Seminary as Tool Box

I've been feeling a variety of emotions as seminary classes start.  I've been doing the readings, and I'm thrilled--I'd be happy reading these things for fun, and in fact, they're similar to academic texts that I've read just because I'm interested.  I've enjoyed reading the introductions that my classmates have posted.  What an interesting group!

I'm also feeling odd about my decision to do something just for myself, something that takes me away from others, at least while I'm in my synchronous classes.  I'm feeling . . . selfish.

So I was pleased this morning to find words from the Wesley Seminary dean in his reflection at the start of Fall 2021 term.  After quoting Isaiah 40:  3-5, he writes:

"As Wesley Theological Seminary launches a new school year in the midst of a pandemic, racial inequality, and natural and human caused disasters, it feels like we are in the wilderness. I can certainly relate to the feeling of the Israelites who left the bondage in Egypt following Moses through the wilderness to the Promise Land.

And yet in the midst of this wilderness, our faculty and students pick up the books and study. On the surface this could seem like a selfish and frivolous task, to read and write when there is so much wrong with our world. And yet we study with the hope of building a better tomorrow. God promises to the Israelites is to reach a place that they cannot yet see. They walked together with the pillar of cloud and fire (Shekinah) that offered shade in the day and warm and light at night."

I love this vision of seminary as both a time in the wilderness and the way out of the wilderness.  I love the idea that seminary study can be part of the toolbox with which we will build the world God calls us to create.

Monarch Butterflies: The Late August Report

 If you need a sign of hope, here's a monarch butterfly sighting for you:

Two weeks ago, my spouse moved milkweed plants from the other house.  Did we also transport monarch eggs?  We had six caterpillars at one point.  We ended up with at least 3 chrysalises, and yesterday, a butterfly emerged out of one of them.

The chrysalis was hanging off the table, and we tried to avoid the area for a week.  Yesterday morning, our efforts paid off.  We watched the butterfly for a bit, and then we went to church.

My spouse returned in time to watch the butterfly fly away.  Was it confused by being six stories off the ground?  It did take some time for the butterfly to adjust to the strange way the wind works in the U of the condo building.  It landed on the top of a palm tree and then it flew away towards the Arts Park.

And this morning, the 2 other chrysalises have butterflies emerging.  

We may not have the kind of thriving butterfly gardens that we've had elsewhere, but there are 3 monarchs in the world today that weren't there last week because of our little 6th floor balcony butterfly garden.

Hands, Prayers, and Spiritual Practices

I saw a video by the former bishop of the North Carolina synod of the ELCA, and he showed us how to use our hands to pray.  No, not in the folded hands posture, but by using each finger as a prompt for prayer.  It's not his idea, and he gave Pope Francis full credit.

As I did some research, I am feeling like I'm the last person to discover this prayer.  I used it the other morning on my walk, and found it a potent way to pray.  Here's how it works:

We touch each finger as we pray.  The thumb is closest to the body, so it reminds us to pray for those we are closest to, our family and our friends.  The index finger points, so we remember to pray for educators and health care workers, those who point to important information.  The third finger is the tallests, reminding us to pray for leaders, all sorts of leaders.  The fourth finger, the ring finger, is the weakest (really?), so we pray for those who are sick, those who are going through difficult times, those who feel ignored.  The fifth finger reminds us to pray for ourselves.

As I've been writing, I've been thinking about the practice of prayer beads, which seems to fill the same kind of purpose of reminding us how to pray while giving us something physical, something tactile to do as well.

I'm also thinking of the anti-anxiety practice of tracing one's hand, which really does work for some of us.  There's also some breath work involved for the most effective approach.  

Part of the effectiveness of both the prayer and the hand tracing come from the fact that for most of us, our hands are always with us.  I might not always have prayer beads with me, but I always have my hands.  I look at my hands frequently throughout the day.  That, too, might remind me to pray.

Even though I might be one of the last Christians to have considered the use of hands in prayer practice, I'm happy to have made the discovery.

A First Look at Seminary Classes

This fall, I return to school as a student.  I'll be an MDiv student at Wesley Theological Seminary.  Although classes don't officially start until next week, students get access to the course shells in advance, and I've been trying to take advantage of that.

I decided to keep a copy of the syllabus separate from the course shell, just in case I can't access it at some point (power failure, system being upgraded, that kind of thing).  And in light of the total technology failure at work, I also printed a copy.

Yesterday, I started downloading course materials for the same reasons.  But I won't print all of them, at least not yet.

The most important thing I've been doing is thinking about the course requirements:  the readings, the discussion posts, the essays.  I'm intrigued at my responses to the course requirements.  Once I got the textbooks for the classes, I wasn't as worried about the readings.  And I have continued to write in a variety of ways in the years since I graduated from college, so I'm not worried about that.

I am relieved that the course papers don't seem to require access to a research library, but I'm also relieved that the Wesley library will ship books to me, at least according to the new student orientation course materials.

In fact, what's strange for me is that I'm looking at the page requirements and worrying about my ability to be concise.  When I was in grad school for my advanced degrees in English, I fretted the other direction:  how would I ever write 10-20 pages?  Now I think, hmm, only 4 pages required?  Can I really develop these ideas in just 4 pages?

I feel fortunate that I've been writing daily during all the years between undergraduate classes and now.  Not everyone will have that part come so naturally to them.

One of my classes, the Hebrew Bible class, has a map quiz the first week of class.  My immediate reaction was panic, but then I reminded myself that I have plenty of time to study, that I have study aids, and that I'm allowed to use those during the quiz.  It's doable!

"It's doable!" was my reaction to many aspects of my classes.  I haven't been real sure what to expect so finding out that it's doable is a relief.  I won't let myself think about how many of the pieces of my life need to stay stable for this to be doable.  They are likely to remain stable, and if something happens (sickness, internet access, computer crash), I know how to pivot.

Decades of teaching means that I know how to be a good student.  I will be a good student. 

Pastor of Public Witness, Theologian in Residence

One of the things that makes seminary appealing at this point in the life of the church is that my brand of Lutherans are developing some interesting approaches, in addition to parish ministry.  And yes, the interesting approaches do sound more appealing than many brands of parish ministry.

When I type out the words "parish ministry," I realize that I'm thinking of pre-pandemic parish ministry.  Who knows what that will look like as this pandemic shifts, and as humans adapt.  I don't think we'll ever be going back to pre-pandemic life, but I can't tell what the future will look like.  I'm fairly sure we won't vanquish COVID-19, the way we once thought we would.  It's too contagious and too widespread and because it's not as lethal as a disease like Ebola, it won't burn itself out or be containable.  When I think of the future with a disease like COVID-19, I can imagine multiple possibilities.  But I digress.

Back to interesting possibilities.

On Friday, August 20, Nadia Bolz-Weber was installed as pastor of public witness by the Rocky Mountain Synod of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America.  I first read about this development in this article in Religious News Service.

She is not the first to have this kind of position.  The most famous may have been Mr. Rogers, who was an ordained Presbyterian minister, and the Presbyterian church of his time recognized that he was performing a vital ministry with his television show.

Some people might shrug and wonder why it matters to Pastor Bolz-Weber.  We might see her published books and her extensive appearance schedule and think that she's so wealthy that she doesn't need the backing of the church.

I have no idea what her financial situation really is, but I have met enough writers and artists to know that just because there are books that sell doesn't mean that the financial future--or even present--is secured.

And what's different about an ELCA pastor is that there is a call, and one can't be away from call indefinitely and pick right back up again.  It's a complicated concept that I don't want to unpack in this blog post, but it's an important factor.

This morning, I saw a Facebook post about a different possibility.  Bishop Megan Rohrer made this announcement:

Offering from those gathered in person and online at my upcoming installation will be used to create a theologians in residence program to help the Sierra Pacific Synod in anti-racism efforts, to expand our welcome and to care for creation. Theologians in residence will be available for preaching and teaching at congregations and participate in online and in person Synodical events. If you would like to support this developing program, you can donate at: www.tinyurl.com/SPStheologians

I love the idea of a theologian in residence, especially since it sounds like it might be a short-term assignment.  While I understand the need for long-term pastoral presence, care, and leadership in a local church, I also like the idea of temporary assignments that can help a church with diversity.

Let me specify here that while I support the current attention to diversity of race, I also see a need for other types of diversity.  I'm thinking of the times when I would have flourished as a parishioner if we had a theologian in residence that offered us an approach to spirituality that was more contemplative or more creative.  Most of the churches of which I've been a member do a fine job of fellowship, and many of them have done a lot with social justice/charity, and a few of them have done a great job of intellectual stimulation, and I have rarely found a church that does all of that equally well.  We tend to rely on a solitary pastor to do it all, and that just rarely works.

I should also clarify that I've usually been a Lutheran in areas where there weren't many Lutherans, and thus, we didn't have the kinds of churches that could support a large staff, or much of any kind of staff beyond the pastor.  I've been part of churches that could barely afford the pastor.

A Theologian in Residence might not change that, but then again, it might.  It could be sustainable for a season, if not for the life of the parish.  It's an interesting approach that I haven't seen before in the ELCA.  I look forward to seeing where this development might lead.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, August 29, 2021:

First Reading: Deuteronomy 4:1-2, 6-9

First Reading (Semi-cont.): Song of Solomon 2:8-13

Psalm: Psalm 15

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 45:1-2, 6-10 (Psalm 45:1-2, 6-9 NRSV)

Second Reading: James 1:17-27

Gospel: Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23

My favorite science fiction writer, Octavia Butler, had a theory that humans are both excessively intelligent and excessively hierarchical, and these two traits are often in opposition. It is our tendency towards hierarchy that so often gets us into trouble. We divide the world into the pressed and the wrinkled, between the vegetarians and the meat eaters, the drinkers and the A.A. folks: essentially between the people who live right (which means according to the rules we accept) and those who don't.

We often think that the Pharisees in Jesus' time were rule-bound people who couldn't see that God walked among them, even as Jesus was right there before them. While that is true, it's also important to realize that the Pharisees thought that following the rules to the letter was the trait that would save the Jews. We must not forget that the Jews of Jesus' time were under threat from many sides. We forget that Rome was a brutal dictatorship in so many ways, and that the peace that the Jews had found could have been (and eventually was) easily overturned.

We fail to realize how similar we are to the Pharisees. We currently live under a rigid system very similar to that of the time of Jesus, and if you don't believe me, just watch any organization try to get anything done.  We also seem to be living in challenging times where people don't want to make any kind of sacrifice for the larger good.  In some ways, at least the Pharisees had a motivation that I can understand.  Many of our debates in 2021 leave me shaking my head.

We look back to past periods of humanity, and we like to boast that we're much more flexible. We can't imagine the ritual purity laws that were in place in Jesus' time. We can't fathom the rigidly stratified societies that most humans have created. We renounce a time when women couldn't get credit in their own name or a time when blacks and whites had separate bathrooms, but those days aren't that far away from our own.

Jesus reminds us that so many of our rules come from humans, not from God. We think that God ordained the rules that we embrace, rules which so often tell us what not to do, but Jesus reminds us that there's one essential rule: love each other. God will judge us on the quality of our relationship and how much love we show each other.

Jesus reminds us again and again that love is our highest nature and that the actions that move us towards being loving humans are the ones that we should take. We can operate from a place of love or we can act from a place of fear. As we act out of love, we will find ourselves in company with God.

The Feast Day of Saint Bartholomew

Today is the feast day of Saint Bartholomew, who many of us may think we don't know.  But Bartholomew was also Nathaniel--one name is the Greek version and one is Hebrew.  We think of Jesus as living in a distant outpost of the Roman empire, and in a way, that's true.  But that area of the Middle East was also a crossroads, where various cultures had influence:  Greeks, Jews, Romans, all sorts of people coming and going by sea and by land, all sorts of trade happening, all sorts of cultural elements mixing and matching.

Nathaniel was the disciple who asked, "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?"  He's won over when Jesus can tell him that he was just under a fig tree.  In the Gospel of John, he's the 4th disciple called, so he's among the first.

Nathaniel is martyred for his faith; his killing was particularly gruesome, including both flaying and beheading.  But before he's killed, legend has it that he brought Christianity to both India and Armenia.  He is the patron saint of nervous and neurological diseases, bookbinders, shoemakers, and makers of leather.  I always find these collections of patron saint job descriptions intriguing.  Is it because he was flayed that he's watching over leather makers?

If we lived in England in earlier centuries, we might see Saint Bartholomew's day as the beginning of a seasonal shift:

"Saint Bartholomew / brings the cold dew."

And here's another:  

"If Bartlemy's Day be fair and clear, / We may hope for a prosperous Autumn that year."

So let's see what the day brings.  It's hard to continue hoping for a prosperous autumn, given the disease spikes the world is facing, and the collapse of a variety of foreign policies, and all the ways the world is so desperately in need of healing.  Our weather forecast here in South Florida calls for sunny weather, so here's hoping.

The Milkweed Meadow of Our Lives

I have often joked, "I don't have children or pets; I can't even keep a houseplant alive."  For years, I thought this statement was true, that my spouse had a green thumb, but not me.  But over the past few years, I've kept many plants alive.

I began to change my thinking with the butterfly garden that I created for my college--over 20 potted plants on a second floor, rooftop parking garage area.  I kept those plants alive, and we got to see caterpillars and their journeys to become butterflies.

In July of 2020, my colleagues gave me an orchid for my birthday.  That orchid has remained in bloom.  I've never heard of an orchid--or any plant--doing that.  I've had a few other orchids that I killed because of bad advice.  I was told they don't need much water, just an ice cube here or there.  Those poor orchids died.  With this orchid, I give it some water once a week, plus the dregs of my tea cup here and there.  It's thriving.

One of our colleagues left some plants behind when she was let go, and I moved them into my office when I found them withered.  I thought I was doing some plant hospice work, but nine months later, they're thriving too.

One of the things I will miss about having a house is the chance to garden, to see a slice of nature each day, and to watch the changes.  But we do have a deep balcony.

Last week-end my spouse moved some of our larger milkweed over--a great gift for our anniversary.  We didn't see any caterpillars, but a week later, we had at least 5.  Did we have eggs already on the plants?  Were there tiny caterpillars that we didn't see?

They have eaten all the milkweed, and we have had our conversations about whether or not to get more.  I have thought of all those desperate people in Afghanistan, waiting for rescue.  I have moved a few more plants from the old house to here.  I've thought about buying more.

My spouse thinks about the situation the way a traffic planner might:  if we build more highways, more people will drive.  In short, we'll never solve this issue.  My brain agrees, but my emotional core wants to fill the balcony with milkweed, and then my brain reminds us that we will still run out at some point.

We have our first chrysalis, so it will be interesting to see what happens.  At the school garden, we had no attacks by lizards, snakes, or birds, although the occasional chrysalis was consumed by ants.  Up here, the process should have no predators.

We await on the larger question:  will monarchs find us on the 6th floor?  When the milkweed grows back, will monarchs come to lay their eggs?

This process seems like much of my life right now.  We make decisions based on the best information we have right now.  We pray for guidance and drive carefully by the light of a full moon and a broken headlight.  We think back to times of consolation and desolation, those wonderful Ignatian descriptors for being on the right path and being astray.

I am trying to hard to trust the consolation--both in terms of butterfly gardens and in terms of the larger milkweed meadow of my life.

Summer 2021: Things Fall Apart

This morning, I reflected back on the month of August as a month where I came to realize--once again, and over and over again--how much of the world seems to be held together with tape and a patchwork of chewing gum and maybe a thin veneer of paint here and there.  But frankly, the whole summer has felt that way, and perhaps this whole pandemic time, and maybe it has always been this way, but many of us can go for months or years before we're forced to reckon with this knowledge again.

Humans like to think that we're in control, and many of us will go to great lengths to maintain that illusion.  For me, this summer has brought week after week of almost daily reminders that we're not.  Those reminders have ranged from the small to the huge, from the personal to the global.

When I think of the early days of June, I remember a time when it seemed that we might be turning a corner with the COVID-19 crisis.  Vaccination rates continued to chug along, and we finished a K-12 school year with few student deaths and not as many outbreaks as I would have predicted.  The world at large seemed calm--or am I remembering it wrong?

Then the condo building in Surfside Beach, just south of here, collapsed, and suddenly, it seemed that more buildings than we'd have expected have serious structural issues.  And here we are, two months later, and it begins to feel like all of our foreign policy has collapsed and lies in ruins.  The domestic political situation has felt like rubble for over a decade now, so that's not anything new.

This month has been particularly difficult at work.  We've had several days with no AC in part of the building, we've had an AC unit leak in the server room, and this week, unrelated to that leak, we've had a total lack of technology.  It's been a month where I've been moving from a house to a condo, and tried to get the house ready for the market, and that has come with some surprises.  It's exhausting.  It's no wonder I'm feeling a certain amount of stress.

Yesterday I got access to one of my seminary classes, and as I explored the course shell, I had conflicting thoughts.  The larger part of me thought, OK, this is doable.  The fearful part of me thought, what on earth am I thinking?  

I met with my small group for my certificate program in spiritual directing.  We check in with each other when we first log onto the Zoom meeting.  I said, "I feel like I'm holding everything together, but I also feel like I'm teetering.  I tell myself, 'Keep looking straight ahead--don't look down!'"

Don't look down--it's what a yoga teacher told me long ago.  Keep your focus on a distant spot, and it's easier to keep your balance.  

May we all be able to keep our balance.

Rainbow Rhythms

Last month, I wrote this blog post about a God sighting that you wouldn't believe if you saw it in a movie.  Last week, I had another one of those.

I had been walking before sunrise, trying to quell my anxiety.  The red sky made me think about the sailors taking warning.  I got to the small lake that's in the neighborhood, and I watched the sky turn shades of pink and salmon as the sun got a bit higher.

When I turned and looked west, I was stunned by a gorgeous rainbow in clouds tinted pink and purple.  I don't walk with any gadget that has camera capacity, so it will just live in my memory and in these words.

I know that I have been trained to see rainbows as a potent symbol of hope, raised in churches that talked about Noah and the ark and the rainbow as a promise that God won't destroy the world again.  When I'm in a bleak mood, I say, "Of course God could make that promise.  Humans will step in and close the gap and destroy the world just as efficiently."

But when I'm looking at an actual rainbow, I rarely react in a negative way.  I gasp in awe and even though I know how rainbows are formed by light refracting, I still say, "Great show, God!"

Spare Time, Spare Change, and Changing the World

My spouse and I have been talking about our moving process, about how moving itself feels like it takes at least a year, and then it takes an additional year to feel like we've really unpacked.  He said, "How did we used to move every year?"

We went through the usual reasons:  we were younger, we had less stuff.  But I think the real reason may be that we had fewer demands on our time.  Sure, we were grad students, with a bit of teaching work on the side, with friends and volunteering/social justice work in our spare time.  In a way that sounds like what we're doing now, with the primary job and the adjunct teaching jobs on the side, with friends and volunteering/social justice work in our spare time.  But if I count up the hours involved, it was less in the 90's than it is now.

As I think about what makes us overextended and often overwhelmed, I think about people doing heroic work.  I think about the people and organizations that have hurried their work in getting people to safety away from Afghanistan.  Sure, my volunteer work with my local Lutheran church helps keep the food pantry going, which helps keep all sorts of families going, but at the end of the day, does it really matter?

I do know that quantifying our efforts makes no sense.  Of course our charity/social justice work matters.  It matters to the people who get the food and thus have something to eat.  Does it eradicate hunger forever?  No.  If there's a path to that kind of eradication, humans haven't found it yet.  Yet even as I type those words, I think of some human societies that have made more progress to that eradication than the U.S.

I also understand the folly of comparing efforts.  The work of getting people out of harm's way is essential, as is the work of getting food to hungry people.  

It's also important for people like me to remember that giving money to relief efforts can be important too.  I can't fly a plane to Afghanistan, but I can give money to groups who can organize that kind of effort.  I don't have personal connections to individuals who need to escape, but I can give money to groups like Lutheran Immigration and Refugee Services who help get people settled.  I know that we don't all have money to spare, but if we do, we can do some good with those dollars.

The work of repairing the world is vast and varied--there's room for every effort.

God, Our Greatest Cheerleader

Yesterday is the first day of school in my county, Broward. On my walk, at 6:40 a.m.,  I saw a young woman in a cheerleading outfit and pom poms. She said, "Yay, first day of school," and she gave the pom poms a shake before loading the car.

Even though I know that the school situation in Broward county is fraught with peril for everybody, her enthusiasm made me happy. And then I said a prayer for safety, a prayer to the Creator, our greatest cheerleader.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for August 22, 2021:

Joshua 24:1-2a, 14-18

Psalm 34:15-22

The eyes of the LORD are upon the righteous. (Ps. 34:15)

Ephesians 6:10-20

John 6:56-69


In some ways, the Gospel readings get more difficult with each passing Sunday this August. They're difficult in part because they seem so repetitive: another week, another set of verses on flesh and bread and feasting on what actually nourishes us. You might find yourself protesting, "O.K., O.K., I get it."

We've spent the last month hearing about the importance of both physical and spiritual nourishment. As school starts, as events from the larger world get more attention, as we start to think about future holidays and wonder if we'll be able to see our loved ones, it’s good to be reminded of the importance of nourishing both ourselves and others.

Maybe it’s time to recommit to the good nourishment patterns that we know will keep us healthier. There's still time to enjoy summer's pleasures when it comes to the produce stand: have melons for breakfast and corn on the cob for dinner. Bake a batch of bread or muffins. Watch the bread rise and remind yourself of the larger Christian task of being leaven in the loaf of society.

Think of ways that you can nourish yourself spiritually so that you can be that leaven. Can you add some additional reading to your day? How about some extra prayer time?

You say you have no time? Stop watching the news: a spiritual practice that will benefit in all sorts of ways. Spend as much time in prayer as you do paying attention to social media or print media. Listen to your favorite spiritual music as you go through the day’s tasks.

Once we've nourished ourselves, maybe we'll be better able to nourish each other.

The world groans more and more each day. We must fortify ourselves and each other to face the task of repairing the world. Our month of bread readings reminds us of the ways to do that. As delicious as our home-baked loaves of bread are, Jesus reminds us of the source of our true nourishment.

Chalice as Water Cup

Even though we're members of a suburban church, we occasionally arrive in the morning to find a homeless person who's set up camp for the night, not a camp with a tent, but a piece of cardboard for a sleeping mat on the walkway that has a deep eave above it.  We usually let them sleep, and they're usually gone by the time church is over.

Yesterday, as we prepared for communion during the service, we heard a banging knock on the side door.  One of our deacons went to answer the door, and I was not surprised to see that it was the man who had been sleeping when we arrived.  I recognized him, because we had paused from a distance to make sure he was breathing.

He sat down on the front pew, while the deacon went into the sacristy, and our pastor continued with the liturgy to ready us for communion.  The deacon returned with one of the bulkier pottery chalices and handed it to the man.  He drank.  

Before the pandemic, we had decided not to buy bottled water, and we installed a water dispenser with washable cups.  We wanted to cut down on our plastic usage as a church.  And during the pandemic, we've all brought our own water.  Yesterday reminded me of why we might want to keep some bottled water on hand.  The woman who runs the food pantry came to him with a clean t-shirt for later.  We keep a supply of those on hand for just this very reason.

We now commune with hermetically sealed elements that one person passes out to the congregation, and we did offer the man the option to commune with us.  He shook his head.  As we consumed the elements, he drank from the chalice as he held it with both hands.  I found it oddly moving.

We finished the service with prayers for a parishioner who had died but didn't want a funeral or memorial service.  I recognized her name from the prayer list; we've been praying for her for weeks.  Her family members wanted something, so we had some readings and prayers and then two family members sang "Take My Breath Away," a song I associate with some sexy scenes from Top Gun.  As they sang and the homeless man coughed into his mask, I also thought of our current disease situation.  The two young women chose the song simply because their relative had liked it.

The words from the Psalms moved me to tears, but I'm easily moved to tears these days.  After a service where I've watched a homeless man drink water from a chalice, I felt even more appreciative of the words that reminded us of a creator who cares for us, even when we're difficult to care for.

The Feast Day of the Assumption of Mary into Heaven

Today is one of the many Marian feast days. Today we celebrate Mary's Assumption into Heaven. Here are the readings for today:

First Reading: Isaiah 61:7-11

Psalm: Psalm 45:11-16 (Psalm 34:1-9 NRSV)

Second Reading: Galatians 4:4-7

Gospel: Luke 1:46-55


When I was very little, I was taught about the two Old Testament people who got to go to Heaven without dying (one was Elijah, and I can't remember who the other one was). We were taught that very good, very righteous people got to go to Heaven without dying--but interestingly, our class of little Lutherans was not taught about Mary's Assumption into Heaven. Mary, the mother of Jesus--why was she left out?

My childhood Lutheran churches didn't mention Mary much at all, outside of the seasons of Advent, Christmas Eve, and the post-Christmas Sundays. As I've gotten older, I've felt a bit of mourning for all the celebrations and richness that we've lost in our Protestant traditions that were so eager to show how different we were from the Orthodox religions.

I remember hearing about the possibility of Assumption into Heaven, and I remember as a child wanting to be good enough for that eventual reward. Clearly, my childhood self was not well-schooled in the concept of grace.

I understand that Mary has often been used as a tool of sexists who want to dominate women and convince them to deny their wants and needs. But as I look around and see the consequences of a whole nation devoted to selfish consideration of ONLY their individual wants and needs, I wonder if it's not time to return to the models of the saints, the prophets, Mary, and Jesus.

You might protest, "We haven't left those models. What do you mean, return?" But for most of us, we're surrounded by so many examples of bad behavior. For example, it's difficult to watch TV and come away feeling enriched. The news is full of bad behavior, and many a reality show rewards bad behavior. It's time to start adding good role models back to our lives. As a Composition teacher, I know that a lot of us do learn best when we have a model to follow. And many of us need lots of models.

Mary gives us a wonderful model of how to structure our religious lives. Today is a great day to go back to read the Magnificat, Luke 1: 46-55:

My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour;
he has looked with favour on his lowly servant.
From this day all generations will call me blessed;
the Almighty has done great things for me and holy is his name.
He has mercy on those who fear him,
from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm
and has scattered the proud in their conceit,
Casting down the mighty from their thrones
and lifting up the lowly.
He has filled the hungry with good things
and sent the rich away empty.
He has come to the aid of his servant Israel,
to remember his promise of mercy,
The promise made to our ancestors,
to Abraham and his children for ever.

Across Decades, a Woman Weeping for Afghanistan

I spent much of yesterday returning to a state of tears over Afghanistan, while at the same time marveling over how many decades I've spent feeling weepy because of what's happening in Afghanistan.  My first memory of knowing about Afghanistan as a country was the Soviet invasion in 1979 and the boycott of the Moscow Olympics, which made my teenage self both angry and weepy.

As I prepared for my wedding in 1988, Afghanistan was in the news because the Soviets were pulling out.  I joked that we should have gotten married earlier because peace seemed to be breaking out in the most unlikely places in that summer of 1988.

Ah, the foolish optimism of youth.  I was astonished that Afghanistan seemed to fall back into the middle ages once the Soviets left.  The 1990s brought all sorts of misery to Afghanistan, particularly to females.  It was shocking to me that a country could go backwards that way, in terms of women's rights.  I thought about Margaret Atwood's claim that anything that was in The Handmaid's Tale was something that was actually happening in the world as she wrote the book in the early 1980's, and I felt a shiver along with my weeping.

For the past twenty (20!!!) years, many events in Afghanistan could provoke weeping, but I held out hope that the U.S. presence in the country helped stabilize it.  I predict that events in the coming weeks will solidify that claim, as the U.S. leaves, and once again, the country will head to a place that's very unhealthy for females.

As I listened to coverage of yesterday's events in Afghanistan, I thought of the scene in The Princess Bride about the classic blunder of getting involved in a land war in Asia.  When I first saw that movie in 1991 or so, I heard the line and thought about Vietnam.  Afghanistan has been another part of Asia that has a long (very long!) history of being very challenging to invaders, from Alexander on to the U.S., century upon century of sorrow.

Not for the first time, I wondered why anyone would want to have the U.S. as an ally.  I thought of our history of abandoning those who tried to help us.  Some of my earliest political memories are those of the exit from Saigon, those images of people clinging to helicopters and trying to push their way to a safe exit.  As the news from Afghanistan has gotten progressively worse as the U.S. leaves, I've thought of the South Vietnamese, of the Kurds, of all of those types of people in Afghanistan who have tried to help the U.S. and will now be in great peril.  And I've thought of the females, who are also in great peril, solely because of their gender. 

My life has shown me the folly of trying to save everyone.  My life reminds me again and again that I can't even keep my closest loved ones safe, so why should I think that I can somehow protect the vulnerable in other countries?  Why should I think that I can save those who didn't win the lottery of being born into a safe body, a safe country, a safe situation?  

Why do I believe in safety at all?

As I waited for the AT&T person to finish making my phone line communicate with the outside, I ended my day by reading Patricia Smith's brilliant and terrifying Blood Dazzler, a good reminder of all the aspects of life that threaten us:  hurricanes and poverty and bad information and poverty and learned helplessness and poverty and forced helplessness.  I loved this cycle of poems that revolve around Hurricane Katrina, and each subsequent reading only increases my appreciation of the work.

I wondered about my own ruminations throughout the day and wondered if I could create some sort of poem cycle that connects Afghanistan and the health of a nation and the personal health choices that lead to ruin.  Or maybe I want a simpler poem, a poem about a woman hearing about the dire circumstances of Afghanistan's women and children, a woman sobbing in the car as she goes to pick up her books on hold at the public library, a woman who has spent her day at work trying to make the educational path easier for college students.  Let my brain ruminate on that a bit before I attempt to catch it on paper.

This morning, I came across this magnificent blog post, where Dr. Wil Gafney makes connections between Afghanistan and the ancient prophets of the Hebrew Bible.  Her work always makes important connections, so I wasn't surprised to find her continuing to do so.  I am grateful for a solid spiritual dimension to my reading about Afghanistan this morning.  

I am grateful to know that I am not alone in weeping.

Wedding Anniversary in Year 2 of a Pandemic

A few days ago, one of my friends asked, "When you met your spouse, did you immediately know that he was the one?  Did you immediately envision growing old with him?"

I said, "It was 1983 when we first met.  I thought we'd be dead in a nuclear war soon.  But I did think he'd be a good partner in surviving the immediate aftermath before the radiation slowly killed us."

She laughed, but indeed I was serious.  I think of myself as the last of the Cold War babies, the ones always scanning the sky for a mushroom cloud.  My elementary schools had both tornado drills and nuclear drills, which were the same:  take a book, crouch against the wall in an inside hallway, put the book over the back of the head and spine, and hope that it's all adequate protection against a failing foreign policy/the result of warm air meeting cold.

In 1983, when I first met my spouse at our small, southern, liberal arts college, I chose a major based on what I liked, not on what I thought would take me into the future.  People asked, "What are you going to do with a major in English?"  I said, "We're all going to be dead in a nuclear war.  What does it matter?"  I read various survival scenarios.  I kept my 74 Monte Carlo longer than I should have because it had an ignition that would survive an electromagnetic pulse.

Even though I was expecting a nuclear war, I still got married on this day in 1988.  People gathered, we made our pledges in the same church where my parents made similar pledges, and off we drove for a short honeymoon in Asheville, NC, before we had to be back for grad school orientation.

This week, we've begun transitioning to the next phase of our married life, as we have moved to the condo that we're renting.  I don't know if this is true for everyone, but moving brings out the best and worse in our relationship.  My thoughts have returned to those post-apocalyptic scenarios.  My spouse would be very good at making a shelter out of the ruins.  Why is moving so hard?  I would be very good at gathering and reassembling the scraps of society into something useful.  Why is it so hard for me to take a household and move it a mile away and figure out which item goes on which shelf?

One of the benefits of having been together for decades is that I know our patterns, and on my good days, I'm patient.  On my best days, I know how to get us to a better spot, out of our frustrations and anger towards the ideas that we had of how we were headed to a better spot.

We still have so much work to do, but we are further along than we were this time last week.  I no longer expect that we will soon be dead in a nuclear war, but I do realize that we're at a slightly higher risk of that scenario in our post-Cold War time.  During my childhood, the U.S. knew who had which nukes.  Now we don't.

A global pandemic that has produced a highly contagious variant is not the pandemic I planned for, but here we are.  And now we are doing the kind of planning for the future that some people do in their younger years:  looking at our finances, looking at our expenses, making some judicious moves that will net us the best return on our investment.

Pivoting, or Not

 The intensity has increased, the intensity of the "What to do about Fall term 2021" tweets/posts/articles.  I'm seeing parents agonize, teachers ponder, administrators making one pivot and then another.  We're all pivoting.  Or we're standing fast, hoping for the best, wondering what exactly it is that we're hoping for.

As a school administrator of a very small campus, I feel fortunate in many ways.  We've never abandoned the measures which we adopted in the no-vaccine days of the pandemic.  We still wear masks, we still try to stay out of each other's breathing spaces as much as we can, and because we were a shrinking campus in the pre-pandemic times, we've kept our class size small.  I used to chafe at the restrictive ratios that come with a Vet Tech program, but now I'm happy for them.

I also know that it's not sustainable, running a campus with these small numbers, but others will make those larger decisions about viability and timing.  For now, I show up and try to shepherd the campus through each day's challenges, and each day brings different challenges.

In darker moments, I cannot imagine how we're all going to get through this, and in my darkest moments, I have some trouble even putting into words what "this" even is.  This new Delta variant is so very contagious.

I do know the history of diseases, and that most virulent variations of a disease burn themselves out, becoming milder versions that don't threaten their hosts as severely.  I also know, but don't often say out loud, that the process of becoming a milder disease often happens across centuries, not over a year or two.

I pray the most classic of prayers:  "Help us, help us, help us, oh Divine Creator with a longer view than ours."

As a teacher, I know that some of us have been advised to make alternate plans, in case we need to go all remote again.  I know that some of us are in schools that are committed to in person, no matter the cost.  I am tired of wondering why the governor of my state of Florida is so opposed to masks.  I confess that I've come to appreciate some of the other aspects of masking.  There's the germ avoidance, of course.  But there's also not worrying about having something in my teeth or about lipstick or whether or not I need a mint.

Yesterday, I got some communication from the seminary where classes start in just a few weeks.  It's interesting to watch all of these angles from the student side.  I chose remote classes back when I wouldn't have thought we'd be having this kind of disease surge.  Yesterday we got a letter from a dean advising us that our teachers might be making different choices in learning modalities.  I'm assuming that he was telling us that in-person classes might turn out to be a combination of in person and remote, or perhaps all remote, if conditions worsen.

I am glad I have chosen not to live on campus.  I don't want to pay for campus housing if I'm going to go there just to log onto my computer.  I can save major amounts of money by doing that from the space I share with my spouse.

I was never considering living on campus this term, since I expected to be employed for part of it.  But this situation raises interesting questions for the future.

As a student, just like as an administrator, I don't have enough information to make plans for 2022 yet.  Let me just keep tending to the work of each day.  For now, that is all I can do.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, August 15, 2021:

Proverbs 9:1-6

Psalm 34:9-14

Those who seek the LORD lack nothing that is good. (Ps. 34:10)

Ephesians 5:15-20

John 6:51-58


In this Sunday's Gospel, we see Jesus confounding his listeners; the more he talks, the more confused they become.  And who can blame them?  Here's Jesus who seems to be talking about eating human flesh and drinking human blood; let's not underestimate the strangeness of Jesus' message.

In a variety of ways, the confusion has continued, century after century. Communion can be a divisive issue even in our own time. Churches differ in how often they celebrate Communion, and denominations differ widely in what they think the Eucharist means.

Jesus didn't intend for the sacrament to become divisive. On the contrary, Communion is designed to unite us--that's why most churches offer the sacrament as a communal practice. Unlike prayer, which is easily done in private and often silently, the Eucharist should solidify us and nourish us as a group, much the way that meals together nourish us not only as individuals, but also as friends, colleagues, and/or family.

Of course, we can't leave it there. Communion should also transform us to do the work of God on earth. The surrounding lessons tell us of virtues we should strive to manifest in our lives. Our goal is to be leaven to this loaf of a world, to be the beacon of Christ in the world.

Again and again Jesus reminds us of the necessity of nourishing ourselves with him. We can feast on the food that will bring us eternal life.

God calls us to do serious work. We must live as if the Kingdom of God has already taken over our world. To keep ourselves strong for that work we need to keep ourselves fed with good food: meals of nourishing food, the words of the Bible, the words of writers who inspire us to transform both ourselves and the world, the images of people who inspire us to visions of a better world, music that can wind its way through our days, prayers that keep us connected to God, relationships that remind us that we are loved and cherished and worthy, and the sacrament of Holy Communion.

When the Wait List Turns into a Seat

It feels like a very long time ago that I signed up for seminary classes.  I put myself on the waitlist for the first half of the church history class.  Week after week went by, and the wait list didn't seem to change.  In the meantime, I had been thinking that maybe doing 4 classes was too ambitious anyway.

And then, yesterday, I discovered that I now have a seat in the class.  What to do?

The obvious answer:  buy the books and get ready for the class.  Why did I put myself on the waitlist if I wasn't planning on taking the class?

When I first signed up for classes, I wasn't sure that my job would last very deep into the fall.  In fact, I thought that I might be let go in early September once we moved all the labs over to the Ft. Lauderdale campus.  I put myself on the wait list knowing that if I ended up unemployed, I'd be happy that I had given myself the possibility of an extra class. 

Fast forward to now, and it's clear we won't be at the Ft. Lauderdale campus in the next few weeks.  The Vet Tech program has specific lab requirements.  The school can't just plunk them into an abandoned surgical tech lab space.

Still, I might be able to handle the additional class.  My school observes Jewish holidays, and we've got a lot of them in September.  I could be focused and get a lot of the heavier reading done in September.

My online orientation to seminary class seemed to say that the classes will open in Blackboard 2 weeks before classes start--2 weeks is Monday.  Hopefully, I can look at all the classes and get a sense for the work load:  the reading schedule, the assignments, and the due dates.  I know that I have until week 2 of classes to withdraw and not be charged.

For so much of summer, I felt like I was in a holding pattern.  And now, suddenly, the pace has shifted.  I have some decisions to make, but there's still time--not as much time as there once was, but there is time.

Let me also remember to pray.  I hear the words of my spiritual director:  "How are you praying about that?"  And often, to my chagrin, I realize that I am not praying about it at all.  Let me also ask God to help and guide me.

First Blog Post from the Condo

 Here I sit in the new (new-to-us) condo, with soca music pounding in my head.  There is no soca music playing; I'm hearing all sorts of mechanical sounds that it will take me some time to get used to, but didn't interfere with my sleep as Saturday moved to Sunday.

No, I'm hearing soca music because there was a soca festival at the arts park across the street from our new location, loud, thudding, SO LOUD music, from the time we got back from church until we went to sleep.  And I went to bed later than is usual for me because the festival lasted until 10.  Sigh.  But it won't always be that way.  People paid $50-$80 for that concert--no, it won't always be that way.

On Saturday night, there was a blues/rock kind of concert, and we were able to sit on our balcony and enjoy it.  Yesterday was the kind of concert where my spouse put on his ear protecting headphones, the kind that you use at a gun range, to go out to have a smoke.

Our move on Saturday went as well as it could.  I'm glad that I got the 15 foot truck, not the 20 foot truck.  We barely had enough time to unload the smaller van.  The security guard rode the elevator with us, and it was a smallish elevator.  I don't know how people get a king size bed up to their condos.

So far, we have unpacked most of what we brought over, but most of what we brought over was bigger furniture, the kind we need to move with a truck.  This morning, half of what I had planned to wear to work is here with me and half a mile away at the old house.  I'm still not sure how I'll structure my morning.  

My mood vacillates.  Until yesterday afternoon, I was mostly happy with this decision, although I'm glad that we're renting, not buying.  Yesterday morning, I had a delightful morning reading a book, reading the old-fashioned way, a book spooling out across paper pages.  Yesterday afternoon, despite the pounding music, we managed to find the wi-fi here, the internet access that is included as part of our rent.  It took me many attempts and a different log-in key, but here I am, writing a blog post.

I am glad that I did my seminary orientation right when the course first opened up.  I knew that August would soon be filled with other obligations, and it looks like I am correct.  Packing, moving, with more packing to do, more addresses to change, more figuring out of how to transport the old life to this new location.  And then getting the house ready to go on the market.

Now to get them all taken care of before seminary starts at the end of this month.

Moving to Higher Ground

Today is moving day.  As I look around, it will probably not be the last moving day.  Today is the day we move the big furniture, the kind we need a truck to move.  My spouse's brother will help us.  Because we are moving to a condo, we can't just move in any day we want.  We decided to pay the extra $100 to be able to move on a Saturday.  We have a 3 hour window.

We had a plan.  We got the U-Haul yesterday, and my spouse had planned to load the van while I was at a conference.  I needed to stay at the conference until 4:15 yesterday afternoon to get my CEU credits.  But my spouse could get a lot done without me, with just himself and the dolly.

The condo we're moving to has a landlady who lives states away.  We've discovered the locks to the balcony aren't working like they should, so we've spent the week trying to arrange to have a locksmith come in.  Yesterday, the plan was that my spouse would take an hour out of packing to go meet the locksmith at the condo.  

Well . . . the day didn't go as planned.  The locks weren't easy to change, and in fact, the guest room door to the balcony appears to be permanently locked.  The sliding glass door won't lock, and the master bedroom door has a lock that's not exactly fixed, although the door can now be opened.  The condo is on the sixth floor, so it's not as big a security problem as it would be if we were lower, but long story short, my spouse lost 5 hours of his day.

And then, when he was positioning the U-Haul in the driveway, he hit the gate--no damage to the truck, but the gate will likely need to be replaced.  He lost another hour trying to fix the gate.  

By the time I got home from the conference, my spouse's spirits had sunk.  We ordered a pizza and reassessed.  We went to the condo and tried to strategize.  I've been liking the condo more, as we've seen it empty.  When we first saw it, back in June, just after we had signed the lease, I felt despair.  Two guys were living there, and nice as they were, the condo looked so different than what I had imagined from the pictures.

I am not sure we will love living there, as we will have some irritations, like the parking garage.  But it will cut our housing expenses in half.

It's not like when we made our last move in 2013.  Back then, we were sure our quality of life would improve.  I remember feeling terrified about the finances of it all, and the house needed lots of work.  Now it's just the reverse.

I was less worried about climate change, although I did know that our old house was in a higher spot in Hollywood, literally 6 feet above sea level, not 2 feet.  But at the time, I thought we might be able to retire in the new house.  But here we are, moving back to higher ground.

The new report on global climate change comes out on Monday.  It's going to be grim.  I do feel like we're getting out in the nick of time, and I will feel more that way once we get the house sold.  The condo building was constructed in 2007, so it will be the first place we've lived in South Florida that's built to modern hurricane codes.  It has never lost electricity during our storms--it's on the same part of the grid as a local hospital.

We're not sure what the future will bring, as I start seminary in a few weeks.  So we'll keep our housing options open and a bit cheaper.  And we'll get to experience a different aspect of South Florida living.  We'll be across the street from the Hollywood Arts park, which is the focal point of several streets of wonderful restaurants, cafes, and bakeries.  

It's probably not what we want for the rest of our lives, but it will work for the next few years--or if it doesn't, we'll figure out what to do next.

A Manuscript of Sunrises

Last week, I got a note rejecting my poetry.  In some ways, that's nothing new, nothing unusual.  I get more rejections than acceptances.

But it was from my dream poetry press, the one I would choose if you said, "We can have any publisher produce your book of poems--just tell us which one."  Again, that's not unusual.  They've rejected me before.  But this time, they kept my manuscript much longer than the last times that I submitted to them.  In this way, I got my hopes up.

Come to find out, they kept my manuscript longer because they got more manuscripts than they usually do.  Sigh.

On the day that I got the notification of rejection, I went for a walk, as I usually do.  I go before sunrise, and I usually get to my little neighborhood lake in time to watch the sky turn colors as the sun rises.  It's usually glorious, and each morning is different in its glory.  Even an overcast sky turns interesting in the face of a sunrise.

I thought about God and sunrises.  If God assembled a manuscript of sunrises, what would be included?  If that manuscript was rejected, would God feel sad?  One thing is certain:  God would keep creating sunrises.

Since I've spent the last month sorting, sorting, sorting, I thought about God and rough drafts.  Does a sunrise have a rough draft?  Does God keep all the rough drafts, and later look through them, looking for inspiration for new sunrises?  Does God keep them thinking there might be a day to return to them and improve them?

I realize I may have pushed this metaphor too far, but it did make me happy to think of God creating sunrises, morning after morning, offering us something different each day.  And it made me feel better about my own rejections.

Exile and Redemption in a Time of Plague

My pastor has been planning a September where we will look at themes of exile and restoration.  I'm intrigued to see where he goes with this.  He is planning worship on Sunday and a midweek study of some kind delivered by Zoom.  He asked me if I wanted to do something before worship on Sunday, something that incorporates a creative activity.  Of course I said yes, but I do realize that our South Florida COVID spike may put those plans on hold.  Where will we be by September?

I can get a bit lost in despair as I think about these plans.  Is it too early to look at themes of exile and redemption?  I thought we were almost to the place of redemption when it comes to this disease.  I knew we had work to do to get the vaccine to all the globe, but I thought we were on track in the industrialized nations.  And now, again, we are not on any kind of track I want to be on, as disease levels spike in the U.S.

My pastor asked me if I had any Bible passages that are my favorites when it comes to these themes.  My brain immediately went to Psalm 126, with its language of God restoring the fortunes of Zion and those who go out weeping will come back in joy.

Lately, though, my go-to Psalm has been Psalm 91, with its images of disease and pestilence at all times of the day and night and the promise of protection.  Psalm 91 is used as part of Compline at Mepkin Abbey, and last March, during the worst of my pandemic insomnia, those were the phrases that came to me, in Plainsong no less. And yesterday morning, as I was writing, Heidi Rodrick-Schnaath's post came across my feed; the end has references to other sacred texts that have given me solace today, and the post itself is a reminder that I am not the only one feeling this exhaustion and fatigue.

So yes, let me look to September.  Let me remember the promises of these ancient texts.  There is protection, there is redemption, no matter how lonely and extensive the exile.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, August 8, 2021:

First Reading: 1 Kings 19:4-8

First Reading (Semi-cont.):

2 Samuel 18:5-9, 15, 31-33

Psalm: Psalm 34:1-8

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 130

Second Reading: Ephesians 4:25--5:2

Gospel: John 6:35, 41-51

Now we enter into that time of bread, where Sunday after Sunday, Christ uses that metaphor. Many of us are hungry, physically, but we're not sure what we hunger for. Bread makes a great metaphor, as it sustains us in our daily life, but it stands for so much more. Think of the miracle of bread: water, yeast, and flour, at its most basic level. But given time and attention periodically and an oven, it's transformed into so much more.

We, too, are hungry for transformation, but like those people who followed Christ from shore to shore, hoping for a free meal, we often don't know what we hunger for. Perhaps this explains why so many of us shop compulsively, eat compulsively, scroll through our screens compulsively, consume mind altering substances compulsively. We want to do God's work in the world, but there's so much work to do, and we're so tired before we even get started.  We're so tired doing the work for pay, the work of caretaking of our loved ones, that we often don't have the energy for God's work.

Our Scriptures remind us in both the Old and New Testaments that God provides. God gives us both physical food and spiritual food. But we must be receptive. God won't open our mouths and chew for us.

We are in such desperate need of spiritual renewal. We need communion--and I use that word on all sorts of levels.  In our increasingly fragmented world, it's hard to find true communion.  In these long days of summer, it's easy to fall into a funk and forget all the ways to find that communion.

But of course, the Gospels point the way out of these spiritual doldrums.  Perhaps it is time to return to a bread baking regimen. We can watch the yeast work its magic and contemplate the work of the Holy Spirit in the world. We can share that bread with others and take a moment to catch up. We can end the day with a Psalm, a bit of bread, a prayer of thanks. We can add some prayer to my morning.  As we bathe or shave, we can remember my baptism and pray, "Preserve me with your mighty power that I may not fall into sin, nor be overcome by adversity; and in all I do direct me to the fulfilling of your purpose; through Jesus Christ my Lord" (found throughout the 3 volume set The Divine Hours by Phyllis Tickle).

It’s essential to remember that we are the leaven in this loaf that is the world.  Connection, both to God and to others, is what makes our yeast bubble and transform the flour and water of our days into something nourishing.

Altarscape for Bread Month

I was in charge of church on Sunday, and all went well; for notes on my sermon, see yesterday's blog post.  

While I was happy about the sermon, what made me even happier was my altar design.  

A week or two ago, when I realized that this was the August of bread year for the lectionary, I thought about changing the altar.  I remember as a child hating summer at church, "the long green season," as a long-ago pastor called it.  I loved the Advent/Christmas season for many reasons, but mainly it was because the church of my childhood changed all sorts of worship factors that shook up the stuff that makes it so boring for children, and adults too.

I thought about bread and grain and did a bit of browsing on various web sites, looking for fabric or wreath elements that would evoke bread.  I found a great deal on 100 stalks of wheat, so I ordered it.  I wasn't sure of what 100 stalks would translate too--would it be enough?  Would people at the back of

the church be able to see it?  I think it's a success from that standpoint.

I decided not to buy any fabric once I realized that the piece I had my eye on was similar to a table runner that I have; it's in the picture above.  I looked around my office and realized that the little tea pot I rarely use has a grassy theme that can work with wheat:

I also brought with me some of the baskets that I have in the office.  I had a friend who was downsizing several years ago, and I came to look around her house to see if I could use any of her discards.  I took as many baskets as I could fit in my car, and hardly a week goes by that I don't use them.  But this may be the first time I've used them in creating an altarscape.

I was putting away the AV equipment after the service, and I overheard a parishioner say, "The altar is so pretty."  I'm calling this one a success.

Sermon Notes: August 1, 2021

On Sunday, my pastor was out of town.  Months ago he had asked if I would lead church when he was gone, and of course, I said yes.  When it got closer to time, and I saw the readings, I was happy--bread month!

As I listened to the Gospel being read, I was struck by the people asking God for a sign.  I started there, asking "What more of a sign do people want?"  From there, I went back to Psalm 78:  23-29, which we had just sung responsively.  I talked about how manna had come to the people on the run from Egypt, that at first they were grateful, but then they complained about the lack of variety.

I talked about how we're not any better, and I referenced a poem I once wrote that began with the line, "She would complain about the taste of pies in Heaven"--and that's all of us.  Then I made my way back to the Gospel, with Jesus telling the people to hold out for the true bread, which is him.

I asked us to think about what nourishes us.  Society will give us specific answers, answers usually designed to sell us stuff.  I talked about Richard Rohr's book Falling Upward, and his theory about the two halves of a human life.  For the first half, we work towards the milestones that our society tells us we should want:  the education and degrees, the job, the spouse, the children, the house.  Then we might get to the midlife and wonder what it has all been for.

If we're lucky, we come to the question of what nourishes us, and we start sorting that out.  If we're really lucky, we move towards a life that really matters.

I said that the past 18 months had triggered some of that for many of us, and that the next few weeks might offer additional challenges.  I pointed us to verse 34, and introduced N.T. Wright's idea that this line would make a good prayer:  "Give us this bread always."  I challenged us to use the influx of bad news as the monasteries use bells--to remind us to pray.  So that every time we hear a piece of bad news, we should use that as a reminder to pray:  "Give us this bread always."

Along the way, I talked about the inbreaking Kingdom of God, not as a place that happens after we die or in the far, far future, when we've had a chance to transform society, but it's happening right here, right now, shimmering just behind the surface of what our society tells us is real life.  And we have a chance to be part of it.  We need to ask not only what we nourishment we need, but what our society needs.  And then we can pray that Jesus gives us that nourishment always and in all ways.

Bread Month Begins

Welcome to bread month! Over the next four weeks, the Gospel lessons will return again and again to this common New Testament symbol. We will be offered many opportunities to think about the meaning of this symbol.

I often tell my literature students that they can tell when something in a story might be a symbol because it shows up again and again, taking on an unusual significance. Our lectionary creators want to make sure we understand the importance of bread in the ministry of Jesus.

You might say that you already know. You take communion every week. You've heard that story of the loaves and fishes multiplying. Maybe you even pay attention to the bread that you buy each week as you choose the most nourishing loaves. Maybe you savor some bread and wine with your cheese on any given week-end, and you contemplate the life-giving properties of your snack. Despite all the recent attacks against carbs, most of us know that some variation of grain has kept most of human civilization alive more reliably than any other foodstuff.

The Gospels this month, however, remind us that there is much more to life than sustaining our all-too-human bodies. We hunger and thirst and we crave anything which might guarantee that we'll never hunger or thirst again. Jesus reminds us that it's natural for humans to want bread, but he tells us that we sacrifice so much if we stop with physical bread. Jesus reminds us of our larger purpose, which is communion with God.

In the language of economics, we need to pay ourselves first. We can't possibly do the work that God calls us to do if we're starving for spiritual bread.

Somehow, create some connections so that you can develop spiritual habits to go with your other habits. Pray while you're brushing your teeth. Listen to the Bible (via CD, tape, or download) as you drive to work. Have some spiritual sustenance delivered to your e-mail inbox every day. When you call your mom, check in with God when you hang up the phone. When you update your Facebook status, remember that God wants some facetime with you too. When you eat food, say grace, even if it's a snack and not the meal that you crave.

We are created for so much more than our earthly eyes can see, so much more than our cramped brains can comprehend. Spiritual habits and disciplines start to crack open our vistas so that we can enlarge our possibilities.

Over and over again, our spiritual texts ask us why we hunger for that which is not bread. Let's start training ourselves to hunger for the true nourishment.