If We Build It . . .

I continue to work on "becoming a seminarian" tasks, although I've done all that I can do for the most part, and now we wait.  Yesterday I called the Admissions Coordinator at Southern Seminary.  As a Lutheran going to a Methodist seminary, I'll need to affiliate with a Lutheran seminary, and I chose Southern, so I called to make sure there wasn't anything I needed to be doing.

The Admissions Coordinator was wonderful, even as it was quickly clear that I was calling too early.  But she didn't say, "Call back when you've gotten accepted by the candidacy committee."  We talked about the process and several different approaches.  I was hoping she would say, "Hey, we have a class starting this summer, and it's online, and you should take it.  That way you'll be much further along in your Lutheran year requirement."  But that wasn't one of the options, and it makes sense to me.  I might be able to do the Lutheran year requirement as I go along, if I plan my electives carefully, so why take a class before we're sure I need to do that?

It was great to talk to the Admissions Coordinator and comforting to know that I'm on track.  She said they often hear from people as they're finishing, which makes it much harder.  It was also great to talk to her because she mentioned that she's in her seminary position as her call--as an ordained minister, that's where she serves.

I continue to hope that I can have a different kind of call as an ordained minister.  I'm not dreaming of a parish, although I'm not categorically opposed.  But yesterday, as I explained why I chose Wesley instead of a Lutheran seminary, I talked about Wesley's Theology and the Arts track, and I said, that my dream job would be creating a program on Theology and the The Arts at Southern, or any other Lutheran seminary. I said it out loud, and the Admissions Coordinator said that it sounded wonderful.

Let me say it a different way:  I said it out loud, and the Admissions Coordinator didn't laugh at me or tell me why it was impossible or stupid or that no one would care.  She didn't say, "Well, you'll need a Ph.D. in Theology, which will be 5 more years after you get the M.Div, and people will pay more attention to you if you spend 5 years in parish ministry first."

I continued to think about that all afternoon; I've been assuming I would have to choose between pastor and college professor.  Now I'm going to keep dreaming about how I might combine them.  I know that there aren't many seminary programs that have a Theology and the Arts track--I know, because I've been looking for them.  

I've been assuming that there's no track because there's no interest.  Now I'm going to start changing my thinking--maybe for once I could be on the cutting edge or riding a cresting wave.  

I'm seeing many conversations about how we change the church after the pandemic loosens its grip.  What have we learned and what do we need to do?  Many of these conversations revolve around the discoveries that we've made around online/virtual church.  But let me remember that there are other yearnings too, other ways that we could be church and help people perceive the presence of God.

Let me continue to dream of training the next generation in creative ways to do that. 

My Life in Marys or the Marys and Me

I am reading my way through John for Everyone by N. T. Wright.  You may or may not remember that I spent much of 2020 reading my way through the gospel of John one chapter per morning, chapter after chapter, starting over when I got to the end.  You may or may not remember that I began to wonder how Christianity had caught on, since the Jesus in John was so . . . irritating and offputting.

One of my spiritual direction certificate small group friends recommended that I find a good study guide, and when I came across this one, I knew that N. T. Wright would present the material in a way that made sense to me.  So for much of 2020, I've begun the day by reading a portion of a chapter of John in Wright's translation followed by a few pages of wonderful analysis.  Then I read a chapter of Luke.

This morning, I noticed that the next chapter has Mary Magdalene coming to the tomb.  I felt so happy that I would soon be in her company again.  I thought of the Marys in the Bible, and how they've spoken to me--in ways much more so than any of the male disciples.  And lately, Mary Magdalene feels most important.

My life in Marys began with the Virgin Mary, mainly the version of her that I knew in childhood Christmas pageants.  I always wanted to play the Virgin Mary, the plum role for a girl in my childhood church.  But I was always too much:  too tall, too blond, too much.  I didn't blend in.  The pageant needed a demure girl who could gaze lovingly at the baby doll Jesus and not be distracted by the rest of the pageant.  I could be an angel in the choir, in the back of the choir with the tall kids.

As a young feminist, I wanted to love the Virgin Mary, but I was irked by the constant offering up of her as proof that the historic Church had not been patriarchal.  As a young feminist, I wanted more ways to see myself than as a vessel for the Holy or a container of demons or a temptress that would lead men astray.  And the temptress idea wasn't even part of the Jesus narrative.  Jesus and his disciples didn't seem to expand to include women at all.  They might have healed women, but they didn't invite them to dinner.

As a woman heading into the last part of midlife, I now pay attention to the shadowed corners of the stories in the Bible.  Women get the briefest mention, which make me want to know more.  One of the healed women is Simon Peter's mother-in-law, which implies a wife.  Where is that wife?  What does she do while Simon Peter tramps around with Jesus?  In the gospels and in the book of Acts, there's a sentence here and there that makes me infer that women are part of the the ways that the bills get paid.

And I've written this before, but it bears repeating--we give credit to the disciples and the others, like Paul, who take the Good News out to the furthest stretches of the empire, for the success of Christianity.  But we don't spend much time at all talking about the communities left behind, the ones given the seeds to cultivate, the ones who nurtured this new plant and made it grow and rooted it securely for generations coming later.

In the last year or two, I've come across scholarship that suggests that Mary the sister of Martha and Lazarus (the one raised from the dead) might have been one of the ones who was instrumental in the success of the early church, that she was one of the evangelists.  I haven't bookmarked any of that information, and I will confess that when I read about her, I don't see it.  But if I had knowledge of Greek, and I read the stories, some of the words might leap out at me as important, and the words used in discussing the work she was doing might suggest that she was doing more than simply absorbing the teaching of Jesus while Martha bustled around the kitchen.

But I confess that it's hard for me to even perceive Mary when Martha is so central in those stories.  Lately, I am much more intrigued with Mary Magdalene, intrigued in a new way.

Even in my young feminist days, I was intrigued by Mary Magdalene.  Was she really possessed by demons or was that code for something else?  Was she a prostitute or was that a way to undercut the idea that she was influential?  I sat through many Easter sermons, and it was late in my life that anyone pointed out that Mary is central to the resurrection story.  It was later still that Mary was mentioned as the evangelist to the disciples, the first one to tell the Good News of the empty tomb.

I realize as a reader that I tend to cast about a story as I look for a person who's dealing with similar circumstances as I am.  Lately, I'm wondering about the age of Mary Magdalene.  Could she be a woman at the far edge of midlife?

It's hard to tell, especially since the lifespan of a woman was so different then.  But in some of her actions, I see a fellow traveler in Mary Magdalene.  In some of the gospels, she's the one who anoints Jesus, much to the displeasure of the disciples.  Even though in my early years, I might have agreed with the disciples, especially in terms of the cost, lately, I find myself admiring her gutsy determination to do her own thing, to stay true to the behavior that makes sense to her.  And it's this dedication to her own self, especially in the face of criticism, that I perceive a woman moving to the end of her midlife years.

And yet, she's not acting with reckless, destructive abandon, even as she ignores the judgment of those around her.  She's not partying with demons while her community collapses out from under her.  She knows what the priorities need to be, and by the reactions of Jesus, we see that her intuition is correct.

In fact, we see her commitment to community as we think about her role in the Easter story.  She stays put, a witness to the horror, a witness to the resurrection.  The crucifixion seems like the ultimate metaphor for life.  We will find ourselves the witness to life in all its gruesome grittiness, and all we can do is be present.  We will suffer grievous losses when all that we can do is tend to the housekeeping types of tasks, like Mary was prepared to do on Easter morning, when she arrived with spices.  By our communal commitment, we may be the first witnesses to a new way of life.

I realize that I'm spinning a back story out of very little.  And yet, I do think I'm staying true to the truth of what we're given.  And I realize that I'm spinning what I need to hear.  We have stories of young women and stories of older women that have informed our Christian spirituality.  But there's very little about women who have moved beyond the societal roles they've been offered, and we know that many women headed out of midlife have faced this dilemma.

I want more stories of women who dream a different vision and have the courage to move in that direction.  I believe that Mary Magdalene gives us that example.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, May 2, 2021:

First Reading: Acts 8:26-40

Psalm: Psalm 22:24-30 (Psalm 22:25-31 NRSV)

Second Reading: 1 John 4:7-21

Gospel: John 15:1-8

The Gospel of John includes several "I am" stories, like the one we find in the Gospel for this week. Unlike the idea of Jesus as shepherd, which might be unfamiliar to those of us who live so far away from farms, the idea of Jesus as the vine, and believers as the branches isn't that hard for most of us to grasp. Most of us have watched plants grow, and we understand that one branch of the plant won't do well if we separate it from the main stalk.

We know what happens when we forget to water plants regularly or when the rains stop, and the yards grow crispy.

Jesus is the one who delivers water and nutrients. We won't do well when we're disconnected from the life source. In fact, Jesus makes clear what happens to those of us who separate from Christ: we wither.

What if we're feeling withered? We might assume that Christ has left us to parch, but maybe we need to meet Jesus in a new place. Maybe it's time to return to our gratitude journals. Maybe we need to plan a retreat. Maybe we need to try an artistic practice. Maybe we need a physical discipline to shape our spiritual discipline: yoga or fasting or walking a labyrinth.

And then it's time to bear fruit. It's in this area that I find this week's Gospel unsettling.

Notice how in just 8 verses, Jesus repeats several things. More than once, we're reminded that branches that don't bear fruit are cut away from the true vine. Look at the verbs that Jesus uses for these non-bearing branches: wither, gathered, thrown, burned.

My brain wants to know what kind of timeline we're working with here. How long do I have to prove I can bear fruit? Is it too late? Have I been cast into the fire already, and I just don't know it yet?

I suspect I'm missing the point. God, the true vine and vinedresser, seems to give humanity chance after chance after chance. In these verses, though, Jesus reminds us that much is expected from us. Where are we bearing good fruit?

Every action that we take helps to create a world that is either more good or more evil. We want to make sure we're creating the Kingdom that God has called us to help create. We're to be creating it here, now--not in some distant time and place when we're dead.

We're in a world where the Good News of the Gospel is that the Kingdom of God is both here now (thus a cause for joy) and not yet (as evidenced by evil in the world). How can we be the vine bearing good fruit?  

We don't have time to waste withering on the vine. God has many joyous tasks for us, and the world urgently needs for us to do them.

Teaching with an MDiv

 On Sunday, I was looking through Philosophy job postings to see if there was anything my spouse should know about.  I came across this posting for Claflin College:

Claflin University invites applicants to apply for a tenure-track Assistant/Associate Professor of Philosophy and Religion position in the Department of Humanities. The department seeks an innovative and visionary scholar with an active research and teaching agenda in ethics or philosophy, spirituality, religious studies, and theology. Desired further areas of research and/or teaching competency include the philosophy of race and gender, American and Africana/African-American studies, feminist philosophy, social justice, human rights and philosophy of law. The candidate’s research should be of interest to the wider campus and greater Orangeburg community. The department welcomes applicants pursuing interdisciplinary engagement and we are deeply interested in social justice, inter-religious and multi-faith dialogue and comparative projects. He/she will teach courses in these areas and provide guidance in developing the curriculum and departmental programs, advising students and other duties within the scope of this position.

The successful candidate must possess experience in college level teaching and advising. The candidate must have earned either the Master of Divinity degree or The Master of Theological Studies along with the Ph.D or Th.D. in a relevant religious studies field from an accredited institution. Demonstrated experience in teaching philosophy and religion is required. Candidates with experience in the United Methodist Church are preferable.

-----------------------

Back to me.  At first I thought, hey, cool, maybe having an MDiv will open up more teaching doors for me.  And yes, I realize if I want more teaching doors to open, I should be getting a different kind of theology degree.

On Monday, I went back to look at the job description again and realized that they wanted an MDiv along with a doctoral degree.  It's the kind of job posting where I wonder how many positions they're trying to fill with just one person and one teaching job.

I'm thinking back to my grad school days, where a friend picked up grad level art classes along the way; she could now teach undergrad art classes too, and she has done so occasionally.  Looking back, I realize I could have easily picked up an additional 18 credit hours in an additional subject, which might have opened up an additional door or two.

Of course, back then, we didn't pay by the credit hour.  For those of us on a graduate stipend, teaching classes as a TA, we paid one graduate rate for tuition, a ridiculously low rate of several hundred dollars, and then we could take as many credits as we wanted to attempt.

Still going forward, let me keep that in mind.  Let me see what might be possible.

The Feast Day of Saint Mark

Today is the feast day of Saint Mark.  Looking back through my blog posts, I'm surprised to find out that I've never written about this feast day. I did some superficial research, and I thought, maybe this is why I haven't written about him:  so many Marks, so hard to know for sure who did what.

Was he the author of the Gospel of Mark?  The one who brought water to the house where the last supper took place?  That strange naked man in the Crucifixion narrative?  It's hard to say.

We do give him credit for founding the church in Egypt, and that fact alone seems important enough for him to have a feast day.  I think of all the church traditions that can be traced back to northern Africa, particularly the work of the desert fathers and mothers, which led to so many variations of monastic traditions.

I also think of Augustine, the important thinker, one of the earliest Christian philosophers, who lived in Hippo.  Would we have had Augustine if Mark hadn't been an evangelist to Egypt?  It's hard to know.  If Mark hadn't gone to Egypt, would someone else?  Probably--but the outcome might have been completely different.

Today is also a good day to turn our thoughts back to those early evangelists, those early disciples.  I often say that if you were putting together a team, you would not have chosen those men.  But God's ways are not our ways when visualizing success.

So for those of us who are feeling inadequate, take heart.  God's plans are greater than our own.

Christ as Vaccine

A year ago, I preached a sermon that pitched the idea of the kingdom of God (not just Heaven, but the whole idea of kingdom) as virus--you can read more in this blog post.  This week, as I've gotten my second vaccine shot and thought about these new vaccines, I've thought about Christ as a vaccine.

These new mRNA vaccines, the Moderna and Pfizer ones, are different from old vaccines.  The mRNA vaccines teach our cells how to deal with the virus.  In future years, they may be useful in the fight against some cancers.

As I've thought about the Trinity, I've thought about Christ as this same kind of mRNA vaccine.  I often say that Christ didn't come to earth to save us from our sins, not in the way that we've been taught.  Jesus didn't have to die on a cross because he knew that 2000 years from now, I'd be mean to my sister or have any other number of failings as a human.

Along with many theologians, I believe that Jesus came to show us how to be better humans.  He announces the inbreaking kingdom of God, right here, right now.   Whatever Jesus can do, we can do too.  I first encountered this idea in Madeleine L'Engle's book, Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art: “God is always calling on us to do the impossible. It helps me to remember that anything Jesus did during his life here on earth is something we should be able to do, too” (page 19).

Jesus comes to show us how to deal with all the diseases that would take us away from God--and here I'm speaking metaphorically.  And for his efforts, the Roman empire, seeing him as existential threat, crucified him.

I realize that many of us may feel deeply uncomfortable with the idea of Jesus as vaccine--but Jesus was always teaching in parables that would make his listeners uncomfortable.  We're used to them, and thus, they've lost some of their power.

My poet brain is always on the lookout for new metaphors, for ways that we can see the Trinity in different ways, the spark that might make us comprehend a whole universe that we can't usually see.  Christ as vaccine--that works for me.

God as Rocket, God as Space Station

This morning, in the hour or two before sunrise, I knew that the skies would be active:  a meteor shower, the space station flying over, and the launch of the Space X rocket.  Periodically, I went outside and peered at the dark sky.  I had in mind a blog post that I would write about God as space station or God as Space X rocket.

I saw nothing out of the ordinary, and I'm not surprised.  I spend a lot of time in South Florida trying to see celestial events, and it's often too light polluted or too cloudy or raining.  But my metaphor can still work.

Most of us, when we're on the lookout for God, we're looking for something showy, something obvious:  fire in the shrubbery, descending tongues of flame, or ascending rockets.  Sometimes, as we know, God does function that way.  

But our sacred texts remind us that God is often not working in such a showy way.  God is often working almost imperceptibly in ways that most of us won't ever see--much like the space station moving overhead.

And sometimes, we're rewarded for our careful watch.  This morning, about a half hour after the rocket launch, I saw something streaming across the sky--quite a contrail and quite a quick pace. I know that the rocket will orbit the earth for 18ish hours before heading to the space station, so I'm wondering if that's what I saw.

But even if we can't see a thing, God is still there, a creative force in a vast cosmos.  Or maybe it's time for a different metaphor.  Tomorrow I'll write about Jesus as mRNA vaccine.

Prayer of Thanksgiving for Baptism: A Video

Yesterday, my pastor asked me to record a piece for a pre-recorded service for Ascension.  I was happy to say yes.  He sent me a prayer of thanksgiving for baptism.

When I saw the words, I realized it was the perfect opportunity to showcase our new rain chain:

Here are the words; I did repeat "Breathe your peace on your church" in two additional places, so that I didn't have to start recording again.:

THANKSGIVING FOR BAPTISM 

Alleluia! Christ is risen. Christ is risen indeed. Alleluia! Refreshed by the resurrection life we share in Christ, let us give thanks for the gift of baptism. We thank you, risen Christ, for these waters where you make us new, leading us from death to life, from tears to joy. We bless you, risen Christ, that your Spirit comes to us in the grace-filled waters of rebirth, like rains to our thirsting earth, like streams that revive our souls, like cups of cool water shared with strangers. Breathe your peace on your church when we hide in fear. Clothe us with your mercy and forgiveness. Send us companions on our journey as we share your life. Make us one, risen Christ. Cleanse our hearts. Shower us with life. To you be given all praise, with the Holy Spirit, in the glory of God, now and forever. Amen.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, April 25, 2021:

Acts 4:5-12

Psalm 23

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not be in want. (Ps. 23:1)

1 John 3:16-24

John 10:11-18

Here's another familiar set of images in today's Gospel, ones that are so familiar that we neglect to see the strangeness. But read the passage again and notice how many times Jesus says he's the good shepherd who lays down his life for his sheep. At first, knowing the outcome of Jesus' life story as we do, we might find that a comforting thought.

But imagine that you're a little lamb with a scary wolf nearby. Maybe the good shepherd kills the wolf while laying down his life for you. But does that leave you protected from the other wolves that are out there? No. At a Create in Me retreat years ago, pastor Jan Setzler pointed out that a dead shepherd is no use to the sheep.  I hadn't thought about this parable from that angle before he pointed it out in a Bible study.   Most of us don't raise livestock these days, so we forget how strange this metaphor would have seemed to an audience of people who knew shepherds. 

The people of Jesus’ time who heard him speak in this mystical way would have been more puzzled than comforted. I suspect that would have been their usual reaction to him. His parables are familiar to us, so we’ve lost sight of their strangeness. Two thousand years ago, people would have said, “What good is a dead shepherd?”

They might have been more like me. I want a shepherd who will remind me to come out of the rain. I want a shepherd who will tilt my head back down so that I don’t drown in the rain because I’m too stupid not to inhale the rain. I want a shepherd who will gather the flock together and kill the predators with a skillful shot from a sling. I want a shepherd who leads us to safe pastures.

And the good news of the Gospels is that we have such a shepherd.

These verses serve to remind us that the world we live in is a scary one. You may think you can make it on your own, but you can't. Notice that Jesus doesn't compare us to cats or horses--no, we're sheep, some of the dumbest animals ever domesticated. You may be able to make it on your own up to a point--but where will that point be?

No, we need the safety of the flock, the safety of a shepherd. We need someone who will train us to recognize his voice. The good news of the Gospels:  we have that shepherd in Jesus.

What I'm Reading in this Time of Racial Reckoning

Here we are, another April, another trial about police brutality.  Yesterday lawyers finished closing arguments in the trial of the police officer accused of killing George Floyd.  In  April of 1992, officers accused in the brutal treatment of Rodney King were acquitted.

Across the years, my response is the same:  how can people be that brutal?  I am not one of those who would argue that any of us could be that brutal, given the right circumstances.  But to beat a stranger who has done nothing to me personally?  In both cases, and in so many cases of police brutality, I look at the victim--the crime is not something like child molestation.  Traffic violations, high speed chases, broken taillights, minor drug offences--that doesn't inspire murderous rage in me.

Against this drumbeat of the trial in Minnesota, the subsequent police mistakes that have lead to death in just the two weeks since the trial started, I've been reading two works of fiction.  I realize that there are many works of nonfiction that could give me important viewpoints during this time.  In fact, I read some of them last year.

In terms of understanding police brutality, the best book on the subject that I've read thus far is Resmaa Menakem's My Grandmother's Hands:  Racialized Trauma and the Pathway to Mending Our Hearts and Bodies.  This April, I've been reading Yaa Gyasi's Transcendent Kingdom and Ayad Akhtar's Homeland Elegies.

Both writers are exploring the immigrant experience, as varied as that experience can be in the U.S.  Gyasi's immigrants come from Ghana and end up in Alabama and later California, when the immigrant daughter goes to Stanford.  Akhtar's immigrants come from Pakistan.  All of the characters are treated as racially different from the mainstream, and the authors explore what that means in the modern world.  It's good to be reminded that racial issues are much more layered than just black-white.

Both authors also explore the issue of religion in the U.S.  Gyasi's characters are Pentecostal Christian, and Akhtar's are Muslim.  But of course, it's rarely that simple.   And there are other types of beliefs that the authors explore:  the belief in wealth and money, the pursuit of truth (scientific truth, relationship truth, medical truth, geopolitical truth), and the embrace of the ecstatic, even when the ecstatic will kill.

I enjoyed each book, and I do wonder if I would have enjoyed them as much if I had read them further apart.  Probably.  I also heard each author interviewed on NPR's Fresh Air, which also enriched my experience, once I finally found the books in the library.

Have these books helped me understand the heart and mind of the police officer who can kneel on a man's neck for 9 minutes?  No.  I can't imagine wanting to read that story, and I really can't imagine writing that story.

But I do believe in the power of story to help us understand each other.  Yaa Gyasi's Transcendent Kingdom and Ayad Akhtar's Homeland Elegies are important pieces of that mission.

Saving the Earth, One Butterfly, One Potato Chip Bag at a Time

 I have been feeling thrilled to see 6 butterflies, all monarchs, emerging out of their chrysalises this week-end.  We had a brief chat with our pastor when we got drive through communion.  He's taking a very different approach to butterfly gardening, as he builds enclosures and moves plants and tries to keep caterpillars and butterflies safe.  As a result, he's launched over 100 butterflies.  Many of them are monarchs. 

In some ways, it feels like important work, especially when I hear the news of how endangered this butterfly species is.  In other ways, it feel ludicrous, especially when I consider the lifespan of a butterfly.

I had similar thoughts this week-end, during my two long walks.  When I have time, I like to walk over to Holland Park, which is predominantly a boat launch area with some picnic tables.  But there are trails and more trees than in the neighborhood, and a different water view.

Saturday I found a big potato chip bag on the trail, so I picked it up and threw it away.  I did the same with some empty plastic bottles and a few other non-biodegradable food wrappers.  It felt like the ultimate Earth Day kind of action:  making a small gesture that likely won't have a long-term impact but it made me feel good.  On Sunday, I returned to the park only to find more trash.  I picked up a few more items and put the aluminum cans in the recycling bins.

I'm sure that there's more trash today.  The trash cans don't have lids, and there aren't enough of them.  It's been a week-end of beautiful weather, which means more people have been out and about.  It's a never ending issue.

Still, I'll keep making the effort, one butterfly, one potato chip bag at a time.

Video Sermon for Today's Gospel (Luke 24: 6b-48)

Five days ago, my pastor reached out to me to ask if I could do the pre-recorded sermon for Sunday.  He'd gotten his second vaccine shot and wasn't recovering as quickly as he had planned.  I am always happy to help out, and I usually say yes.  This time was no exception.  I said yes, and then I got to work.   Because it's a pre-recorded service, I needed to have the sermon video to him by Friday.

Happily it worked out, although my sermon is a few minutes shorter than my video sermons usually are.  If you'd like to see it, a meditation on today's Gospel (Luke 24:  6b-48), go here to my YouTube channnel.

Here's a segment to whet your appetite; I call it "Breakfast with Jesus":

Making Connections with Feast Days and Commemorations

Yesterday I was part of a Zoom session to talk about planning the worship services for Synod Assembly September 16-18.  The tricky part:  we don't yet know if Synod Assembly will be held in person or virtually.  We won't know until the decision is made, which is expected to come in early June.

If it's held virtually, we don't know if it will be for the full 3 days or something shorter.  Again, those decisions will be made soon.

We did a lot of planning for the worship services for Synod Assembly last year--that Assembly was canceled, so we could use a lot of those elements.  But we may want to change some of the scripture and some of the music.

The worship planning group is led by one of our former bishops, and he talked about looking at the liturgical calendar and being blown away by the connections for each day.  Sept. 16 is the feast day of Cyprian, who was a bishop in Africa in the first century, who advocated for the re-entry into society of apostates.  September 17 is the feast day of Hildegard of Bingen, and September 18 is the commemoration of Dag Hammarskjold, one of the best secretary generals of the UN and winner of the Nobel Peace Prize.  He encouraged us to think about how we might make reference to these days, if we're having worship services on each day.

I was so thrilled by the ways we might use these feast days and commemorations--but more than that, I was thrilled that our former bishop and leader had encouraged us to make these connections.  I thought, I am among my tribe, really and truly.

Saying Grace

I have been thinking about how many of us learn to pray.  I've been thinking about the practice of saying grace, as we used to call it in my family of origin, before a meal.  What happens to that practice when we no longer eat formal meals?

I wish I could say that I've carried that practice forward, that I take a moment before every time that I eat, a moment to offer thanks for having food, thanks for the hands that prepared it, thanks for all the people, animals, and creations along the food chain that made it possible.

But I don't.  I drink my fruit smoothie in the morning, and I forget to say grace.  I make myself a midmorning toast and tea, and I forget to say grace.  I eat lunch at my office desk, and I forget to say grace.  I treat myself to a cookie in the afternoon, and I forget to say grace.  I settle down for an evening meal in front of the TV, and I forget to say grace.

I came up with a new twist on saying grace, of a different type of grace to say: "As this food nourishes me, please send me wisdom and insight for other ways that I can be nourished, and other ways that I can be a nourishment for others."

Am I saying it with intention before every time I eat?  No.  Am I saying it on some subconscious level throughout the day?  Yes.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, April 18, 2021:

First Reading: Acts 3:12-19

Psalm: Psalm 4

Second Reading: 1 John 3:1-7

Gospel: Luke 24:36b-48

In this week's Gospel, we have another post-Resurrection appearance story, and what an odd story it is. In the post-Resurrection stories, Jesus has taken on supernatural capacities that he didn't really demonstrate before his crucifixion. Here, he suddenly appears; a few verses earlier, he has vanished after eating.

The disciples quite logically assume that they're seeing a ghost. Their senses, rooted in the rational world, can't make sense of what they're seeing and hearing. Those of us who spend our secular lives surrounded by people who are disdainful of the mystical might find ourselves more sympathetic to their plight.

Perhaps we've felt the same way. It's not hard to accept the pre-Resurrection stories of Jesus, at least most of them. We're not unaccustomed to hearing about humans who can do almost superhuman things: human rights crusaders who win freedoms most of us only dream about or scientists who vanquish disease.  Some times, we lump Jesus in with those kinds of people, and we forget about the spiritual side of the Gospel. Even when Jesus performs spectacular miracles, they don't seem outside the range of possibility in our current day and age.

But these post-Resurrection stories don't let us dance away from Jesus' identity. We might know of someone who has been declared dead, maybe for a few minutes, and returned with stories of white lights and floating above one's body. But to die and lie in a tomb for 3 days and then come back to life? So far, no human has ever done that.

I like how these post-Resurrection stories, shrouded as they may be in mystery, are also still rooted in the earthy body-ness of Jesus. Jesus appears to people, and then he asks for food, which he eats. This evidence shows that he's not a ghost or a spiritual presence; doubters can't explain the post-Resurrection sightings with this claim. Jesus is still God Incarnate. His body still needs all the things our bodies need: food, liquid, sleep, a bath.

In this week's Gospel, Jesus again shows us a useful way of inhabiting our human bodies. He shows his scars, which might lead to some exchanging of stories, if the disciples didn't already know the story of how he got them. He shares food with them. He reminds them of their higher destiny and calls them to greater things.

Jesus is still here, reminding us of his scars and of the capacity to overcome those things that scar us. Jesus is still here, waiting to share a meal with us. Jesus is still here, reminding us that we are witnesses, that we are called to a far greater destiny than our tiny imaginations can envision.

Video Sermon on Doubting Thomas

My pastor asked me if I wanted to preach on Sunday, April 11--which for us right now, meant a pre-recorded sermon.  I did a quick search, and when I realized the lectionary had us at Doubting Thomas, I quickly said yes.  

As always, the sermon itself is too big to embed here.  But you can go to my YouTube channel to see it here. And while you're there, you could explore my other sermons.

Let me see if I can embed a segment, to give you a taste for the sermon:

It's been an interesting year full of interesting sermon experiments.  I'm glad to have had a chance to use technology in new ways, and I hope to continue to do so.

Fourteenth Visit to the Spiritual Director

When I visited my spiritual direction in March, I didn't do a blog post about it.  I think it's because we spent much of the time talking about the possibility of seminary--it didn't seem to warrant a blog post, or maybe there was something else I wanted to think about here in blogland.  I recall that we didn't have a time of deep insight, but it was good to talk about the process.  

She reminded me that we had been doing a lot of discernment together, and she offered to talk/report to the candidacy committee if necessary--hurrah!  I had to postpone our April meeting because I was able to get an appointment to get a vaccine, and I didn't want to risk being in the car on a trip to Miami if side effects kicked in. 

Yesterday, I met with my spiritual director again.  I brought her up to date with where I am in the process:  I've applied to seminary and been accepted, I've told Wesley that I plan to start in the Fall, and I've completed the reams of paperwork for the candidacy committee.  We talked briefly about the psychological evaluations and the larger process.

What was most helpful to me was the discussion about my feelings of guilt about seizing this opportunity.  I worry that I'm being selfish, even as I realize all the years when I've put other needs above my own yearnings, the years I've been helping others achieve their goals and dreams.  My job is ending--I'm not leaving a job with good pay and benefits to pursue this dream.  And it's a degree program that might lead to better job opportunities--it's not like I'm headed off to study an arcane subject that will never result in a job.

Of course, if I was heading off to get a PhD in an arcane subject, would that matter?  

I am wondering if my worries about seeming selfish come from years of being the main wage earner, the one with the job that pays the mortgage and provides the health insurance.  Or does it come from decades of conditioning in being a female in this society, where we are socialized to always put the needs of everyone before our own.

We talked about the fact that my spouse supports my yearnings and my decision to go to Wesley, but he doesn't want to move.  We've done commuting marriage before, and those years were some of the best of our marriage.  We talked about my fear of leaving and coming back to find him starved to death in a corner of the house, and we talked about how absurd that fear is.

She reminded me that I've been wrestling with this aspect of my personality, this feeling like I am the one who can keep my loved ones safe, even though I know that I can't.  We talked about ways to deal with that anxiety--you're probably not surprised to hear that we talked about prayer, about visualizing Christ in a boat in a storm.

My spiritual director is one of the few people with whom I can use the language of Ignatian discernment.  Is this decision made in a state of consolation or desolation?  These decisions about going to seminary were made in a state of consolation--I do not have any doubt about that.

My spiritual director reminded me that even a state of desolation doesn't mean that God has abandoned us.  On the contrary, God can use that state to bring us even closer.  She suggested that when I'm feeling anxious about the aspects of this decision and this new direction, that I pray instead of pushing those feelings down or denying that they exist.

It was a good visit.  Other sessions have been more revelatory, but this one was satisfying in its own way.

Funeral Arrangements in a Time of Pandemic

 Today is my aunt's funeral.  She had been gravely ill for months, and in hospice for weeks, so her death was not a surprise.  But in a time of rising pandemic rates, amongst my family members, we've had a different set of conversations than we might have had before.

I found out about her death on Tuesday, and her funeral in North Carolina on Friday (today) at 11:00 a.m., a drive of at least 12 hours, so I'd have to drive on Thursday (yesterday).  I briefly considered flying--I could fly to Charlotte, rent a car, and drive for an hour or two.  That would still need to happen on Thursday.

But there's a pandemic.  Do I really want to fly?  Even when there's no pandemic, I rarely want to fly.  But these days, the thought of being in airport terminals and planes with throngs of people adds a level of anxiety to travel that rarely seems worth it.

There's also the issue of exposing others to disease.  I live in a disease hot spot, and I have not been quarantining.  I spent two days this week in a room with 60 other people, some masked, some not, for over 8 hours each day.  Should I go to North Carolina without knowing my disease status?

I have had one shot of the Moderna vaccine, so I am partially protected, and thus, others would be partially protected, but I'm still not sure how much others would be protected if I was asymptomatic and traveling.  Even with a mask, there would be risk to others, since there's a lunch after the funeral.

Some other part of my brain wondered if I was considering all of these factors because I wanted to rationalize my not wanting to travel.  And then the other part of my brain reminded that part of my brain that the CDC still advises against non-essential travel.  And traveling to this funeral would be non-essential.

My uncle does not need me to be there.  He's lived in his community for over 50 years, so he's got deep roots.  His 2 sons, my cousins, will be there, as will my mom (his sister) and dad.  While I would like to see everyone, I can wait until Thanksgiving, when more of us will be vaccinated, and we will be able to catch up with each other at a slower pace.

So, I have decided not to go.  If technology is working in our favor, I can tune in on a YouTube channel.  If not, I'll sip my tea in my office and say some silent prayers.

Missing the Chance to Retreat

 Today in normal times, in the time before this pandemic, I'd be headed to the mountains, to the Create in Me retreat.  This year, I'm selfishly glad that the retreat has been cancelled, because I'm not sure I would be able to be there.  I would have needed to be here in South Florida for the past two days, and I am grateful not to be driving twelve hours today.

But there is also a level of grief at this second year of cancellation.  I think cancelling the retreat was the right thing to do, and there will be a Zoom call on Saturday as a sort of cancellation.  I do worry that the retreat was losing momentum before COVID, and maybe these 2 years of cancellations will be the death blow.

Of course, maybe these two years of no retreat will make us all more dedicated to getting ourselves there each year.  Maybe we will treasure it more.

In past years, I've assumed the retreat would always be there--how could it not?  I've assumed that retreat centers would always be there.  I've assumed that I would always be able to go, that I would be working at jobs that would give me time off, and that somehow, I would be able to get away--at least most years.

This year, I'm wondering where we will all be next year on the Thursday after Easter.  I am hopeful that we will all be headed to the mountain top.  Next year Easter comes later on April 17, so the retreat will be the last week-end in April.

My hope is that I will have to plan carefully, because I will be in my second semester of seminary studies.  Hopefully, any final exams will be later.  Hopefully, my seminary professors will say, "Of course you should go to that retreat."  Maybe I will even get some kind of extra credit!  I am enrolling in a Theology and the Arts track, after all.

Meditation on This Week's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, April 11, 2021:

First Reading: Acts 4:32-35

Psalm: Psalm 133

Second Reading: 1 John 1:1--2:2

Gospel: John 20:19-31

This week's Gospel returns us to the familiar story of Thomas, who will always be known as Doubting Thomas, no matter what else he did or accomplished. What I love about the Gospels most is that we get to see humans interacting with the Divine, in all of our human weaknesses. Particularly in the last few weeks, we've seen humans betray and deny and doubt--but God can work with us.

If you were choosing a group of people most unlikely to start and spread a lasting worldwide movement, it might be these disciples. They have very little in the way of prestige, connections, wealth, networking skills, marketing smarts, or anything else you might look for if you were calling modern disciples. And yet, Jesus transformed them.

Perhaps it should not surprise us. The Old Testament, too, is full of stories of lackluster humans unlikely to succeed: mumblers and cheats, bumblers and the unwise. God can use anyone, even murderers.

How does this happen? The story of Thomas gives us a vivid metaphor. When we thrust our hands into the wounds of Jesus, we're transformed. Perhaps that metaphor is too gory for your tastes, and yet, it speaks to the truth of our God. We have a God who wants to know us in all our gooey messiness. We have a God who knows all our strengths and all our weaknesses, and still, this God desires closeness with us. And what's more, this God invites us to a similar intimacy. Jesus doesn't say, "Here I am, look at me and believe." No, Jesus offers his wounds and invites Thomas to touch him.

Jesus will spend the next several weeks eating with the disciples, breathing on them, and being with them physically one last time. Then he sends them out to transform the wounded world.

We, too, are called to lay our holy hands on the wounds of the world and to heal those wounds. It's not enough to just declare the Good News of Easter. We are called to participate in the ongoing redemption of creation. We know creation intimately, and we know which wounds we are most capable of healing. Some of us will work on environmental issues, some of us will make sure that the poor are fed and clothed, some of us will work with criminals and the unjustly accused, and more of us will help children.

In the coming weeks, be alert to the recurring theme of the breath of Jesus and the breath of God. You have the breath of the Divine on you too. In our time of a ravaging respiratory virus and staying safe distances away, this imagery seems even more vivid, as we've all learned the power of the breath.

But God's breath transforms creation in ways that viruses can only dream of. God's breath can transform us too.  And thus transformed, we can go out and change the world.

Doubly Masked, a Mix of Fear and Hope

 I don't have as much time to write this morning.  I'm leaving early, so that I can help open the Hollywood campus before I drive to the Ft. Lauderdale campus for day 1 of a two day orientation.  The e-mail with the orientation schedule went to 58 people.  If they all show up, I don't know how we'll fit safely into that room; it's a big room, but it's not that big.

But it's likely that they won't all show up.  Some of them will have to teach.  Some of them will read the sentence about being able to watch the recording later and decide to go that route.  Some of them won't want to make the trip from Gainesville or Orlando.

I had similar concerns back in December when we met as a larger group, and it turned out to be O.K.  And this time, I've had one vaccine dose, so I'm more protected than I would be with no vaccine in my body.  Still, I plan to be double-masked and to take my masks off as little as possible.

On Sunday, at the 11 a.m. church service, I looked out across the congregation and thought about how rarely in the past year I've been in an inside space with that many people--about 50 people.  We were spaced out across a chancel built for 300 congregants, so we were able to stay separated.  

Most of us hadn't seen each other in over a year, at least not in person.  I could see many of us trying to figure out this new normal--how close could we get to each other?  There was no hugging, although in the past, we were a congregation of gentle huggers.  There were some fist bumps, but mostly there were waves across the sanctuary.

It was also strange that it was Easter Sunday, a Sunday when traditionally we'd be seeing families that don't come more regularly.  This year, we've all been jumbled in terms of participation, as some of us have participated more than we would have in the pre-recorded segments of the services and some of us have drifted away.

Throughout the morning, across 3 services, I sometimes felt my heart squeeze at the thought of all the stresses and losses of the past year.  I've stayed more connected than many people.  I still go into the office each day, and I'm still doing lots of work with the church.  But I'm aware of all the ways my connections have become a bit looser; I'm not seeing people as much as I once was.  I know that some people have substituted Zoom calls for in-person get togethers, and I've done that to an extent, but not as much as some people I know.

So in a way, I understand the desire to have us gather in person, whether it be in church, in schools, or in the workplace.  I will try to hold onto that understanding as I go to my work orientations today, doubly masked, in a mix of fear and hope.

Easter Update

Yesterday morning, Easter morning, I had planned to write something, even if it was a rerun of a past post.  But I had no time.  I did morning watch, my televised morning matins from the liturgy of the hours that I do on my church's Facebook page.  Then it was off to church to set up and play for the sunrise service that started at 7 a.m.

My church had 3 services:  sunrise outside at 7 a.m., and 2 indoor services at 9 a.m. and 11 a.m.  My spouse did a lot of singing for all of them.  In past years, I played hand chimes, but this year, I played upright bass in the sunrise service:

photo by Keith Spencer

It went so well that I played the bass during the song "Now the Green Blade Rises" (ELW 379) for the 2 later services too.  It's an interesting Easter song, since the music is a French carol.  It was far from perfect, but it was better than I thought it would be.  If I had had another 2 weeks to practice . . . 

The other highlight of the day was my pastor's Easter sermon.  I think that Easter would be a tough sermon opportunity.  You know that the audience has been to Easter services before, and many of them have been to many services.  In short, it's tough to say something new.

My pastor talked about resurrection ferns, plants that can lose 97% of their water in the South Florida dry season and come back to life with the return of the rainy season.  He also gave us an interesting lesson about the passage of a caterpillar to a butterfly, how the caterpillar in the chrysalis collapses into ooze and from that protein goo emerges a butterfly.  I didn't know about the imaginal disks that develop into the separate parts of the butterfly or that the butterfly might retain some of the knowledge it had as a caterpillar.

In short, the imagery was unique and perfectly suited for Easter.  I was happy to be able to hear it 3 times.

After the 3 services, my spouse and I stayed to count the money and make the bank deposit.  Then we came home and watched the services several more times.  My spouse likes to watch the music and try to challenge himself to do better.  

Is it a good way to do this?  I don't know.  But I was intrigued to watch myself playing the bass, to know that I was actually doing a much better job of keeping time than I might have thought.  Hurrah.

And now, to nurse the blister on my bass picking finger.  Yes, I have a blister on my bass picking finger!  That may not ever happen again . . . or maybe it will!

Holy Saturday, Suspension Saturday

Some people call today Holy Saturday, but this morning, I came up with a new term:  Suspension Saturday.  Here we are, suspended between the horror of Good Friday and the hope of Easter Sunday.  This state of suspension is one familiar to many of us, even before the pandemic.  With the pandemic, more and more of us have felt this sense of suspension.

How do we react to this state of suspension?  I think of those disciples and how they must have felt once the crucifixion was done.  Surely their responses were similar to ours this past year.  Some of us sink into a state of depression, a tomb from which we may or may not emerge.  Some of us go into hiding.  Some of us slide into those familiar self-recriminations.  We beat ourselves up for the ways we couldn't protect our loved ones.  We sneer at ourselves for daring to hope that things could be different.

I think of all the Good Friday characters that are more tangential to the story.  Did those Roman soldiers realize what they had witnessed?  How many crucifixions happened in an average week?  I think of the slaves who did the clean up work after justice had been served.

I also think of people like Pilate, the administrator caught between all the competing demands of constituencies.  I wonder if Pilate wanted to wash his hands in a more definitive way, take his belongings and go far, far away.

It's important to remember that all of these people were human, just as we are, humans with the full range of emotions.  One way to do this is by trying to put ourselves into their shoes.  Who are you in the story of Good Friday?

Who will you be in the story of Easter morning and the days after?

Good Friday in a Week of Depressingly Ordinary Violence

Holy Week 2021 been an interesting experience.  We've seen a surge in mass killings by young men with guns in the U.S., a surge just in the past two or three weeks.  We've seen a surge in violence against Asians in the U.S., along with coverage of who fights back, who intervenes, and who closes the door, thus refusing to get involved.  This week has brought coverage of the trial of the police officer accused of killing George Floyd, with testimony from the people who witnessed the event.

I wish that I could say that this violence is out of the ordinary, but it's not.  We have increased coverage, but communities of color would tell us that they've always endured violence, both from their fellow citizens and from officers who took an oath to protect us all.  Even during the time of lockdown, 2020 was one of the deadliest years for gun violence, even if we had fewer mass shootings (see this article in The Washington Post for more details).

Diana Butler Bass has written a powerful essay for Good Friday 2021.  She considers the issue of the crowd, both the one in Minneapolis watching George Floyd die, unsure of what to do and unable to do much even as they wished they could, and the crowds at the time of the trauma of Jesus, crowds who were surely feeling the same thing:  "The imperial police were torturing a man who was most likely innocent as they forced him through city streets to his death. Some may have turned their heads, not wanting to see the same scene again, having witnessed far too many victims taken down this very route toward the same end. Others might have been horrified by the whipping, the cold cruelty of the Roman soldiers. A few reached out to offer comfort, to plead with the executioners for mercy."

She says, "This week, we are reminded that the trauma of oppressive systems isn’t borne only by its most direct victims. Imperial violence spreads from the knee on the neck and the cross on a back of individual sufferers to the bystanders, the witnesses, others on the way. Here we see the powerful truth — those on sidewalks become casualties as well."

Good Friday comes around again to remind us that the problem of violence isn't new to our generation.  It wasn't new to Christ's generation.  I was taught that Jesus had to come to the world to save us from our habit of violence, that he had to die on the cross to appease his angry father God--otherwise, that harsh punishment would have fallen on our heads.

I could make the argument that harsh punishment is falling on our heads day after day, year after year, century after century.  What difference does the death of Christ make anyway?

Let me be clear:  I do not believe in the substitutionary atonement theory that explains the death of Jesus as necessary to keep us all from going to hell.  I believe that Jesus was killed because he was a threat to the Roman empire.  Crucifixion was the punishment for terrorists; other types of criminals were stoned or beheaded.

I can't find the Richard Rohr quote that I'd like to end with, so I'll paraphrase.  The cross is not God's requirement to love us.  Crucifixion is the world's response to God's love.  Jesus comes to show us of the depth of Divine love, and for his trouble, the Roman empire crucified him.

And yet, God can use this ugliness too.  The empty tomb tells us that empires and other powers will not have the last word.  Out of utter cruelty and depravity, we can find new life, new hope.

Our Second Maundy Thursday in Isolation

 Last year, I wrote this blog post about Maundy Thursday in a time of plague.  That year, the idea of lockdown was relatively new--my county had only mandated a lockdown three weeks earlier.  At the time, I was still wondering if there would come a time of tighter lockdown, a time where National Guard troops monitored our coming and going.  I assumed it would be years before we got a vaccine, if ever we did, and I couldn't imagine how we were going to get ahead of the pandemic.

At the same time, I assumed we would do something to avoid all the death and upheaval that has occurred.  A year ago, I assumed that our Holy Week in lockdown would be a one year thing.

This year, it's important to remember that some of us needed to be in a lockdown mode long before the pandemic, and that some of us will need to remain.  This past year has inspired us to experiment with ways of being church online.  I hope we will continue to do that once the pandemic is not burning its way across our planet.

In past years, we'd have celebrated Maundy Thursday in a variety of ways.  Some of us would have done a worship service that ended with the altar being stripped.  That's the way I think of the Maundy Thursdays of my childhood.  We'd do a service (would it include communion?) and at the end, members of the altar guild (always female) would come up and remove the candlesticks, the Bible, and anything else on top of the altar, and then they'd whip the paraments off the altar and fold them.

I've been part of other churches that did more on Maundy Thursday.  Some years we'd share a meal together and think about the meal as metaphor for love.  I've been part of churches that do a foot washing service.  I've been part of congregations that offer a hand washing option or a hand anointing option for Maundy Thursday.  Once those approaches would have been seen as experimental or daring.  Those approaches aren't as easy to do when it's not safe to be together physically.

I hope that as we move forward we'll remember that for many of us, it will never be safe to be together physically.  I'm thinking of people with physical disabilities.  But I'm also thinking of people with food allergies who can't share the same kinds of meals that the rest of us do.  I'm thinking of people who find the idea of touch itself as dangerous.  In a world where touch can so easily turn coercive, can congregation members feel comfortable saying no to worship options that revolve around touch?

Yesterday I read an article by Melissa Febos in The New York Times where she explores the idea of touch and consent and how women are socialized to accept a variety of touches that make them uncomfortable or unsafe.  For a variety of reasons, from sexual abuse to the easy transmissibility of germs, I've begun to think that the Church must explore ways to be church together but from a distance.

We might protest that surely we can celebrate a meal together.  But even a meal comes with inequity.  Should we do the kind of meal that Jesus would have eaten as his last supper?  If so, are we practicing cultural appropriation?  Can we talk about the Seder without being offensive to Jews?

And then there's the inequity of our field to table path that our food travels.  Who is growing the food?  Who is transporting it?  How are our grocery workers treated?  And then, who prepares and cooks the food for our meals?

Jesus instructs us to love each other, and that's where we get the word "Maundy," for mandatum, Latin for commandment.  Can we love each other without thinking about all of the people who are not loved by our various economic systems?  I don't think we can.

Soon we enter the Easter Triduum, the three days that begin with Good Friday and end with Easter.  Good Friday shows us the world's response to the idea of God's love, the idea that we should be taking care of those on the margins.  Shaping our Maundy Thursday celebrations to consider these issues of our economic structures, these issues of consent, these issues of how we deal with our physical bodies in this dangerous world--there are worse ways to shape a Maundy Thursday celebration.