Wombs Hidden Away for Safe Keeping: Pentecost and the Feast Day of the Visitation

On May 31, the Church celebrates Mary's visit to her cousin Elizabeth.  This feast day celebrates the time that Mary goes to visit her cousin Elizabeth. Both women are pregnant in miraculous ways: Mary hasn't had sex, and Elizabeth is beyond her fertile years. Yet both are pregnant. Elizabeth will give birth to John the Baptist, and Mary will give birth to Jesus.

This year, May 31 is also Pentecost Sunday.  Pentecost celebrates the day that the Holy Spirit comes to the first disciples.  In the Gospel of John, Jesus says that he must leave so that the Holy Spirit can come.  But in Luke, where we find the story of Mary's visit to Elizabeth, Elizabeth hears Mary's greeting, and she's filled with the Holy Spirit.

In these times of pandemic, I'm struck by other juxtapositions of both of these stories and our own contemporary history.  In the Pentecost story, we see the disciples sheltering in place, locked up in their rooms, unsure of what to do next.  I am familiar with that feeling.

Similarly, Mary and Elizabeth find themselves in strange circumstances, their lives upended by events that they couldn't have anticipated.  They, too, have been isolated.  I have spent the last two months trying to process the bizarre times in which we suddenly find ourselves.  I have felt that events have catapulted us into some new direction that we can't quite fathom yet.

In both stories, the humans involved find protection, solace, and support from their communities.  In our current time, we see that happening too, but in so many ways.  I've seen the Facebook posts from people sewing masks for others who couldn't get masks and couldn't sew.  I've seen people running errands for those who shouldn't.  I know that more of us are checking on each other than ever before, even as we have to be careful in terms of physical proximity.

Even the various protests erupting across the country can be painted as community coming together to care for each other.  Like many/most, I found the video of the police officer's murder of George Floyd horrifying.  I take comfort that we find it horrifying, and I hope that lasting change might come this time.

At the same time, I wonder why we have to do this over and over again, why we can't get to the place of lasting change.  I understand the rage that moves people to the streets.  That rage, too, is a kind of Holy Spirit fire, moving through people.

I also have a sense of the forces of evil in the world, forces that will see an opportunity to destroy community in these protests, marches, and riots.  I think of the Pentecost story, of Peter convincing the crowds that they were witnessing God at work, not drunken idiots.

I long for a Peter for our own time.  In the meantime, like Elizabeth and Mary, I will continue to incubate new possibilities in wombs hidden away for safe keeping, wombs that wait for the right moment to announce the presence of God in our midst.

Fourth Visit to the Spiritual Director

Yesterday, Friday, I went to see my spiritual director--our 4th visit.  I was scheduled for a Saturday morning visit, but she needed to reschedule.  Since I'd had several late evenings at work this week, I suggested a Friday afternoon visit.  So yesterday at 3, we met.

The trip down took me slightly less driving time, since I was leaving from my office and could hop right on the Turnpike.  In fact, yesterday was such a success in terms of time, we'll do it again on a Friday at 3 in June.

We began, as we usually do (and will always do), in a time of prayer.  Each time we've prayed in a different way.  Yesterday, we did a version of lectio divina.  My spiritual director picked up a prayer book and read the prayer written for the day.  I was to listen for a word or a phrase that leapt out at me, and it didn't have to be the same one each time.

I noticed these words:  deepen, connect, yearning, playfulness of God.  We spent the rest of the session discussing and discerning what those words might be saying to me right now.

I talked about how skittery my brain had been feeling since our last session:  so much to think about, in terms of the gradual re-opening of our society in these pandemic days and in my personal life, as I try to think of the ways to keep students safe and as I think about the future.  At my school, we've gotten the news that the school has been sold to a school in Brooklyn, and this week we met the owners.  The future seems uncertain in so many ways, and that makes it hard for me to make back-up plans or to even dream about the future.

So, it doesn't take much to see why those words leapt out at me, which we talked about in various ways.  We also talked about our churches.  I talked about how much I enjoy creating altarscapes and other elements of worship experiences.    We talked about the changes that churches across the nation have made, in terms of streaming and recording, and we wondered how permanent the changes will be.

What I want to be sure to record is an idea that leapt out at me.  When churches can reassemble in person, it would be good to still do the remote elements, as we have many people who can't gather in person:  the sick, the elderly, the disabled.  But when pastors have to lead in-person worship and visit the shut ins and lead Bible studies, will they have time to do the virtual stuff?  I suspect they won't.

I said, "I wonder if there might be a job as Director of Remote Programming."  We talked a bit about what that would look like.  My spiritual director said, "Your face really lights up when you talk about this."

Of course, it's a variety of thoughts I've had before, like being the online retreat leader.  While I like the idea of it, my brain also leaps to some of the problems I might have:  how does one make money?  (perhaps by marketing to a variety of churches?)  How does one avoid the tiredness that comes from staring at screens?  (perhaps by mixing some in-person stuff?)

I didn't discuss these possible drawbacks/problems with my spiritual director.  We finished up, and I drove home.  As always, I am intrigued by how I feel rested and refreshed after a session.  I'm also intrigued by how our conversations move to unexpected places.  When I drove down, I would not have anticipated having that conversation.

What a gift!

Sketching During Pandemic Months

For two months, I've been sketching on a daily basis.  In early March, when I returned from San Antonio, I signed up for an online journaling class with the same artist and group that had given me such a wonderful experience at the end of 2018.  I could not have imagined how much life was about to change, but I had some glimmers.  Here's a sketch from the early days of the pandemic:

The journaling group began later in March, and as March progressed into April, we read our way through Cynthia Bourgeault's Mystical Hope:  Trusting in the Mercy of God.  I found a lot that inspired me:

As we got to the end of our first journaling group time, our leader offered another experience for May.  We've been reading Meister Eckhart's Book of the Heart.  It's a book put together by Jon M. Sweeney and Mark S. Burrows; they've taken the words of Eckhart and put them in poetry form.  I haven't found myself journaling/sketching out specific passages as much, but it has been inspiring, and I have continued to sketch each day:

As I've sketched each day, I've noticed that I return again and again to the swirl, so occasionally, I've experimented with other forms and shapes.

I've used words and passages from the books we've been reading together.

I've even experimented a bit with realism--although it's always been a fanciful realism.

Occasionally, I'd start a sketch and then return to it.  Here's a progression that pleased me.  Day 1:

Later that day:

I've been using the same 4 markers throughout:  1 lilac and 3 shades of gray.  Occasionally, I used only the fine tip pens that I bought for the course:

Today is the last meeting of the journaling group.  I'm looking forward to expanding my color palette.  But I will miss this group!

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, May 31, 2020:

First Reading: Acts 2:1-21

First Reading (Alt.): Numbers 11:24-30

Psalm: Psalm 104:25-35, 37 (Psalm 104:24-34, 35b NRSV)

Second Reading: 1 Corinthians 12:3b-13

Second Reading (Alt.): Acts 2:1-21

Gospel: John 20:19-23

Gospel (Alt.): John 7:37-39



Ah, Pentecost, day of fire and wind and foreign languages.

Contemplate how much of Scripture circles around the breath of God. Reread Genesis--creation comes into being because God breathes it into life. Something similar happens in the Gospel of John. Jesus breathes on his disciples and transforms them. Likewise in Acts--that great rushing wind. For those of you in love with words and older translations, we often find the same word in these passages: Pneuma (yes, that root that creates our modern word of pneumonia).

The twenty-first century church, at least some branches of it, is in serious need of the breath of God. Perhaps you are too.

I often think of those first followers, who went out with the breath of God in them, and transformed the world. In the history of social movements, few have been as broadly successful as Christianity. My atheist friends would chime in that few have been as destructive--we both may be right. What an unlikely story: a small band of weirdly talented or distinctly ungifted men and women head out in pairs, carrying very little with them, and they survive enormous obstacles. In the process, they change the culture--and often, then, they move on. Think of the distances that they travelled--often on foot. Think of how hostile the culture was. You wouldn't be able to suspend your disbelief if you read it in a book.

The breath of God can transform us in the same way. Jesus transfers his powers to his disciples; we're given the power to do what he does. Now, if only we could believe it.

Maybe the key is to act as if you do believe it. You can do remarkable things, even if you don't feel like you can.

We're at a point in history that may prove to be a pivot.  Plagues and pandemics have often transformed societies in ways that wouldn't have been possible otherwise, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.  Many people are already considering how to use this moment in history for their own purposes.  How can we use this moment to create a society that's more in line with the vision that God has for us?

Maybe the thought of transformation exhausts you in the best of times.  Maybe the question of transformation in a time of plague threatens to overwhelm you.  Maybe you are already drowning.

So let's begin from a much simpler place.  In a time of a new disease that attacks the lungs, let's focus on our breathing.  In his new book, Breath: The New Science of a Lost Art, researcher James Nestor points us to a study showing that breathing in for 5-6 seconds and breathing out for 5-6 seconds can help restore our sense of calm and well being.  Breathing more deeply can heal us in all sorts of ways, especially if we remember to focus on our breath more often.

As we focus on our breathing, let's add a powerful meditative element.  As you inhale, envision God breathing into you. Breathe deeply.  Receive the breath of God.  

As you exhale, imagine God's grace and goodness flowing into the world.  We've spent a lot of time thinking about the virus particles that can be expelled with a human breath.  It's time for a new vision.

It's good for humans to keep masks over our mouths during this time of pandemic.  We can't breathe on each other the way that Jesus breathes on the disciples in this week's Gospel.

But figuratively, the world needs to receive the breath of God.  The planet cries out for healing.  The stories of Pentecost show us ways to begin.

Memorial Day: Flooding Rain and Pentecost Poetry Project Video

When I think of this past Memorial Day week-end, what will I remember?  In some ways, it was a week-end like many other week-ends:  grilling, cooking, grading, writing, sketching, and sleeping a bit more than I can during the week.

In some ways, it was strange:  a grad school friend and I did a Facebook call.  It was like a Skype call, so in some ways, it wasn't strange.  But it did start to rain heavily while we were talking, and I noticed some rain dripping on the windowsill.  We haven't had water instrusion through that window since Hurricane Irma; in fact, that's the only time we've had water intrusion through that window.

By the end of yesterday afternoon, we had water intrusion through all the windows that occasionally let water in, which is about half of them.  In a way, I feel fortunate--we don't have consistent leaks, with damage easily contained.  Roof leaks would be more difficult for me to handle.  Fixing these kinds of leaks is a headache though.  It's so hard to know where the water comes in and how it travels.

It was the kind of afternoon where I was glad we didn't have plans.  We sat and watched the flooding creep ever closer to the house, but happily, the rains let up, and the water receded.  Still, in the past year, it's the second flooding rain event, and they weren't related to anything tropical.

But hopefully, as I think back over this week-end, I'll remember the Pentecost Poetry Project that brought me lots of joy.  I had been assembling small videos during my morning walks last week, videos that are part poem, part image, part theology.  Here's one that I didn't use in the larger project:

Yesterday, I put them all together.  It wasn't anything I'd ever done before, but Windows 10 comes with a video editor function that gave me all that I needed.  I loved thinking about how to order them, how to make them most effective, how to finish.  I loved remembering the walks I took, the inspiration that I felt.

On Sunday, which is Pentecost, I'll post the whole video here.  In the meantime, I'm thinking about a larger project.  Could I do something similar with other church festival days?  Could I do it without being repetetive?

Stay tuned!

Memorial Day in a Time of Pandemic

Today is Memorial Day, a day that has often been strange for me.   Once we would have spent the week-end in Jacksonville with old college friends. During some of those years, we had to leave on Sunday, because I taught in South Carolina, a state which didn’t have Memorial Day as a state holiday. Memorial Day began as a day to honor the Union dead, so many southern states had an alternate Confederate Memorial Day. And my school didn't have many of the federal holidays off at all.

But I digress.

That tradition ended when one friend's marriage ended. In more recent years, we've stayed down here and not done much special--although we often meet up with friends at least once during the week-end.  The friends that we would most often meet are staying very isolated during this pandemic time, as she has some underlying health conditions.

I often think that I'd rather spend Memorial Day in a place like D.C., where I could go to a military memorial site or even Arlington National Ceremony.  I'd rather have a place set aside specifically designed to make me reflect on the price paid to protect our country.

Now we are at a time when we've lost more U.S. citizens to COVID-19 than we have in some wars.  For example, roughly 58,000 soldiers died in Vietnam; we quickly approaching the 100,000 mark in this pandemic, and that's just U.S. deaths that we know about.

As I was thinking and researching this morning, I was astonished again at the amount of life lost in World War II:  400,000 U.S. soldiers dead.  The death rate around the world boggles the mind.  I predict at some point we will say the same about COVID-19.

It has been interesting to hear various leaders use war imagery to talk about how we're going to fight this new virus.  It's language that makes me wince.  An enemy comprised of humans might be easier than this virus, which will not respond to reason or to threats or to force.

But the same kinds of attitudes can lead us into deeper trouble with this virus--and we're already in pretty deep trouble.

Here's a prayer I wrote for Memorial Day:

God of comfort, on this Memorial Day, we remember those souls whom we have lost to war. We pray for those who mourn. We pray for military members who have died and been forgotten. We pray for all those sites where human blood has soaked the soil. God of Peace, on this Memorial Day, please renew in us the determination to be peacemakers. On this Memorial Day,we offer a prayer of hope that military people across the world will find themselves with no warmaking jobs to do. We offer our pleading prayers that you would plant in our leaders the seeds that will sprout into saplings of peace.

Pandemic Protocols: Masks, Thermometers, and Ash Wednesday

Tuesday at work was the first day of what will likely be the new normal for a long time.  Students arrived on campus in a limited capacity; they came only to do lab work for classes, and only the lab work that couldn't be done virtually.  We all wore masks, and I took everyone's temperature upon arrival with a no-touch thermometer.

We had the advantage of having several months to get used to some of this.  In our county in South Florida, we have been wearing masks to stores for almost two months, so wearing a mask on campus is less strange than it would have been in early April.

It still feels strange to take people's temperature, even though it's a no touch system.  With all these months of hearing about 6 feet of social distancing, it feels invasive to get that close, even when we both wear masks.

Each one of my masks makes me miserable in a different way.  One is too tight, while the other has elastic ear loops that are a bit too big.  One I lined with a flannel fabric that sheds fibers and makes my nose itch.  I've tried every way of getting them to stay on my face:  elastic ear loops, ties, clipping them to my hair in addition to the other securing--they still feel like they'll slip away from my nose and mouth with the slightest exhale.  Plus I'm realizing that I'm often holding my breath when I put the mask on.

Our no-touch thermometer has the temperature taker aim for the lower part of the forehead.  On Wednesday morning I took temperatures and thought about how much it felt like Ash Wednesday, except I wasn't smearing ashes on the foreheads of parishioners.  Still, it's a potent reminder of what's at stake regardless of whether its' the taking of a temperature or the smearing of ash.  We are all dust, and to dust we shall return.

I also thought about the week-end when I had made the mask I was wearing.  It was Easter week-end, and it was becoming clear that we would need masks; it was also becoming clear that there was a national shortage.  It was strange to sew masks and to think about the Easter readings of the empty tomb with the folded grave cloths.  I've always been touched by that idea:  Jesus rising from the dead, but taking time to fold the grave wrappings.

At some point, I'll write a poem about all of this.  But for now, it's time to head to church.  I'm preaching the sermon--we're celebrating the Ascension.

Signs of the Pandemic Times

Yesterday seemed momentous in terms of the church angle of these pandemic times.  I realized how many clergy friends I have when they all took to the airwaves (Facebook/Twitter waves would probably be more accurate).  Why did they do this?

The president of the U.S. is giving out dumb advice again.  I could argue that not a day goes by when the president of the U.S. abstains from giving out dumb advice, but let me not digress.  The president decided that churches should re-open tomorrow.

Has he not been reading the information that I've been reading?  We can't sing together or celebrate the Eucharist the way we did.  We can't pass the peace the ways that most of us did.  Most of us can't have coffee hour and stay 6 feet apart--our fellowship halls might be big, but they're not that big.  

We're going to be worshiping from a distance, even if we get back together in the same building, so why not keep meeting virtually?  That's the decision my church has made.

And yes, I realize that President Trump is not concerned about the spiritual health of the nation, that he has other reasons for recommending a return to sanctuaries.  But I'm not digressing in that way either.

Yesterday, I spent more time feeling sadness about the summer and summer camp.  Novus Way, the umbrella organization that runs 4 Lutheran camps in the U.S. Southeast, sent out an e-mail announcing the cancellation of summer programs at all camps. I had expected that news. After all, the camper cabins at Lutheridge are much too small to allow distancing. And the communal eating. And the people coming from lots of locations. It gives me a headache just thinking about it.

I've found the new routine at my school, a college campus with a very limited re-opening, to be exhausting, and I'm not even doing much of it.  I take the temperatures of everyone who arrives to campus, but that's nothing compared to the cleaning crew who now comes through every 3 hours. How one can do that at camp where everyone's living together--how many more people would one have to hire?

So, I'm glad that they canceled, but I do wonder how long this situation can continue in terms of finances. I also know that once, the summer programs kept most church camps afloat financially, but that's probably not the case now. I think many church camps make a lot more money by having groups come in and rent the place during the non-summer season.

One of my Facebook friends wrote about the summer literary events that are being canceled, and she ended her post by saying "I'll be resilient but that doesn't mean I won't be sad." This sentence sums up my feelings about so many situations.

Let us be resilient while still allowing ourselves to feel sad and to grieve.

Holy Spirit Poetry/Sermon Project

Last week, my pastor asked me if I wanted to do the message for Pentecost Sunday.  He's putting together some sort of video service which will be unlike the livestreaming that we usually do--that means that the message could be different from a traditional sermon.

I said yes, although I didn't really have a plan, and my videography skills aren't my strongest creative skills.  I thought about some traditional images:  fire and wind.  I could build a fire in our firepit or in the fireplace and film it.  Surely I could capture wind in a similar manner.  But as I've been walking through my neighborhood in the morning, I started to develop an alternate plan.  I had planned to record certain elements that have something to teach us about the Holy Spirit.

Tuesday morning I took my camera with me on my walk.  Happily, early in my walk, I realized I could film and talk at the same time.  My earlier plan had been to film and then figure out what to say and somehow splice the two together and then splice all the units together.

Later, I watched what I had created Tuesday morning, and I was pleased with it.  It's one of the rare moments of creativity where what I create is better than what I had hoped for--and it went in different directions than what I was thinking I would create.

My vignettes are more like poetry than anything else:  what does a trash pile have to say about the Holy Spirit?  Are we so busy looking for a burning bush that we miss the subtle shadings of the shrubbery?

When I first started this process, I thought I'd go to all sorts of locations.  Now I think I'll use what I've generated during these morning walks.

Let me see if I can post one of them here.  And then later, once I have them all put together, I'll write more about it and try to post it all.

The Feast Day of the Ascension

The readings for the Feast of the Ascension:

First Reading: Acts 1:1-11

Psalm: Psalm 47

Psalm (Alt.): Psalm 93

Second Reading: Ephesians 1:15-23

Gospel: Luke 24:44-53


In today’s reading, we get a summary of the life of Jesus, and then, in a sentence, it’s over. Jesus ascends into Heaven, leaving behind gaping disciples.

They don’t get to stare into the sky very long. They have a task to do. It’s the same task that we have.

Today’s reading gives us the paradox of God’s good news. The kingdom of God is both here, now, already, but it is also not yet fulfilled. Those two conditions seem impossible to reconcile. It seems impossible to live with both conditions existing simultaneously--and yet, it is what we are called to do.

Many of us spend much of our lives as those men of Galilee, gaping into the heavens; we spend time thinking about Heaven, plotting how to get there, anticipating the time when all our tears will be wiped away.

But the coming Sundays of the Pentecost season remind us that we’re not put on Earth to wait to die. We are here to help God in the ultimate redemption of creation. Jesus began that work of that redemption. We are here to further it along, at least as much as we can during our very short time here.

And how do we do that? The possible answers to that question are as varied as humanity. Some of us will pray without ceasing. Some of us will fight for social justice. Some of us will create works that point others to God. Some of us will visit the lonely and the sick. Some of us will give away our money so that others have the resources to do the creation redeeming work that needs to be done.

Whatever we choose, it’s important that we get to work. We don’t want to get to the end of our time here, only to be asked, “Why did you stand there gaping, when there was so much work to do?”

Prayer for the Feast of the Ascension:

Ascending God, you understand our desire to escape our earthly bonds, to hover above it all, to head to Heaven now instead of later. Remind us of our earthly purpose. Reassure us that we have gifts and talents that are equal to the tasks that you need us to do. Help us close our gaping mouths and get to work.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The lessons for May 24, 2020:


First Reading: Acts 1:6-14

Psalm: Psalm 68:1-10, 33-36 (Psalm 68:1-10, 32-35 NRSV)

Second Reading: 1 Peter 4:12-14; 5:6-11

Gospel: John 17:1-11

In today's Gospel, we see Jesus at the end of his mission. We see Jesus praying, telling God all the things he (Jesus) has done. We also see Jesus handing over his ministry to his disciples.

What a strange thought, that these humans are ready for such a large mission. And yet, even my devout atheist friends have to admit the success of these early followers. And those of us several thousand years out might be wondering what Jesus did to foster this success. After all, if you set out to choose a group of people to bring the Good News to the far corners of the planet, you would likely pass those early disciples right on by.

That's the wonderful news that winds its way through the Bible. God can use all sorts of misfits and scraps of humanity to accomplish wonderful things. In her wonderful book, Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, Anne Lamott says, "You've got to love this in a God--consistently assembling the motleyest people to bring, into the lonely and frightening world, a commitment to caring and community."

Notice that all of Jesus' followers were given responsibilities. They didn't just show up at church and wait to be entertained. They didn't march off in a huff when Jesus didn't do things the way the last savior did. I'm sure that Jesus lost some people along the way--after all, he made some stringent demands. But he also gave people ownership and expectations.

Jesus taught his followers to live in the moment, to not worry so much about 5 year projections or the future of the faith. He taught people to focus on the needs of the community and not on power structures that they hoped to maintain.

Jesus commanded his followers to be dependent on each other and to trust that God would provide for them. Think about one of the Gospel's versions of the last supper. Jesus sends them into town to procure things and when they're asked what they're doing, they're to say that the Lord has need of these things. And it works! When they're sent out, they're sent out two by two, with only what they can carry (and it's a light load). This ensures that they'll make connections in the new community, not just trust in each other and the people that they already know.

I'll admit that it's simplistic to look at Jesus' ministry in this way. We might also feel defensive.  We might say that these early followers had the advantage of doing something new.  In our century, we have all sorts of burdens:  tradition, responsibilities, buildings.  We can't decide to start over in thinking about the way we do ministry.

Or can we?  These last two months of this new pandemic have showed us that we can start over, that we may need to develop new approaches for a time of contagion.

Churches across the world have been forced to experiment with new ways of worship.  Some have livestreamed a service each week.  Some have recorded various elements of the service and spliced it together.  Some churches have gathered in vast parking lots in cars. 

It's too early to tell where our new path leads.  Some people report that they've never felt more connected across the congregation.  Some people are tired of communities connected by screen time.  Our time of innovation is not yet done.

God calls us to resurrection not just once, but daily.  God calls us out of all that has left us abandoned in our tombs.  Let us fold our gravecloths and emerge.

Anchored

Our communal tables have gone dark.

We may feel like empty jars waiting to be filled.

We search the dark sky, searching for clues.

We look for signs that others have gone before us.

We hope for shutters that will open safely.

Filled with hope and dread, we anchor ourselves as we sing the Liturgy of the Hours, the way the ancients taught us.

Rare Free Online Opportunities: The Festival of Homiletics

For years, I have wanted to go to the Festival of Homiletics.  But it's often at a time that's not convenient or it's in a year when I'm already traveling, and I can't be out of the office too often in a season.

If ever you wanted to go to the Festival of Homiletics, this year is your year--it's streaming and free for the livestream ($75 for on demand viewing with access for this type of viewing for 1 year after the festival--because of music copyright, the worship services might not be available on demand).  Go here to register.

It does start on May 18, so if you want the free livestream, don't delay!

I decided to pay the $75, because I'm still in an office during the day, and I knew I might have to miss some/all of the livestream.  Plus, in the world of expenses, $75 seems like a bargain for something that I anticipate will be a combination of nourishing and supportive and comforting.

We are seeing many virtual opportunities that make experiences possible for many of us who would never be able to take part.  I hope it's something we can hang onto after the pandemic passes.

Corona Virus Care Packages

In the early days of the pandemic, by which I mean just before the U.S. started to lock down in March, I ordered 3 copies of Jeannine Hall Gailey's Field Guide to the End of the World.  I had a copy of the book packed away, but I decided to order some more copies.  I'd read one, and then give all three away, or keep one for the April Poetry Month display in my college campus library, and I'd support a small publisher:

Above, you can see I was also supporting one of my favorite local wine shops!

Well, by the time the books came, my friends had gone into self-isolation, and it was clear that students wouldn't be using the library during the month of April.  That didn't prevent me from reading a copy, along with some apocalyptic fiction.

When I came across a packet of sunflower seeds, I thought about my friend who had been posting about her gardening adventures.  And thus, the idea of a care package was born.  And since I was sending a package, I decided to include my latest manuscript chapbook:

I loved putting it together, and my friend loved receiving it. I also created two masks, and made a separate care package for my parents.  Below is a picture of my sister (who was visiting) and my dad on the day the masks arrived:

I now have the urge to put together all kinds of flat care packages--they're cheaper to mail than a box.  Let me ponder all the delights that could lie flat in an envelope:  poems, seeds, puppets, earrings, cloth creations.

Stay tuned!

A New Kind of Hospitality

I spent much of yesterday writing and revising our protocols and procedures for a safe reopening of our campus.  Reopening isn't exactly the correct term.  We're having some students come back to do lab work.  We've looked for ways to minimize the need to do that:  many of our students will be doing simulations as we explore ways to do labs from a distance.  Some lab information can be done virtually.

There's been some insistence about what cannot be done virtually.  I'm the administrator several levels removed from the classroom/discipline, so I have tried to let faculty and Program chairs make the decisions about what can be done virtually and what must be done face to face.  I have encouraged everyone to think about other options, and I've reminded us all (perhaps tiresomely) about the dangers of being together in the same room.  We will practice social distancing, but that's not as safe as staying home.

Today one of our tasks will be to prepare the campus physically.  That means moving chairs out of classrooms and putting down tape on the floors where the remaining chairs should stay.  We will put tape down on the floors, even though we don't expect students to be lined up in hallways.  We will keep the student breakroom locked when students are on campus; students will need to come in, do their labs, and leave.  If they need to eat, they're safer eating in their cars.

Some part of my heart is breaking over these developments.  We've done so much to make the campus a hospitable place, and now we have to abandon it.  I know that safety from contagion is a different kind of hospitality, but I would rather attend to the kind of hospitality that involves baked goods.  Sigh.

So, today I will wear clothes suitable for taping the floors:  another chapter that doesn't appear in my edition of Dressed for Success.  What is the proper sartorial choice for a business setting when one will be moving furniture?  I will wear jeans and sneakers and a sleeveless mock turtleneck so that I can bend over without giving it much thought.

As we prepare, I will pray.  That, too, is a different kind of hospitality.  I will pray for the safety of us all, I will pray that we can prepare students for their futures without jeopardizing their health, I will pray for those of us who will need patience as we oversee these protocols--and I will pray that our students will understand the necessity for these protocols.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, May 17, 2020:

First Reading: Acts 17:22-31

Psalm: Psalm 66:7-18 (Psalm 66:8-20 NRSV)

Second Reading: 1 Peter 3:13-22

Gospel: John 14:15-21


In today's Gospel, we get a hint of Pentecost. Jesus tells his followers that he will never leave them orphaned or desolate, to use words from several different translations.

Every year as Ascension Day approaches, I think of those poor disciples. They have such a short time with their resurrected Lord, before he goes away again. How on earth do they cope with this?

I also see this situation as a metaphor for our own modern one. You may be feeling a bit whipsawed by grief and loss yourself. You may recover from one crisis, only to find yourself staring down the maw of the next. As I've gotten older, I've noticed that these crises seem to be increasing in frequency and severity. I look back to the dramas of my high school and college years, and I understand why so many elders chuckle dismissively at the troubles of youth. We forget, however, that trouble feels like crisis, no matter what our age.

But Jesus offers this comfort: we will never be alone.

Notice what Jesus does NOT offer: our God is not Santa Claus. Our God is not a fix everything quickly God (at least not all the time).

I have some acquaintances who claim to have lost their faith on September 11, 2001. They had been faithful in their church attendance, but once that disaster happened, they declared they couldn't believe in a God that would let such terrible things happen. No talk of free will would deter them in their determination to let go of their faith.

Earlier generations had a similar difficulty with Auschwitz (perhaps you do too). How can God let such awful things happen?

Well, that's the disadvantage of gifting humans with free will. We will sometimes get things spectacularly wrong. I think of it as being a parent of an adolescent. We want the best for our teenagers. We know the dangers are acute; so many mistakes that are made at this age are mistakes for life and can't be easily undone. So many choices made at this age will impact the rest of adulthood.

Yet as parents, we can't prevent every tragedy. All we can do is to be there for our children when they go off the rails.

Likewise as friends, as spouses and significant others, as children: we can't keep our loved ones safe. We can try to help them avoid the pitfalls that we see, but even that won't always be successful. We can only be with those we love as they suffer, in the hopes that our presence will alleviate some of the pain.

Evil has real power in the world, and we forget that at our peril. As Christians, we are called to take a longer view, and we are called to believe that God will eventually emerge victorious--but that doesn't mean that this victory will happen in our lifetimes. We are part of a larger story, and we all have our part to play. But we must be aware that we might be like Moses or the early apostles: we may not see the fruits of our labors; we may not get to the promised land (at least not in this life). The Good News that Jesus delivers should give us comfort: all of creation will be redeemed eventually, and that redemption has begun.

Return to that promise of Jesus: we are not orphaned. We are not abandoned. Even in our darkest days, when we feel at our most unlovable, God sees our value. God remembers our better selves. God knows what we could accomplish. If God can use deeply flawed people like Saul who becomes Paul, God will also weave us into the great fabric of Kingdom life.

Julian of Norwich: A Mystic for Our Time

Today is the feast day of Julian of Norwich if you're Catholic.  Anglicans and Lutherans celebrated her feast day on May 8.  In these pandemic days, it feels like we've been celebrating her by emulating her for two months--well some of us have.

Of course, if we're being honest, most of us have much more room in our lockdown spaces than Julian of Norwich did.   As a 14th century anchoress, she lived in a small cell attached to a cathedral, in almost complete isolation, spending her time in contemplation. She had a series of visions, which she wrote down, and spent her life elaborating upon. She is likely the first woman to write a book-length work in English.

And what a book it is, what visions she had. She wrote about Christ as a mother--what a bold move! After all, Christ is the only one of the Trinity with a definite gender. She also stressed God is both mother and father. Her visions showed her that God is love and compassion, an important message during the time of the Black Death.

We are going through our own time of plague, and we may be having all sorts of visions.  Many people report vivid dreams and nightmares.  What would happen if we took those visions seriously?  What if we started with those visions and explored them in our writing?

Julian of Norwich took the world in a direction it hadn't been before. She's one of our first known female theologians written in English, and because she did it, others coming afterwards would take their own visions and their words seriously too--as did other people.

And yet, she didn't set out to change the world.   I comfort myself by reminding myself that Julian of Norwich would be astonished if she came back today and saw the importance that people like me have accorded her. She likely had no idea that her writings would survive. She was certainly not writing and saying, "I will be one of the earliest female writers in English history. I will depict a feminine face of God. I will create a theology that will still be important centuries after I'm dead."

These days, I often repeat Julian of Norwich’s most famous quote: “All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.” Would Julian of Norwich be pleased that so many of us derive comfort by repeating those words? Or would she shake her head and be annoyed that we have missed what she considered to be the most important ideas?

I remind myself that she would have such a different outlook than I do. She was a medieval woman who served God; she likely would not even view her ideas as her own, but as visitations from the Divine. If I could adopt more of that kind of attitude, it could serve me well on some of my more stressful days when divesting could be the most helpful thing that I could do.

In these days, divesting ourselves (of our plans/expectations for the future, of our need to be sure of the future, of our worries and fears, of my disappointment in the federal response to this huge crisis) on and on I could go) would be helpful for many of us.  Let us repeat the words of Julian of Norwich, even if we don't believe them:

“All shall be well, and all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well.” 

A Distant Mirror*

Yesterday, I had this stray thought that at some point, I'd look back and miss the quarantine days. We're figuring out how to slowly re-open school for onground, face to face stuff that needs to happen.  We have some classes that MUST have a face to face lab--at least that's been the traditional approach.  I wouldn't want someone drawing my blood who had only practiced on a computer simulation. 

Some of our faculty have been making interesting decisions about how to do labs virtually, while some have not. There's some great computer software out there, simulations and such. The school will pay for some of it, but some of it we can't afford.

Having students back in school won't be the old normal, however. We'll be locking up the student lounge  (which is more like a lunchroom) so that students don't linger. For the first time, I've been glad we don't have booming enrollment, since we can't have more than 10 people in a room. There will be lots more sanitizing and wiping down--we're trying to figure out who does the wiping and who does the monitoring to make sure the sanitizing is happening and who will be the hall monitor making sure that people aren't congregating.

The thought of it exhausts me, and yet at the same time, I feel lucky to still have a job.  I'm keenly aware that we may open up and in a month or two, need to go back to being more/completely online.  It makes it very hard to plan and to think about what's best--both in my work world and in the larger world.

As I drove home last night, after an exhausting afternoon considering these issues, I heard the president's press conference, the end where he unraveled and then walked off in a huff.  It was startling.  I don't know why I continue to be startled by the approach of the federal government, and in particular this president, but I am.

My Amazon book order came.  It's the first time I ordered books that came late instead of early.  Included in the shipment:  the next 2 books in my spiritual direction certificate program.  On the one hand, I was happy to finally have them, and they look much more interesting than the book I just finished for the program.  On the other hand, I look at them, and I think about how full of hope I was when I started the program, and now it's all I can do not to fall into a deep pit of despair.

I feel like I'm looking in a distant mirror, that I see a reflection that I sort of recognize, from a time that feels very far away.

Life is uncertain, and I've always known that, but I found it easier to cope with the uncertainty on an individual (and often theoretical) level, not in our current national and international situation.  I would have thought I would find it easier, with the "we're all in this together"vibe.  I'm not sure whether I do or not.

And now it's time to get ready for school.  Today we stay later for New Student Orientation, a different sort of odd mirror.  In some ways it's so familiar.  In some ways, it's so different, as we do it remotelywith a skeleton crew.

*I'm reverting back to a habit from my early days of blogging this pandemic, when I tried to reference earlier works about plague.  Historian Barbara Tuchman spends some time on the effects of the plague outbreaks in the 14th century in her work by this name.

Unbroken Circles

My church has been doing a variety of projects to celebrate Mother's Day.  Last week, a group of us got together to create a version of "Will the Circle Be Unbroken."  One of us had only been playing mandolin for 2 weeks, but you wouldn't know it from her skill when she played with us.  One of us has banjo skills that he doesn't often display at church.  We had organ, flute, percussion, tambourine, and of course, voices.

On Saturday, our pastor posted the first of our video projects, a collection of songs and photos.  My spouse was so crushed that our song didn't make the cut.  But happily, our song didn't make the cut because our project was released as a solo project.

Yesterday, I made this Facebook post:  "Something different from what I usually post: a group of us at my church put together a special song for Mother's Day. As I look at it now and think about the latest advice about singing in groups with a virus ravaging the planet, I realize we are much too close to each other. Still, I hope you enjoy."

You, too, can view the video here.

I am not crazy about my singing voice in the video.  Happily, my spouse sang the verses, and he really carries us.

I remind myself that we only rehearsed the song for about 20 minutes before the worship service.  After the service, we ran through it several times, and then we recorded.  There's a version that I don't have yet; for our first recording, the camera stayed steady, and I'm guessing that our voices sounded more unified.

In the version that's up now, our pastor walked among us as we sang.  And yes, let me just say that I am relieved that no one is sick at this point, and it's been 8 days, so I'm hoping that we aren't going to be punished for the risk that we took that we didn't really realize we were taking.

In this version, as our pastor is close to us, you can hear our individual voices. I think we sound better as a chorus when you can't pick out our voices.  I've been feeling bad about my singing voice since--well, forever--and I wonder if now is the time for voice lessons.

But what I love about this type of music is that it can accommodate a variety of voices.  If you listen to various versions, you'll hear people who would never be successful opera singers or featured choir members.  Some of those people, like the Carter family, have become musical icons.

After church service streaming yesterday, a group of us stayed to talk about our approach to choir in light of the news about the risks of COVID-19 transmission by way of singing.  We have a small choir now, only about 6 people.  Should we quit having live singing during the livestream?  Should we space the choir members out across the sanctuary? 

I'm not sure what we'll decide.

As we talked, I thought about a quote from Maria Popova's Figuring:  "One of the greatest betrayals of our illusion of permanence, one of the sharpest daggers of loss, is the retroactive recognition of lasts--the last time you sat across from a person you now know you will never see again, the last touch of a hand, the last carefree laugh over something spoken in the secret language that binds two people in intimacy--lasts the finality of which we can never comprehend in the moment, lasts we experience with sundering shock in hindsight" (p. 184).

I think we will be able to sing again, maybe even in close proximity.  But one of the things that makes our recording for Mother's Day so poignant is that we may not sing like that for a very long time.

"Necessity of Moisture": A Poem for Mother's Day

It's Sunday, May 10--a Mother's Day that will be one of the more unusual than many of us have ever experienced.  Maybe it will be a relief, a reminder of what's important:  our love for each other, our ability to nurture in all sorts of ways.  And of course, there will be many occasions for mourning on this Mother's Day.

I find myself missing my mom, even though she's still alive, and I can call her later today.  My mom is/was a great mom in so many ways, but the one that was perhaps most important to me was that she kept me supplied in books. Before I could drive myself to the library, she drove me and checked out as many books as I wanted (the Montgomery Alabama public library only allowed children to check out 5 books at a time--5 books??!!--I could read that amount in a lazy afternoon!). And when our family only had one car, we biked to the library. She was supportive in any number of my future endeavors too, like writing and drama and choosing a college and writing a dissertation and oh, the list is so long--but all those quests are rooted in my early reading. It was those books that showed me all the possible lives that humans could have. And it was my mom that made it possible for me to have books.

I'm also missing my grandmother.  In my younger years, I drove over to see her once a month, when we both lived in South Carolina.  She didn't always approve of my life choices, but there was a bedrock of love between us.

I've found myself thinking of her gardens, her cooking, her sewing. I don't have anything that's like a traditional celebratory mom poem. But "Necessity of Moisture" seems to fit the bill, in terms of celebrating family traditions and love of all sorts. It first appeared in Tar River Poetry and also in my chapbook I Stand Here Shredding Documents.

Necessity of Moisture

His last letter spoke of snow,
the necessity of moisture, the dryness of the soil.
Even though he had not tilled the ground
in more than twenty years, the dirt
still spoke to him. As with an old love,
his connection to the land would never completely cease.

Although she would never farm his way,
his daughter always kept a garden.
Even now, long after she’s let the grass grow
over the backyard once ruled by green
beans, squash, tomatoes, and okra, even now, she shovels
her organic waste back into her compost heap.

I will never garden on even my grandmother’s
small scale, but I save all my kitchen scraps,
mix them with grass clippings, compost
in my non-professional way. I long for her rich, black dirt
as I stick my seedlings in the Florida sand.
We chat every Sunday, exchange rainfall statistics
the way some men might discuss baseball details.
Catlike, I save weather tidbits through the week as a love offering.

Some families develop elaborate gift giving rituals,
a whole language of material love. Others create pet
names, secret personalities, languages no outsider understands.
My family’s secret language lies in the meteorological details
and soil analysis, love as moisture, compost, seedlings.

Spiritual Sketching

This morning before sketching, I read Psalm 107: 33-43, which has lots of water imagery. I was thinking about springs of living water, and this sketch emerged:

Yesterday I started with this sketch:

I thought I should add more to it.  I didn't like the way it reminded of the logo of the Partridge Family.  I like the idea of a nest holding something important, and so I tried adding to that aspect.  And then I added a descending dove or a flame, depending on your perspective.

To me, this sketch shows two main ways that humans have interacted with God.  There's the going into the interior and discovering God, and then there's the kind of discovery where God interrupts regular life.  I realize that there are other ways of discovering God, of course.  

Walking the Moonlit Path

All our plans have splintered into shards.

We discover the nest of wasps in what had seemed to be a cultivated garden.

We see illumination, but so far away and obscured.

Let us learn from the tortoise:  staying on the course, slow and steady and sturdy.

We will return to the practices left to us by our ancestors.

We will make our way along a moonlit path.

Ministering in the Time of Pandemic

As it continues to be clearer each day about the risk of assembling in groups, I'm seeing churches wrestling with how to best be the body of Christ in a world where bodies need to stay at least 6 feet apart.

Some churches may not have as many issues.  Small congregations may be able to go back to some variation of their previous lives.  Many small congregations worship in very big spaces that were built last century when the congregation was bigger.  They could space themselves out.

But even small congregations, like mine, will wrestle with the question of whether or not it's smart to come back.  If we can't sing, if we can't figure out the eucharist, do we really need to risk being together as a group in the same physical space?

Many of us are growing weary of being the virtual body of Christ.  And then there's the question of who can't join us virtually.  How do we include members of our congregations who can't access the technology?

Some churches, like mine, will send a DVD of the service, for those who can't join us during the livestream.  This morning, I read about a church that does some sort of telephone call.  It's not a Zoom meeting, but an old-fashioned conference call.

I've also heard about church members who deliver a print out of the service, like a bulletin for those of you old enough to remember church bulletins, but with the sermon typed out.  You could drop such a thing in the U.S. Mail, but this morning I read about church members who deliver in person.  They stay safely apart, but it gives the housebound member a chance to see another face and perhaps chat from a distance.

As we move through these days/months/years of this pandemic, I hope that we keep a record of some of the important ways we tried to be inclusive.  I hope we keep the successful ones.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, May 10, 2020:


First Reading: Acts 7:55-60

Psalm: Psalm 31:1-5, 15-16

Second Reading: 1 Peter 2:2-10

Gospel: John 14:1-14

The Gospel text for this Sunday has much to say to modern people. I come back again and again to the beginning: "Let not your hearts be troubled." We are in a time period where so many of us have troubled hearts.

I worry about our hearts becoming hard as stones once we all decide that we're tired of being troubled. History shows us this trajectory. Right now many of us are steadfast in our commitment to looking out for each other. But what happens when we grow tired?

When I was younger, I thought we needed to change the world for the better on a grand, global scale. Thus I set myself up for failure when I couldn't eradicate world hunger in the course of my lifetime. Now I know that the things we do for each other to help each other are just as important: staying late to help a colleague, listening to a friend (not solving problems, just listening), helping someone move, writing a quick e-mail to let someone know we're thinking of them: the list of what we could do to live with more compassion is infinite.

This passage also has Jesus tell us about the house with many rooms, a passage often interpreted as being about Heaven, but looked at contextually, Jesus could also be talking about our ministries on Earth. Perhaps he tells us that the Christian life has room for all of us, even if we can’t be Freedom Riders or the first martyr Stephen. Think about your particular gifts--how can you make Christ visible in the world?

We never know what we may unleash. When the Freedom Riders boarded the bus, they had no idea of the social changes that they were about to unfurl. They assumed they’d be taking a two week bus trip to New Orleans. They never dreamed how widely their actions would open the door to guarding the civil rights of all citizens--and today, even more marginalized groups have freedom and safety that wouldn't have been possible in earlier generations.

When we behave as the light of the world, similarly, we may help usher in God’s larger plan for the redemption of creation.

Good Shepherd Wanted

Sunday was Good Shepherd Sunday.  We heard Psalm 23, which is one of the chunks of the Bible that many people know from heart ("The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want," and so forth). I made this sketch:

As you can see, I wasn't as comforted by the Psalm as I often am.  As I reflected on the Psalm, I wondered why so many of us do find it comforting, with its talk of the valley of the shadow of death.  It's not a Psalm that promises us a happy, easy time.  Is there a Psalm that does offer us a happy, easy time?  It does seem to offer the hope that we have a shepherd beside us.

As we left church to make the bank deposit, we noticed a big duck and 8 tiny ducklings beginning to make their way across the street to the pond that's on the campus of Broward College.  I saw an oncoming car, and I knew that the light was about to change.  I said, "I can't look."

But I'm glad that I did look.  Traffic on both sides of the street had stopped, and one had put on the emergency blinkers.  Even though the ducks took their time to make their way across, no one honked, no one zoomed around them endangering others.   Hurrah!

I thought about the Jesus talking about being the good shepherd, which is a metaphor that might not work for many of us these days--who among us has ever seen a shepherd.  I thought about Jesus as the person driving the car who not only slows down, but puts on emergency blinkers to let everyone else know the need to slow down.

There are days when the future feels a bit bleak, when I can't imagine how we'll move forward into whatever the new normal is going to be.  That's when I remind myself that nothing has really changed.  We may think we know what the future holds, but we don't.  These days, that reality is just a bit more stark.

But there are little ones that need to be protected, and plenty of other types of this work that needs to be done.  Let us get to it.

The Question of Reopening Churches

Many churches are having a variety of conversations about when to reopen.  Many states seem to be saying that it's perfectly fine.  Many people are rushing back to try to recapture "normal life."  Many people don't understand that the "normal life" we once had will not be coming back.

What I can't determine is what the regular congregation member thinks about coming back to church.  I know what many church leaders think.  I don't know what the people in the pews think.

My congregation is predominantly older people.  I've been seeing a question lately about whether or not we should reassemble now--perhaps, some people say, we should not reassemble in a physical space until it's safe for all of us to come together.

That safety won't come until we have a cure or a vaccine or herd immunity.  That might not happen for a year or two.  We've been trying to come up with an AIDS vaccine for decades.  We might never have a vaccine.  A cure is more likely, but not immediate.  Herd immunity won't take place until more of us have been exposed, which means we likely won't achieve that for several years.

Can we keep doing virtual church for several years?  Will people still keep attending? 

My church congregation is much smaller than the building that we have--it was built for a congregation of hundreds, and we rarely have more than 60 in the pews.  We could space out to keep safe physical distance.  Would we remember to do that as we left the building?

And who will be the distancing police in the new church?

And then there's the whole question of communion--both the eucharist and the coffee hour.  Should we bring our own elements so as to avoid the possibility of contamination?  How close do we need to be for the sacrament to take place?  Can we do coffee hour while staying 6 to 10 feet away from each other?

I don't have any answers, of course.  I've only just now been considering these questions.

World Labyrinth Day 2020

Today is World Labyrinth Day. 

For more on labyrinths, this website is full of information. 

Below is  a poem-like thing with some of my favorite pictures of labyrinths I have known and loved:

We have walked labyrinths
made of fabric, made in fields,
laid out in tiles
or offered by cathedrals.

We have relied
on the promises of the labyrinth:
one path in, no dead ends,
no false turns, not a maze.

We have trusted
that the path leads
to a center that can hold
us all in all our complexities.

May Day in a Pandemic Year

As it's become more clear to me that we are going to be affected by this pandemic for much longer than a few weeks, I've also begun thinking about the future.  Does May Day change? 

Of course, May Day isn't a church holiday.  But let's think about the implications of past approaches to May Day, and how they might affect those of us who approach this day from a spiritual direction.

Traditionally, by which I mean centuries ago, we'd be celebrating spring.  We might leave baskets of flowers on the steps of our neighbors.  We might dance around a May Pole.

Clearly, we won't be dancing around a May Pole this year.  It's hard to do social distancing while weaving ribbons in and out.  And leaving flower baskets for our neighbors?  In these days when most of us have become germaphobes, what would my neighbors make of bouquets on the doorstep?

Still, we can enjoy the May flowers, if we live in a climate where there are flowers.  We can settle into a new season.  Lately I'd have told you we had zoomed on ahead to summer, but this morning the weather was much more like Spring.  These days are teaching me to appreciate what's right in front of me and resist worrying too far into the future.

On this May Day, I'm also thinking about how this holiday has been celebrated in more modern times.  I'm thinking about worker's rights and wondering how our approach to this holiday may change as we move through these pandemic times.

We are watching the idea of work change.  Many of us have discovered that we could work from home--and some of us are discovering the limits of working from home.

If we're paying attention at all, we may be thinking of the nature of work and which work should be protected.  Who is really an essential employee?  And how should we protect those workers?

These answers may change depending on the situation.  But one thing doesn't change.  God calls us to look out for those with fewer advantages.

These days, that field has expanded.  It seems that more and more of us have fewer and fewer protections.

If this pandemic could make us commit to more protection for more people, I'd be happy to celebrate that development at a future May Day.