tells Mary of her opportunity to be part of God's mission of redemption. The angel Gabriel appears to Mary and says, in the older wording that I still like best, "Hail, oh blessed one! The Lord is with you!" Mary asks some questions, and Gabriel says, "For nothing will be impossible with God" (Luke 1: 37). And Mary says, ". . . let it be with me according to your word" (Luke 1: 38).

That means only 9 months until Christmas. If I wrote a different kind of blog, I'd fill the rest of this post with witty ways to make your shopping easier. But instead of spending the next nine months strategically getting our gifts bought, maybe we should think about the next nine months in terms of waiting for God, watching for God, incubating the Divine.

I find Mary an interesting model for modern spirituality. Notice what is required of Mary. She must wait.

Mary is not required to enter into a spiritual boot camp to get herself ready for this great honor. No, she must be present to God and be willing to have a daily relationship, an intimacy that most of us would never make time for. She doesn't have to travel or make a pilgrimage to a different land. She doesn't have to go to school to work on a Ph.D. She isn't even required to go to the Temple any extra amount. She must simply slow down and be present. And of course, she must be willing to be pregnant, which requires more of her than most of us will offer up to God. And there's the later part of the story, where she must watch her son die an agonizing death.

But before she is called upon to these greater tasks, first she must slow down enough to hear God. I've often thought that if the angel Gabriel came looking for any one of us, we'd be difficult to find. Gabriel would need to make an appointment months in advance!

In our society, it's interesting to me to wonder what God would have to do to get our attention. I once wrote these lines in a poem:

I don’t want God to have to fling
frogs at me to get my attention. I want
to be so in touch that I hear the still,
small voice crying in this wilderness of American life.
I don’t want God to set fire to the shrubbery to get my notice.

We might think about how we can listen for God's call. Most of us live noisy lives: we're always on our cell phones, we've often got several televisions blaring in the house at once, we're surrounded by traffic (and their loud stereos), we've got people who want to talk, talk, talk. Maybe today would be a good day to take a vow of silence, inasmuch as we can, to listen for God.

If we can't take a vow of silence, we could look for ways to have some silence in our days. We could start with five minutes and build up from there.

Maybe we can't be silent, but there are other ways to tune in to God. Maybe we want to keep a dream journal to see if God tries to break through to us in that way. Maybe we want to keep a prayer journal, so that we have a record of our prayer life--and maybe we want to revisit that journal periodically to see how God answers our prayers.

Let us celebrate the Feast of the Annunciation by thinking about our own lives. What does God call us to do? How will we answer that call?

Whiplash

--Yesterday was a stranger day than usual at work.  I had to go to the Ft. Lauderdale campus for training on our online platform, even though I've taught with that platform before.  When I got there, a member of the Corporate team told me that every campus would close at 5 pm, and we wouldn't be allowed to return.  I sat there for the morning of the training trying not to throb with anxiety.

As the day progressed, the guidance about whether or not we would be vacating the campus changed.  This morning I'll go into the office, but there will be fewer people there.  Admissions is working remotely, and students are not allowed.

In my life in academia, it feels so strange to write "students are not allowed."  Similarly, last week, I wrote an e-mail that concluded this way:  

"Since we are almost done with these documents, S___ wanted us to finish those off so that we could send them to you today, in case we can’t get back to campus. I am not expecting a complete quarantine on Monday, but he’s less sure.

I am now going to take a moment to be astonished at that last sentence that I wrote. Never in all my apocalyptic visions of the future did I think that I would send a work e-mail that would talk about quarantine."

--I am taking the situation much more seriously than our U.S. president.  As I drove home yesterday, he was about to have a press conference to announce what sounds like a reversal of earlier policies which called for social distancing.  Of course, that decision may have changed again.

--No wonder I'm feeling a bit whiplashed.

--Last night, my spouse held a virtual Philosophy class during the time he would have been teaching, had the semester gone on as usual.  He told the class he would be available, if any of them wanted to talk in person using the virtual meeting technology.  He halfway expected that he'd be sitting alone, waiting to be needed.  But about 3/4 of the class showed up, and they talked for hours.

In a way, I was thrilled.  How wonderful that some students want to talk Philosophy.  But I had to keep remembering that he was on the clock; I kept quiet, of course, but as I got tired, I wasn't sure what to do.  Our bed is in view of his broadcasting area; if I went to bed, his students might wonder what was happening in the background.

We can fix this in the future by pinning a curtain to obscure the view of the bed.  But I didn't want to interrupt his class last night.

--Did I sketch last night?  No.  So I decided that I must sketch this morning.  I am part of an online journaling class that's exploring Cynthia Bourgeault's Mystical Hope.  I wanted to hear Pachelbel's Canon in D, the first piece of classical music that I really loved.  I found the first version of it that I loved, the one by George Winston.

--What moved my brain to John Prine's "Angel from Montgomery"?   I don't know, but I did a Google search: "make me an angel that flies from Montgomery." I wanted to see who had covered that John Prine song. I was not surprised by all the versions. I was surprised that this search would yield some porn. I suppose that every search does these days. 

--I found a friend's Facebook response to her friend that said she would always be Gen X in her soul.  I made this comment:  "If I wrote songs, I'd write one called Gen X in your soul. It would be a wistful, John Prine kind of song, and it would make an oblique reference to angels that fly from Montgomery."

--I did find it soothing to take a break, to read something that wasn't disease related, to sketch.  Here's what I created this morning:

Here's the quote, in case you can't read it:  "Must we be whiplashed incessantly between joy and sorrow, expectation and disappointment?" (p. 2-3).  The book is a sustained answer to that question.

Live Streaming Church

My church did live streaming a bit differently yesterday.  We usually live stream via Facebook, but we're usually broadcasting the church service that we're having as a congregation.  Yesterday, most of the congregation watched/participated from a distance.

It wasn't as stark as some of the services I've seen, the types where one pastor stands in an empty sanctuary.  In addition to our pastor, we had our organist and 5 choir members.  I was there to operate the camera by way of an iPad.

We didn't do virtual communion, but other than that, the service wasn't vastly different from what we usually do.  Our choir did some gathering music and a hymn, then we had some readings from the Bible, a kyrie along the way, a sermon, some more music, and then some prayers.  We ended with a benediction and a sending.

As we did virtual church, we heard from many people about how much it meant to them.  Hurrah!  We has 177 views, which may not tell us as much as the fact that we had 70+ comments.

We also heard about glitchiness.  It's an interesting problem:  what happens when a nation of churches all go online to stream a worship service on a Sunday morning?  We're also in an older building with lots of concrete to block wireless Internet signals.

My pastor is already thinking of creative ways to use this new-to-us approach in innovative ways.  It's great to simply duplicate what we would ordinarily do in person.  But what if this technology could let us do more?

I know that it can, but I don't know what it will look like. It will probably look like thousands of different approaches, some of which will be adaptable to other churches, some of which will only work with the local congregation.

I'm glad to see all the interesting experiments.  I know we didn't have much choice, but I'm glad so many of us are embracing the opportunities.

Backbone in a Time of Corona Crisis

In our separate cloisters, we follow the practices developed by ancient monastics:

The monks greet the morning with song.  We, too, sing to distract our attention from rising case numbers.

The monks eat nutritious food at set mealtimes.  We eat an orange when we remember.

The monks balance work, prayer, study, and sleep.  Our work becomes the reading of ever more epidemiology articles and sending them to others on our social media feeds, a blurry liturgy of prayer.

At the end of the day, we need something to soothe us into sleep.

We turn to the words of Psalm 91, the backbone of Compline.

"You will not fear the terror of night,
nor the arrow that flies by day,
nor the pestilence that stalks in the darkness,
nor the plague that destroys at midday."

                 Psalm 91:  5-6 (New International Version)

Drive Through Communion

Earlier this week, my pastor sent out communication that we'd do drive through communion with a blessing on Friday.  We'd have 2 opportunities:  from 1-2 p.m. and from 6-7 p.m.

I decided to go.  I needed to do a few errands, and I could loop by the church.  As I was driving and cursing at my fellow drivers who were not paying attention, I realized that I might be in more need of a blessing than I knew.

It couldn't have been easier.  Our church has a front door with a covered area outside of the door and  a pair of benches.  I pulled up and rolled down the window.

My pastor sanitized his hands (he planned to do that before and after each parishioner).  He picked up a tray (the cover to a box of printer paper, actually).  He handed me a wafer and a plastic cup of wine along with the words of institution.  Then he blessed me:  "May the Lord bless you and keep you, . . . and keep you safe."

I made the sign of a cross back to him and said, "May God keep you safe too."  He smiled and said, "Thank you."  We smiled at each other.  And then I drove away. 

I don't know why my pastor decided to do this, but I'm grateful.  And I'm not the only one who needed this experience.  We had about 2 days of lead time, but the message got out--21 people came for a drive through sacrament.

As my pastor posted on Facebook:  "21 people drove up for “communion on the go” today. Is it an ideal way to commune? No. Was it meaningful ? Sure seemed so. Blessings to all - much love"

I know that most pastors have seen an already stressful job become even more stressful in these past few weeks.  I'm grateful for all the ways these pastors are making life a bit easier.  I'm grateful for the grace.

Disruptions

My sleep schedule is a bit disrupted, and I'm probably not alone.  My disruption presents as waking up between midnight and 2 a.m. and not falling back asleep.

I try to make the best of my insomnia, which visits me periodically.  This morning, I did manage to write a poem.  I wish I could say that I always turn to writing during my wakefulness, but sadly, I'm often scrolling and scrolling, looking for information.  My corona virus insomnia is similar to impending hurricane anxiety--I can't quit looking for updates.

As I was scrolling, I came across some unexpected resources.  Here's a website that tells us how to sew cloth masks that could be used in case of shortage--it's a fairly simple process.  Many of us have time on our hands right now and nervous energy to burn. Why not put it to use?

I came across this choral arrangement of St. Patrick's Breastplate sung by VOCES8 singing in St Vedast Church in London.  Their voices are gorgeous.  Then I did some internet wandering and found some other videos of the group singing in settings that look like ancient cathedrals.

Ah, to sing in an ancient cathedral!

I had been planning to travel today, but it is not to be.  I had planned a week-end trip to meet up with my sister and help my mom celebrate her 81st birthday.  A few weeks ago, we didn't really take this disease into our plans.  I found really cheap airline tickets, and we saw that as a sign to proceed.

We've had many conversations about whether or not to cancel.  In the end, considerations about the age of my parents and the spread of the virus made us decide to have me stay home; my sister, who hasn't had the level of possible exposure that I've had, will still be there to celebrate.

We live in a time of many disruptions.  I had planned to patronize some local shops, like the wine shop, who could use extra support during this time of crisis.  Yesterday, the wine shop sent an e-mail that said that they would be closing for the next month.  They offered some great deals, and we stocked up.  But that's not the way I envisioned supporting them.

I know that greater disruptions are yet to come.  At some point, we may look back and wonder at how slowly we adapted to the new reality.

Leadership Through Different Lenses

These past weeks have given us many opportunities to think about leadership.  What qualities do we want in a leader?  Does that answer change, depending on the crisis.

This Sunday, my church will consider a reading from Matthew 20:  20-28.  In it, we get a very different picture of leadership.

Many of us are surrounded by people who think that a good leader tells the team how things will be done and forces them to do it, either by persuasion or threats or getting rid of people who don't obey.  Jesus shows us a different way, the way of service.

These days I think of a quote that I wrote down as I was reading Tod Bolsinger's Canoeing the Mountains: Christian Leadership in Uncharted Territory.  It's a quote (originally from Ronal Heifetz) that I triple underlined: "Leadership is disappointing your own people at a rate they can absorb" (p. 172).

Once we are on the other side of this corona virus crisis, more of us might find ourselves with leadership opportunities.  History tells us that is often the case during times of plague and pestilence.

I've always told my students that they should plan what they would do in leadership positions, because they may very well find themselves there some day, and it might be sooner than they think. I tell them about Nelson Mandela, and that the reason that he was prepared to be president of South Africa was that he spent all that time in jail (more years than most of my students have been alive) planning for what he would do if he took over the country. He didn't nurse anger or bitterness. No, he planned, along with his compatriots, who were jailed with them.

In the coming days, when so many people will need so many different kinds of help, let us lead the way that Christ showed us how to lead.  Let us serve our fellow humans.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, March 22, 2020:

First Reading: 1 Samuel 16:1-13

Psalm: Psalm 23

Second Reading: Ephesians 5:8-14

Gospel: John 9:1-41

Occasionally, a student will ask me how I know that a symbol is really a symbol, and not just me overreacting to something in the text. I always reply that we know we're looking at a symbol when the author comes back to it again and again. Then an image is meant to take on more weight.

Today's Gospel would be a good illustration of this point. Again and again, we see blind people in this text, from the physically blind to the metaphorically blind. Again and again, the text returns to blindness. Clearly, we're meant to explore issues of our own blindness. It's not bad to do a spiritual inventory periodically. Where do we see evidence of God in our lives? Where are we blind to God's presence?

As I read the text for this week, I found myself getting to this point from a different angle. Look at how Jesus cures this blind man. He mixes dirt and spit (dirt and spit!) onto the man's eyes and instructs him to bathe. I'm not the first to be struck by the earthiness of this cure: the use of different elements (dirt, saliva, and water), the rootedness of the cure in the physical (Jesus doesn't cast a spell, for example, or call on angels), and the simplicity of it all.

It might make us think back to the Genesis story, of God forming the first humans out of dirt (Adam) and an extra rib (Eve). It might make us think of all the ways that God uses basic, earthbound elements in both creation and salvation.

Think of our sacraments, for example. There's baptism, the word bound with water. And the water doesn't come to us from some special source--it's not magic water that we can only get from a special spring. The power comes from the word--and perhaps more importantly, from the words that the congregation offers. When we baptize someone, the whole congregation takes a vow to support that person--when you wonder why baptism is such a public event, and why some people are adamant that it not be separated from the service and the congregation, that's why. It's not a photo op. It's a sacrament.

Think about Holy Communion. I've been to many Holy Communions now. Some churches use wafers specially ordered from religious communities, but you don't have to do that. I've had Communion with pita bread, with challah, and once, with a pizza crust. I've had good wine, bad wine, and grape juice. Again, what's important is the symbol of the elements, mixed with the words. It's not just about memory--it's how God becomes present to us, through a mystery that we don't fully understand.

As we work our way through the Scriptures, think about how often God takes simple things and turns them into routes that can lead to salvation. The most stunning example, of course, is the story of the Incarnation. During weeks where I'm impatient with my own failing flesh, I'm even more astounded than usual that the Divine would take on this project.

And we, of course, can work similar magic. Open up your dinner table, and observe grace in action.  Or in these days of tamping down a virus, make a phone call or check in by way of social media. Forgive freely, and watch redemption work. Pray for those who would do you wrong, and notice what happens. Get your fingers in the dirt and watch the flowers bloom later. Take some simple elements and envision them as sacramental, a symbolic route to God.

Compline and Other Online Opportunities

Last night, I participated in an online Compline service--I use the word service loosely.  It was one of my Facebook friends who was on Facebook Live.  She read the Compline service from the Book of Common Prayer.

From what I could tell, she was in a contemplative corner of her house.  It could have been a living room or a study.  She had some books in front of her, and a candle.  There was a cross on the wall.  The vibe was soothing.

We participated by making a comment in writing, but if there was a way to be more interactive, I didn't discover it.

It took all of about 10 minutes, as my Facebook friend read through the service; I had wondered if she would read or chant. 

I wish I could say that I went to bed immediately and slept through the night.  I confess that I wasted my calm feelings by going back to Internet scrolling where I found news of more closings.  It was almost an hour before I yanked myself away, went to bed, and fell asleep.

My church is about to experiment with being fully online.  Although we met in person on Sunday (a skeleton crew of a congregation), we won't be meeting in person again for at least a few weeks.

Last night's Compline service made me think about the alternate ways we might try.  I know that a lot of churches have been having online services by having the pastor do the whole service in an empty church.

Maybe we could do church REALLY differently.  I don't know what that would look like.  But I think we might be about to find out.

Poetry Monday: "John of Patmos Revises Revelation"

I've been thinking about all the apocalyptic poems I've written through the years.  At first, during my college years, I was likely to use imagery from nuclear apocalypse.  Lately, global warming and sea level rise have made their way into my poems.

This week, I thought, have I never written about a pandemic before?

Of course I have--there are some AIDS poems/references scattered across my decades of writing.  And there have been scares about new flu strains through the years.

In fact, it was during one of those scares that I wrote the following poem, during one of the years when we worried about a bird flu that crossed over to humans.  The line about being felled by flu came to me first, and then I wrote the rest.

As I looked at it yesterday, I wondered if I had the biology wrong--I talk about antibiotics, but a flu would need an antiviral.  I decided to leave the poem as I wrote it and as it was published in Referential.


John of Patmos Revises Revelation 


He knows that no one will understand
his visions: long tubes of travelers hurtle
through the skies—and what strange
bird lifts them aloft? This gleaming
creature, like nothing he’s ever seen.

Other birds fly into the center of his dreams,
but these he recognizes, yet he can’t believe
their role in the coming apocalypse.
Avian Avenging Angels:
how can these things be true?

He changes a few details, adds a pale
horse, with a paler rider.
Then for good measure adds three.
How fearsome is the number four.

More believable to have death delivered
on horseback than on feathers.
The end, the same regardless,
the human body no match
for microorganisms he can’t even name,
the sanctuary mistaken for the invader,
microbes laughing at antibiotics
as the two play chess to settle
the score for the soul.

John of Patmos lacks the language
to describe the terrifying elements of his vision.
It will be many hundreds of years before microscopes
allow easy access to this apocalyptic
landscape. In the meantime, we envision
the end, stars falling from the scorched sky
and pounding hooves.

We like the bang better than the whimper.
How mundane to be felled by flu
in an age of spectacular diseases;
how anticlimactic to be destroyed by the common
landmine in a time of geopolitical firestorms.
John of Patmos understands the eschatological
obligations and so sets out upon his revisions.

RIP Bishop Barbara Harris

In the midst of all of my pandemic-themed wanderings on the Internet, I took note of the death of Bishop Barbara Harris, the first woman to be ordained a bishop in the Episcopal Church and the worldwide Anglican Communion.  She was African-American, another notable boundary broken, as she was the first African-American woman made bishop.

This morning, as I was reading about her, I was struck by this fact:  she was ordained as a priest when she was 50 years old, and ten years later, she was elevated to the status of bishop.  I suspect that many of the first ordained women were older, but I don't know for sure.  Now I'd like to know.

As I grow older, these kinds of stories are important to me.  I am 54, and there are days when I feel like my best days are behind me.  I know that fact is not true, but we do live in a culture that worships youth, beauty, and wealth.  I need stories that tell us that we can make significant life shifts no matter what our age, and that we may go to places that will amaze us.

Thank you Barbara Harris, and all the other boundary breakers.  Thank you for showing us how much a life can contain.  Thank you for showing us the foolishness in societal restrictions.  Thank you for widening the circle of inclusivity.

Lenten Disciplines in a Time of a Pandemic

I am sobered by how our social landscape has changed in just a few weeks.  A few weeks ago, my church had made no changes in the face of a new virus.  We passed the peace with hugs and handshakes.  We anointed with oil.  We didn't use gloves when we touched food.  We had more hand sanitizer than your average church, but that's because we have more than our share of elderly and immunocompromised parishioners.

At the end of last week, my church released new guidelines:  we would pass the peace without shaking hands or hugging.  We would use gloves to prepare for coffee hour.

At the end of this week, another set of new guidelines:  no passing of the peace at all.  We will still gather to worship, but all other gatherings are canceled--and it won't surprise me if we cancel worship soon.  I have pastor friends across the southeast, and many of them are announcing complete church shutdowns, although many have plans for online assembly and/or support.

We had planned to have a Wednesday night Lenten Prayer, with a different prayer practice each week--that event is canceled.  We had one session on Wednesday night, and it was me and another woman, so not many people will feel sadness at that cancellation.  As the person in charge of Lenten Prayer, I felt both sadness and relief at the announcement of that closure.

This morning, I thought about the Lenten practices across the nation that might need to be changed or abandoned at this midpoint of the liturgical season.  But maybe we can use this time to adopt a new practice.

Maybe we want to embrace this time of social distancing.  Maybe we want to explore solitude in this time of a new illness.  Maybe we want to be alone with God.  Centering prayer seems like a good practice in a time of pandemic.

Or maybe we want to step up our efforts to care for the poor and dispossessed.  As we buy extra supplies for our households, we could buy a bag of food for the local food pantry.  We can send cards to those who need to self-isolate or make phone calls.  We can check on those who need to practice more severe self-isolation, and if appropriate, help them get the supplies they need.

We can always return to one of the most ancient disciplines:  prayer for those in charge, prayer for those affected.

And maybe some of this enforced down time will give us the space we've been craving to try other disciplines.  We could keep a journal.  We could sketch or paint.  We might finally have time to read the great theologians we've always meant to discover.  This list could go on and on.

We live in a time period that has seen the exponential increase in distractions, along with an exponential increase in new virus cases and exposures.  Let us resolve to take up our Lenten disciplines and stay focused.

Closing Schools, Containing Contagion

Last night at 10 p.m. the phone rang, jangling me out of sleep.  It was the emergency alert system from Miami Dade College, where my spouse teaches Philosophy.  The emergency alert system was activated to tell faculty, staff, and students that classes were transitioning to online, effective immediately.

I'm not criticizing this decision, mind you.  Yesterday was a day when many closings were announced, so a transition to online classes isn't a surprise.

But a 10 p.m. phone call?  An emergency alert?  This decision couldn't have been made during normal business hours?

I realize that I may look back on this post and marvel at my selfishness.  I don't want to be jarred awake in a time that mass death was just around the corner?

That's where my brain is at the moment:  expecting mass death while at the same time wondering if we're not overreacting.

But I also believe what historians and public health people tell us:  closing schools is a way of containing/slowing contagion.  And in a time when we can do so much of our educating online, why not do this?

I'm intrigued by the ways we're adapting, all of the approaches to modern life that we've been told just can't happen or aren't practical.  During a disability panel at the AWP, presenters pointed out that accommodations they've requested and been denied for years were suddenly put into place and rather quickly. 

Will we find out that we can do a lot of work from home?  Will we move more classes online?  Or maybe we could get to a point where classes take the best from both the online and the onground approach.

Most of us alive have no experience dealing with a disease like this new corona virus, and at this point, no one is immune.  I have found comfort in the regular ways; yesterday I ate at least 1000 calories of ginger snaps--yes, 1000 calories, about half a box.

But I am finding comfort in understanding the science.  This disease is not like the early days of AIDS--we have an understanding of this virus that we didn't have of AIDS, and there's a good chance of survival.

I found myself spending lots of time with this episode of the NPR show On Point.  It's got lots of good information about disease in general and viruses specifically, lots of good information about how to protect ourselves.

It also offered an important reminder that viruses are not human.  They don't have motives or evil purposes.  They grow in circumstances that are favorable.  We can make the circumstances less favorable.

We will make the circumstances less favorable.  With every closure, we make the circumstances less favorable.

Religious people have a reputation as being anti-science, but I haven't found that to be true.  On the contrary, the religious people whom I know use the science to support what we know about the world.

When this is all behind us, we may answer this question differently:  "Where did you see God today?"

Become What You Believe

I have been able to continue my daily reading of the book of John, a practice that I started at the end of my onground intensive for my certificate in spiritual direction.  I continue to be intrigued by what leaps out at me--I'm going through John, a chapter a day, for the 3rd time.  I've also been reading another Gospel chapter by chapter.  Last month it was Mark.  This month it's Matthew.

I've been using the Bible Gateway site which lets me choose the version of the Bible I read.  I almost always read The Message, but sometimes others as well.  I'm intrigued by the language that Eugene Peterson uses.  There's language that I think will feel dated in a few decades.  But more delightful is the language that makes me see the passage in a new way.

This morning, I read the ninth chapter of Matthew, and this language jumped out at me, from chapter 29:  "He touched their eyes and said, 'Become what you believe.'”

Here's the same verse from the New Revised Standard Version:  "Then he touched their eyes and said, 'According to your faith let it be done to you.'”

It's an interesting shift in verbs--the Message gives the believer more agency.  The NRSV is more passive.

Now, back to your regularly scheduled coverage of the end times:  corona virus, stock market slide, choose your horse, choose your rider.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, March 15, 2020:

First Reading: Exodus 17:1-7

Psalm: Psalm 95

Second Reading: Romans 5:1-11

Gospel: John 4:5-42

If you didn't read much of the Bible, you might assume that Samaritans are good people; after all, wasn't the only person who stopped to help the traveler who was assaulted and left for dead, wasn't that person a Samaritan?

Yes, and that's part of the point of the story that many of us miss. Church officials didn't stop to help. The only person who did stop to help was one of the lowest people in the social stratosphere.

Actually, today's Gospel introduces us to one lower, a Samaritan woman. We know that she has low status because she's a Samaritan and because she's coming to the well later in the day. It would have been the custom to come early in the morning to socialize, and the fact that she doesn't come then speaks volumes; she's an outcast among outcasts. She's a woman in a patriarchal society and part of a group (Samaritans) who have almost no social status. It would only be worse if she was a prostitute or a slave.

Yet, Jesus has a long conversation with her, the longest that he has with anyone recorded in the New Testament. Here, again this week, Jesus is in Mystic mode. She asks questions, and he gives her complex answers.

But unlike Nicodemus, she grasps his meaning immediately. And she believes. She goes back to her city and spreads the good news. And her fellow citizens believe her and follow her back to follow Jesus. Notice how she has gone from isolation to community.

Jesus preaches to them and seems to include them, complete outsiders, in his vision of the Kingdom. Hence the good news: Jesus came for us all.

In this Gospel, we see an essential vision of a messiah who will spend time with people who are completely outcast. We are never too lost for God. We don't have to improve ourselves to win salvation. God doesn't tell us that we'll win love if we just lose ten pounds or pray more often or work one more night in the soup kitchen or give away fifty more dollars a week to worthy charities.

Jesus doesn't send the Samaritan woman back to town until he's made a connection with her. He doesn't say, "Hey, if you're at a well at noon, you must be a real slut, if the women won't even let you come to the well with them in the morning. Mend your slutty ways, and maybe I'll let you be part of my vision for the Kingdom."

No, he spends time with her and that's how he wins her over. He knows that humans can't change themselves in the hopes of some kind of redemption; we can’t even lose 10 pounds in time for our class reunion, much less make the substantial changes that will take us into a healthier older age.

However, Jesus knows the path to true change; he knows that humans are more likely to change if they feel like God loves them and wants to be with them just the way they are. Jesus comes to say, “You’ve lived in the land of self-loathing long enough. Sit with me and talk about what matters.”

That treatment might be enough to motivate us to behave like we are the light of the world.

Poetry Tuesday: "Eschatology"

Here we are, in another version of the end of the world--yesterday was an interesting/breathtaking mix of news stories about the new corona virus and the stock market barreling downward, making history in a way that no one wants.

We've been here before, although the threat might be different this time.  Will the new corona virus be more like the 1918 flu, AIDS, or something that just dies out or morphs into something fairly harmless?

Many of us have weathered dizzying stock fluctuations too.  It's a good day to remember what religious traditions have advised about where we put our treasures and our hearts.

Yes we've been here before--perhaps in a worse space, in past decades.  I remember telling a class of students about my college era nuclear fears, and they looked at me as if I was deranged. I said, "Never count on the apocalypse"--and later, while they worked on their essays, I worked on a poem, which later was published in The Powhatan Review.

And before I leave us with the poem, can I just remember how much I once loved this word? I still do, but it's like a college roommate, with whom I once had daily tea and conversation, but we've now moved to different parts of the continent.

I loved it in its modern, dystopian connotation and its more ancient, Greek connotation. I love those passages of the Bible that warn us of the end, although Revelation is my least favorite book.

But it's been awhile since I used that word. I fear it may be coming back to live with me now.


Eschatology


Do not fear the apocalypse.
There are worse things than to be consumed
by the conflagration that claims
a generation. At least you know your part in history.

Do not count on the apocalypse.
You may be one of the lucky ones,
escaping genocide, only to face the oblivion
of old age, the greatest war criminal of all.

Do not embrace the apocalypse.
Cling stubbornly to the promise of resurrection.
Believe that even after nuclear winter,
Spring will thaw the ground.

International Women's Day

March is the month designated to celebrate women's history; March 8 is International Women's Day. We might ask ourselves why we still need to set time apart to pay attention to women. Haven't we enacted laws so that women are equal and now we can just go on with our lives?

Sadly, no, that is not the case. If we look at basic statistics, like how much women earn compared to men in the very same jobs, we see that the U.S. has still not achieved equality. Although the Lutheran church has been ordaining women since the 70's, although we have a female bishop in the top position, our local churches are still likely to be led by white men. If we look at violent crime rates, we discover that most violent crime rates have fallen--except for rape. If we look at representation in local, state, and federal levels, we see that members of government are still mostly white and male.

And that's in a first world country. The picture for women in developing nations is bleak.

Most of us understand why a world where more women have access to equal resources would be a better world for all of us. Many of us have spent years and decades working to make that world a reality. Some of us are lucky enough to have a church that supports the vision of equality that God offers to us as what the Kingdom of God looks like.

Not everyone has that experience. And sadly, many people have experienced discrimination against women coming at them through their churches. That damage may have happened years ago, in churches that no longer resemble the ones we have now--but the damage is done, for those people.

We know that the world can change very quickly, and God calls us to be part of the movement to change the world in ways that are better for all--and particularly for the vulnerable and powerless. We have made great progress on that front. But there is still more to do.

So, today, let us get started. And let us pray for all who are with us on the journey.

Church in a Time of Corona Virus

On Sunday, we hugged and kissed and laid our bare hands on each other--in nonabusive ways, I hasten to add.  Thursday our pastor was sending church leadership a variety of writing:  a message from the mayor of the town where our church is located, written communication from Lutheran bishops, and a draft of the letter that our pastor will send to the congregation detailing the changes that are about to go into effect.

There won't be much touching going forward.  We are suspending the passing of the peace until further notice.  People setting out food for coffee hour will wear gloves.

Part of me understands.  I'm at a conference that was almost cancelled 48 hours before it began for fear of contagion.  I'm watching the news about the disease, and unlike some of the nation's highest officials, I'm taking the science behind it all fairly seriously, even as I am unable to stop touching my face.

Part of me has always felt uncomfortable with some of the opportunities for touching at church.  Not everyone welcomes a hug, and not everyone is good at respecting boundaries.  More than once I've said, "I have a cold, so I'm not touching anyone today" to avoid touch that I didn't want--it seemed more polite than doing some schooling in appropriate ways of passing the peace.

And yet, I know that the right kind of touch can bring healing.  I'm sad that we will stop anointing foreheads with oil, even as I realize how many germs my fingers can deliver with that oil.

I'm not one of those churchy types who ignores the science in the hopes that the Holy Spirit will protect us from microbes.  If I drink from the common cup, I know the risks.  If I let people touch me or if I touch others, I know about the germs that come along for the ride.

I know that my pastor has made the right call to step up protective measures, especially since our aging members of our congregation is likely to be more at risk than healthy folks at midlife like me.  It's a sobering sign of the times.

A Tribute to Freedom Fighters Through the Ages

On this day in 1836, in the early morning hours, the Alamo fell to Mexican forces--a metaphor/symbol for your day to play with as you wish. 

Here's a picture of the casket (and the larger cathedral) where the remains of the Texas freedom fighters rest:

On this day after the day when the last woman withdrew from the presidential race, when the election of 2020 apparently will go to an elderly white male (Biden or Sanders or Trump) who has made more money than most of us will ever have a chance of making, it seems like a good day to remember those who fought long odds for freedom.

It's also a day when an African American man who was convicted of a crime that he did not commit and was executed in the early morning hours.  Again, the fight for justice seems so hopeless at times.

I've posted a picture of one of the oldest cathedrals in the U.S. because in times like these, I need to remember that we are like those builders of cathedrals.  We work on our cathedrals of justice knowing that the structure of justice we hope to build may not be finished in our lifetime, but the work is important nonetheless.

One of the Oldest U.S. Cathedrals

Yesterday we walked around San Antonio.  We stopped at the oldest cathedral in Texas--my Google searching this morning reveals that it's not only the first cathedral in Texas, but the first church of any kind in Texas, and one of the oldest cathedrals in the U.S.

In many ways, it reminded me of the historic church in Saint Augustine, which is no surprise.  They were both built by Spanish Catholics, both built a long time ago.  The church in St. Augustine is much older, but it's not a cathedral, so it has different historic claims than the San Antonio cathedral we saw yesterday.

I was interested in the cathedral for all the historic reasons.  There I stood, in front of a crypt that holds the remains of some of the heroes of the Alamo, Bowie and Crockett and others:

But I was also fascinated that the sanctuary had various Lenten elements:

I assume that these columns are not always adorned this way, with crowns of thorns and purple cloth draped through them.  I was also struck by this focal point to the side of the altar, the whole and broken pots and the purple cloth:

I know that the church is not just a historic artifact.  I assume that there's a regular congregation that gathers there to worship.  It's wonderful that someone is paying attention to the liturgical seasonal details that can enrich the worship experience.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, March 8, 2020:

First Reading: Genesis 12:1-4a

Psalm: Psalm 121

Second Reading: Romans 4:1-5, 13-17

Gospel: John 3:1-17

It's always interesting to come across a familiar verse in context. John 3:16 is one of those verses that many people can quote. And yet, we're at the end of centuries of disagreement about what it means. Does it mean that Jesus had to be crucified as a sacrifice for our sins, as many Christians will tell you? Does it mean that Jesus came to show us a different way of life, thus saving us, as many people uncomfortable with a sacrificial Jesus would have us believe? Does it mean that Jesus is the only way to the Divine? What about people who will never hear about Jesus? Will they go to Hell when they die?

John is the most mystical of the Gospels, and not surprisingly, Jesus acts as a mystic in this episode with Nicodemus. He's studying the Torah at night; first century Jews would recognize night as the time for serious study of the Torah. He asks Jesus serious questions, as a scholar would, and Jesus seems to give him nonsense answers about being born again.

Read what Jesus says again, and imagine how frustrating it must have been for Nicodemus. It's frustrating for me, and I come from a tradition that would be happy to explain it to me. I can talk about the ideas of Martin Luther with the best of them, the small and large Catechisms, and yet, Jesus seems to be offering mystical babble here.

These are the passages that I hate discussing with the confused and the non-believers.  How to explain these mystical concepts?

Maybe we don't have to explain. I take part in all sorts of mysteries that I can't explain. I don't understand internal combustion engines, but I drive my car anyway, and I have faith that it will work. I can't explain how electricity is generated or how it powers all the things that make my life easy, but that doesn't stop me from turning on the lights when it's dark.

Advent and Lent are two times of the liturgical year when I am most conscious that I'm participating in a mystery--and therefore, I can't explain everything, especially not to the satisfaction of non-believers. I can't even explain it to me. As Jesus says, "The wind blows where it wills, and you hear the sound of it, but you do not know whence it comes or whither it goes; so it is with every one who is born of the Spirit."

I have faith in being born again, although I might define that differently than my fundamentalist friends. Each day is like a new opportunity, a new birth, a new chance to re-align myself towards God. Each day, God wants to come live with me, and each day, I get to decide whether or not that will happen. Even if I go through a period of not living as mindfully as I'd like, I can start again, whenever I choose. Like liturgical season of Advent, Lent reminds us of the need to turn and return to God.

A Prayer for Super Tuesday

In fourteen states, polls will open in a few hours.  People will cast a vote that may or may not help decide who will run against President Trump later this year. Or maybe their votes will muddle the issue.  Democracy is both wonderful and messy.

I find it interesting that I've never written prayers for Super Tuesday.  I may have said prayers, but if I had written any prayers, I would have recorded them in this blog.  I've written prayers for national election days, but not as much for primaries.

Many election years don't feel as important to me.  In past election years, I've had a preference, but I've felt that all of the people running would do the best job that they could, even as the people had different capabilities.

To put it more bluntly, in past years, I haven't felt as worried that we might be sliding down a road that ends in a totalitarian state.  I haven't felt as worried about the influence of other countries.  Until the past few years, I have always thought that the person who won the presidency would be working for the good of the country--call me naive.

So, let me compose a prayer for Super Tuesday:

Creator God, you have given us so many resources.  Help us not to squander them.  Help us in this moment of discernment.  Help us to choose the ones who have the best chance to lead us wisely.

Corona Status: Southeast Florida and AWP

My church in far southeast FL doesn't seem to be worried about the corona virus threat--we still hugged when we passed the peace  We're countercultural that way.  We've often gone against the grain of larger society.  People lined up to be anointed with oil after they took communion--bread handed to them from the pastor's hands, wine/grape juice in individual cups. 

And it's not that we don't know about the disease.  We're a congregation of middle-aged to elderly folks--we understand the dangers of germs.  Even before this latest virus, we have bottles of hand sanitizer at key locations.

Still, I'm not as unconcerned as I might appear to be.  I understand that this new virus doesn't seem to be as virulent as the SARS virus, but it's still got a higher death rate (2-3%) than the regular flu (0.1% or is it 0.01%?).

The other night I woke up in the middle of the night thinking about how this kind of health crisis presents the perfect opportunity to introduce martial law and curfews and quarantines--why send people away to camps when you can force them to stay home instead?

I told myself that maybe it's good that I'm more versed in sci-fi plots than the current administration.  I'm not sure that Trump's current advisers have thought about the best way to seize more power. And who are those people, these advisers, again?  I've lost track.  

I told myself that maybe it was good that the current administration was more concerned about the health of various markets than in keeping humans healthy.  Maybe the concern with the economics will keep the higher ups from realizing that they have a perfect opportunity to shred the Constitution even further.

I thought of my own novel languishing away, the main character's spouse taken away during a virulent flu outbreak, the flu outbreak sued to suspend civil liberties.  When I developed that part of the plot in July, I knew that I needed a series of events to lead to the dystopian near-future of my novel.  I chose a series of things:  a bombing at the White House that harmed no one and a serious pandemic.

I started writing in a white heat of creativity and progress.  As my pace began to falter, I wondered if it was because the material scared me.  It wasn't the kind of fear that writers usually discuss:  fear of disclosure, fear of not being able to do the work.  It was fear of the future, because what I was writing seemed all too possible.

If I had been writing this novel in 2015, my fear might have been that people would dismiss the premises of the novel.

And now there's talk of whether or not people should go to the AWP.  The conference itself has offered people credit for next year, if they want to cancel this year on an individual basis.  I hope they don't cancel the conference.  I travel tomorrow.  I'm going regardless.

Most of us going to the conference work in schools, and many of those schools have a huge population of international travelers.  We're surrounded by disease vectors.  A conference like AWP doesn't seem like that much bigger a risk for those of us who are healthy.

It will be interesting to see what happens in the next few weeks.  I hope it won't be interesting in the Chinese proverb/curse kind of way ("May you live in interesting times").

First Meeting with a Spiritual Director

Yesterday I had my first meeting with the woman who will be my spiritual director.  In some ways, I've had spiritual directors before:  pastors, youth group leaders, campus people.  But the process hasn't been as intentional as what I'm about to experience.

I drove down to my spiritual director's home.  She lives 45 minutes south of me.  Happily, I was able to find her house fairly easily.

We met in a room in her home which looked a bit like a home office, but with lots of spiritual books.  She has a small table in one corner that looks like an altar, with a cross, a candle, a singing bowl, and some rocks.  There was a small packet of tissues.

We began with centering prayer, which was interesting, since she didn't know that I had just read Thomas Keating's book on the practice.  I didn't close my eyes because I was afraid I might fall asleep.  Instead I stared at the window, at the palm trees beyond, palm trees obscured a bit by the gauzy drape at the window.

I expected to find my thoughts drifting, that I would need to use my sacred word of "grace" every 10 seconds.  Instead, I rarely needed to use the word.  Maybe I was tired from the drive.  Maybe sitting in silence isn't as hard as I assumed.

After my spiritual director called us back to the present with her singing bowl, we talked about the experience.  She says that she tries to do centering prayer every day with a 20 minute session.

We talked about our experiences with spiritual direction.  She's finishing a certificate program offered by United Methodist Alabama and West Florida Conference.  Hers is a 3 year program.  We talked about my program.

We talked about what we might expect from our partnership.  She also brought up payment; if she hadn't done that, I would have.  She charges $50 per session, which seems reasonable to me.  If that payment was a burden, she was prepared to negotiate, but I said, "No, no, $50 is very reasonable."  I pay $45 for a haircut, and if I got a massage, I'd pay more.  I pay our yard person $35, but he doesn't spend an hour at our house.

When I first heard about spiritual direction sessions, I wondered if they would be in an office or a cafe.  I'm glad that she's willing to have me come to her house.  I could happily spend many hours in her space; I wouldn't feel the same if we met at a Panera halfway between us.  We will meet face to face, even though some spiritual direction could be done by phone or video conference.  Again, I'm happy about this.

I'm intrigued to see where this process leads me.