One Year Anniversaries

Yesterday, I realized we were at the one year anniversary of making an offer on the house that we now own.  I was trying to figure out when my wrist surgery took place last year (May 2), and along the way, I figured out another piece of history.

I didn't blog about the process in real time, in part because I had a broken wrist that made it hard to write.  In larger part, I didn't blog about it because I didn't want anything to happen that might jeopardize the process.  I did write some blog posts after the fact, once we purchased the house in June (here and here).

At the time, a year ago when my spouse was talking to the owner of the house on the phone, I remember being a bit worried about making big decisions in a place of emotional vulnerability.  I remember saying words to the effect of, "I'm happy to have a house at Lutheridge, but right now, I'm focused on my wrist surgery, so I might not be thinking clearly."  My wrist was not the only thing shattered a year ago; my faith in my ability to know my body took a hit too, and I was feeling vulnerable, because if a little tumble could do so much damage, what other catastrophes might be waiting?

Yesterday my spouse and I talked about some of the decisions we've made in the past year.  We felt lucky to get this house at a really good price because it needed work.  We may end up spending as much (or even more) on it than we would have spent if we had bought a house that was more move-in-ready.  But oddly, I feel O.K. about that.  We're making good decisions (like putting in a high quality/efficiency HVAC system) that people who wanted to sell a house quickly at top dollar might not have made.  We're making design decisions that work for us.

A year later, I am glad to have this house in more ways than I would have anticipated, and I anticipated being glad to have this house.  I didn't anticipate that seminary housing might become more precarious.  Now I know that there are plans to bulldoze the building that has apartments, including mine.  I don't know exactly when that will happen, but I've felt lucky to have a place to go.  I knew the housing market had been weird, but I didn't realize it would continue to be weird; yesterday I read an article in The New York Times that noted that lots of people want to buy houses, but increasingly, as interest rates rise, many people don't want to sell and lose a lower interest mortgage.  If we had waited to invest the money from the sale of our prior house into another place to live, we might not have been able to find anything.  

I am glad to have a house in an area that's a bit safer from all the destruction that climate change is unleashing; several weeks ago, I looked at pictures of flooding in our old neighborhood and felt a bit of survivor's guilt.  But more, I felt relief.

A year ago, the people who owned this house accepted our offer to buy it.  And I continue to be grateful.

Patterns Made with Detritus

 Before moving on to other topics, one last post about silk scarves.  

The main way that we got this variety of patterns was with rubber bands--tie dye, basically:

I had done tie dye many times before.  Long ago, I was part of a department that had a quarterly festival, complete with tie dye.  So I decided to try something else.  I looked down and saw lots of tulip petals, both purple and yellow.  So I put them onto the silk, in a circle, and I ended up with this gorgeous pattern.

I also tried dying another scarf with a leaf, and some detritus from a tree.

But that approach yielded a more subtle pattern.

To be honest, I'm not real sure which scarf goes with which approach.  I also experiment with mixing dyes, so the green in each scarf may come from the vegetative matter or it may come from some dye mixing.  It doesn't really matter, since I was just having fun with the experiment.  I don't need to replicate it.

Silk Scarves and April Breezes

 On Thursday of last week, as part of our Chapel Visuals class, we dyed silk scarves in vats of liquids made out of natural materials:  black beans, turmeric, and turmeric with iron water (created by soaking rusty nails in water and vinegar).  I wrote this blog post about it.

We left the silk scarves soaking in the liquid.  My teacher took the vats home, left them soaking until Monday, and then hung them up to dry in her basement studio.  She brought them all to campus yesterday morning, and she strung twine between some of the trees in the courtyard of our seminary campus.

Then we pinned the scarves on the lines.  Our goal was to complete this task before chapel, and we were successful.  

It was the perfect day for this installation:  there was a breeze which kept the scarves fluttering, but it wasn't the kind of breeze that would rip them from the lines or flip them around.

I was intrigued by the ways that the scarves were both so similar and yet so different, even though we had all used similar techniques:  the same choice of dyes, the rubber bands to hold it all together in the vats of dye.

I loved the way they resembled prayer flags as they fluttered in the breeze.  Someone else took this picture of the courtyard from above, from a second floor window:

I am intrigued by how something relatively simple transformed the outdoor space, and the potential to impact the indoor space.  For example, people have this kind of encounter as they approach the chapel--our chapel has only the one way through the courtyard to it (for most of us who don't have keys to the other doors of the building that are kept locked), so people had to walk by the scarves--what would happen if the worship service built on what they encountered on their way to the chapel?

That's not what happened yesterday; we just had a regular chapel service.  But the potential is there, and I want to remember it.

I did something slightly different with the scarves that I dyed, but this blog post is getting a bit long.  Tomorrow I'll write about how I used other botanicals with my scarves to get a different effect.  Today I'll remember the beauty of them as they fluttered in the chilly April breeze.

A God that Cannot be Contained in Our Death Traps and Tombs

This week is the last week of seminary classes.  Next week we turn in final papers and projects, and then we're done.  Part of me is astonished--it feels like we just started.  

Last night I made this Facebook post.  I want to preserve it here, because I like the poetic language:  

This week is the last week of seminary classes before final exams and papers next week. Tonight was the last night in my class that's a deep dive into the Gospel of Luke--what a fabulous class it has been. What a great way to end, with the resurrection story and the reminder that God cannot be contained in the death traps and tombs we devise for the Divine.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, April 30, 2023:

First Reading: Acts 2:42-47

Psalm: Psalm 23

Second Reading: 1 Peter 2:19-25

Gospel: John 10:1-10


In this week's Gospel, Christ mixes metaphors a bit, talking about sheep and calling himself a doorway for the sheep to find pasture. He also warns of thieves and robbers, and we might ask ourselves who are modern day thieves and robbers? Who are the ones who would lead us astray?

Well, there are lots of contenders, aren't there? But the ones I'm finding most insidious these days are all the electronic activities which steal so much of our time away from us. I see more and more people bent over their phones, oblivious to the world around them.

You don’t believe me? Try an Internet fast and see what happens. Could you go for a day without logging on? Could you go for a week?  How long can you go without touching your phone?

These days, many of us rely on the Internet as we shift our work and education activities to be online so that we can work remotely. In some ways, it's a wonderful thing. In some ways, it robs us further of time and attention.

We might tell ourselves that we use our online time to stay connected to family and friends, and I will admit that it’s easier to stay in touch with some people via Facebook and/or texting than it was with e-mail or old-fashioned paper letters. Often, I find myself wondering how my friends and family are REALLY doing.

But do I take the time to ask? No. I’m too busy racing off to the next Internet diversion.

We might tell ourselves that the Internet allows us to stay current with what’s happening in the world, and in some ways, it’s a wonderful thing. I can read newspapers from all over the world, often for the price of my Internet connection. Not only that, I can read the opinions of others about those articles. In some forums, I can trade ideas with people. But all of that staying current comes with a price: it takes time away from other activities. Some of those displaced activities might be trading ideas with real people in a real conversation.

Very few of us will find real community via the Internet. We often think we don't have time because we're all very busy these days. But what is really sucking away our time? For some of us, it is, indeed, our jobs. For some of us, we're taking classes.  For many of us, it’s our Internet lives: we’ve got a lot of stuff to read, videos to watch, plus games to play, plus status updates, and all the information we can Google now, and so we do (whereas before, if it required a trip to the library, many of us would have stayed ignorant). And if you’re like me, once you’ve spent so much of your day staring at screens, you may find it hard to reconnect to humans at the end of the day. You may feel your brain gone fuzzy. You may find yourself irritable at these humans who demand that you respond. You may withdraw before you ever have/take/make time to reconnect.

The Internet also takes time away from our relationship with God. I’ve found useful websites that allow me to pray the Liturgy of the Hours, but for the most part, I’m not noodling around the Internet looking for ways to enhance my relationship with God—or with anyone else, for that matter. I suspect that if I’m brutally honest, even my relationship with myself suffers when I spend too much time on the Internet.

Now the Internet is not the only tool and resource that allows us to sidestep the hard work of relationship. Some of us narcotize ourselves with television or with spending more hours at work than the work requires or with the relentless pace of the activities that our children do (and need us to drive them to) or any of the other countless activities that humans use in ways that aren’t healthy.

These activities can not only keep us from relationship with humans but can deafen our ears to the voice of that shepherd that goes out looking for us. Our Bible tells us over and over that God yearns to be in relationship with us. But if we’re too busy for our families and friends, we’re likely not making time for God either.

So, try an Internet sabbath, even if it’s just for a few hours a week. Try doing it every week. Make a phone call to someone you love who can't come to you. Read a book. Play an old-fashioned board game. Listen for the voice of God who calls to you across space and time. Answer.

Sunday Snippets

 We've reached the point of the term when I feel both scattered and focused.  I have final projects/papers that I need to be working on; I have a plan, but I can't decide which project/paper to be working on.  I have online classes that I'm teaching, so I've got plenty of grading to do, but I can't dive in.  Three weeks from tomorrow I need to be moved out of seminary housing; I could be packing, but I do still have three weeks, so it's not yet time to pack all the dishes, all the books, all my clothes/bedding/towels.

Let me record a few random thoughts before getting back to the work of the end of the term.

--Yesterday was Earth Day, and a Facebook friend posted this picture:  

--"Here to save the planet."  This morning, a first line for a poem came to me:  The planet doesn’t need your salvation.  I've written a few more lines, and I'll see if more comes.

--Although there were plenty of Earth Day events around DC yesterday, I limited myself to taking a walk around the neighborhood.  I knew that storms were on the way, so I didn't want to get too far away from shelter.

--I felt the ominous approach of the storms, even before there were clouds in the sky.  Would I have that feeling if I hadn't read the weather reports?

--It was a relief to watch the storms roll in, knowing that I was relatively safe.  I made this Facebook post (and later updated it):  

"The crack of thunder that makes me disconnect the computer from the power cord, the rain that I hope will tamp down the pollen--it looks like the cold front is arriving! I am safe, not on a ground floor (no fear of flooding!), on a campus on a DC hill top (no fear of car flooding!), in my seminary apartment which was built the old-fashioned way, out of concrete block.

Update: The storm has settled into gentle rain; all is well here."

--On Friday, before I went to my sister's, I went out for ice cream with two seminary friends.  I love this picture:

--I made this Facebook post to go with the photo:  "Some days we do theology a bit differently in seminary. And some days, we eat ice cream. And some days, it all looks like the inbreaking community of God, and I want church to look like this."

--I will miss the people I've met here.  But I remind myself that many of them are graduating.  I'd be missing them if I stayed here.

--In some ways, I think that the emotional space of missing--missing houses, missing humans, missing land, missing the past--is one of the central explanations of my life.

Celebrating Earth Day with First Pelagius Lutheran Church

It is Earth Day; on my seminary campus on Thursday, we celebrated by using natural materials to dye silk scarves.  We had a pot of black beans, a pot of turmeric, and a pot of turmeric blended with iron water, which is created by soaking rusty nails in a jar of water and vinegar.

We will hang them up in the courtyard on Tuesday, and people leaving chapel can take one.  That means that my Chapel Visuals class had the joy of dying extra scarves on Thursday.  I experimented not only with dyes, but also with leaves and tree detritus that I picked up off the ground.  We left everything soaking in dye, and my teacher took everything home with her to soak, and later this week-end to dry.

It took me back to Girl Scout days, where I worked on a merit badge by dying cloth with onion skins or beet chunks.  And yes, I do get class credit--ah, the joys of a seminary program that has a track for theology and the arts!

One of my classmates has two small children, and they've been having fun with chalk and sidewalks.  She's been having fun too.  

I noticed one theology on the sidewalk in the picture above, and decided to add another:

My problem with so many theologies of the cross is that they leave us all up there on that cross, crucified together with that message of sin and the worthlessness of humanity.  But that discounts the very first chapter of Genesis, which I paraphrase in my chalked walk.

To me, this contrast says much about the modern church, about 2000 years of Church History, and about Earth Day and the future.

I'm thinking of the last discussion post we are writing for my Church History II class.  The prompt concludes this way:  "With that in mind, come back to Tutu's remark, and look ahead a little bit. Where might be a place where the Christian enterprise would serve its mission, not by "raising the voice" but by "improving the argument" and how?"

I concluded my post this way:  

"I think that Christianity can “improve the argument” by moving away from our more common message of sin and unworthiness, and moving to a message of the inherent goodness of all creation, the creation that God proclaims “good and very good” (Genesis 1: 31, NIV). So please join me in worship at the First Pelagius Lutheran Church where we will have a Mimosa Mass every Sunday at 11:00 a.m. and a Creative Arts Worship experience every Wednesday at both 7 a.m. and 7 p.m. (this last sentence is just a dream at this point, but if you should find such a church, I’d love to know about it—and so would lots of other people, I’d be willing to bet)."

Things Fall Apart and Come Together

My Church History II professor requires us to read 2 shorter books during the term; he gave us a list of 3 books to choose from, and we chose 1 in each part of the course, and then we spend part of class time discussing the book.  The idea of which books should be on the list is the topic for a different blog post.  But this morning, I'm still thinking about poems and last night's books.

In class, we finished the in person part of the semester by discussing Achebe's Things Fall Apart.  One student talked about the hopeful parts of the book, about the hopeful part of the Biblical book of Revelation, and the poem that gave the book its title ("The Second Coming").  From what he said, I thought, hmm, I don't see that poem by Yeats the same way at all.

I raised my hand and asked how many of the editions had the full text of the Yeats poem because I never saw the poem a hopeful poem.  I was surprised to find out that one edition apparently didn't include the poem at all, while others just included a few lines.  After class, I went back to my computer to read the poem again, just to be sure that I still felt the same way about the poem.

It may or may not surprise you to find out that I still find the poem less than hopeful.  I was happily surprised to find that I could still remember a lot of it; long ago, I taught it so often that I almost had it memorized.  I am surprised that the Achebe book doesn't have all of it, but perhaps there are copyright issues.  Maybe modern editors don't see the allusion/epigraph as essential.  Perhaps Achebe only wanted those few lines included with his novel.

After I sat with Yeats for a few minutes, I turned off the computer and the lights and got ready for bed.  My bedtime reading has been from a different poet, Maggie Smith's You Could Make This Place Beautiful.  Yesterday I saw her post that the book is #3 on the NYT best seller list.  Hurrah!  It's a well deserved spot; I've been enjoying the book immensely.

I'm happy for her success; it's good to see a woman poet succeed this way.  I'm happy when I see anything that tells me that people are still buying books, and I'm even happier when people are buying the books of poets, even if it's not their volumes of poetry.  I'm happy when a woman outside of New York City is finding publishing success.

You Could Make This Place Beautiful is the book that I was hoping Keep Moving would be.  I liked the inspiration that Keep Moving gave me, those nuggets that first appeared on Twitter.  But I found myself wanting more about Smith's life as a poet, and You Could Make This Place Beautiful gives me that window into her life as a writer.  She's also very honest about the price that came with her success.

Today will not be quite as steeped in literature, but that's O.K.  I'm headed over to my sister's, where we'll catch up and have dinner and do carpool duties and relax.  I know how fortunate I am.

Friends Old and New

 Last night, after my last meeting of the day, I decided to take a short walk across campus.  As I walked in the dusk, I wondered if I would get confused decades from now, when I'm an older woman.  Would I look back to this April night and think of myself as an undergrad?  Would I confuse my seminary campus (Wesley Theological Seminary in NW Washington, DC) with my undergraduate campus (Newberry College, in very rural Newberry, SC) in my confused older brain?

Probably not.  They are similar, but so different.  And I am similar, undergrad Kristin and seminarian Kristin, but so different.

Yesterday I had lunch with a friend from those undergrad days.  She went to UVa, but we saw each other regularly.  We met as Lutherans in the Lutheran Student Movement, as it was called then.  We were both from Northern Virginia, so we got together on school breaks.  I went to her ordination as she graduated from the Lutheran seminary in Philadelphia; she came to my wedding.

We've kept up with each other more sporadically since then, and I haven't seen her since 2004 when she was on vacation in South Florida.  I'm happy to say that it was easy to be together, in the ways that we used to be together, from the deep conversations to the ice cream that we enjoyed.  

I am so grateful for friendships like these.  When I was an undergrad, I always hoped that I would have friendships so deep that we could pick up right where we left off; undergraduate Kristin would be surprised that I would have friends I might not see in decades, but happy that we can still be friends, even without that face to face time.

At the end of the afternoon, I went to the last Wesley Student Council meeting of the academic year.  That had a surreal aspect.  It feels like we just started meeting, but here we are at the end.  I went to the first meeting in the spirit of undergraduate Kristin who decided to try every student group on campus, except sororities because they would cost too much.  Seminarian Kristin didn't have as many options as undergraduate Kristin, so off she went to that first student council meeting in September.  It's been good to be part of that group.

I feel like I just got here, just unloaded my last carload of stuff, fully expecting to be in this apartment for the next 2-3 years.  And now, here I am, about to load it all back in the car over the next several trips back to the North Carolina mountains.  It's been a good experience being here, although I am struck by how different my experience has been compared to my friend's experience at Philadelphia.

Her seminary in Philly had to merge with the one in Gettysburg to survive--a metaphor for the time we're in. 

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, April 23, 2023:

First Reading: Acts 2:14a, 36-41

Psalm: Psalm 116:1-3, 10-17 (Psalm 116:1-4, 12-19 NRSV)

Second Reading: 1 Peter 1:17-23

Gospel: Luke 24:13-35

Today we read of the sojourners on their way to Emmaus. This story gives us an important window into the lives we are to have as Christians, particularly when it comes to the sharing of a meal, and our basic obligations when it comes to hospitality.

That hospitality is the often overlooked side of the Emmaus story. The travelers have walked seven miles together.  For those of you who are wondering, that might take the modern walker, walking at a fast clip, a bit over two hours; in Biblical times, with unpaved roads with poorly shod feet, I'm estimating it would take half a day. When they get back to their house, they don't say to Jesus, "Well, good luck on your journey."

No--they invite him inside. What remarkable hospitality. They share what they have. They don't say, "Well, I can't let you see my house in its current state--let's go out to dinner." No, they notice that the day is nearly done, and they invite a stranger in to stay the night.  They don't direct the stranger to the nearest inn.

Those of you who have read your Bible will recognize a motif. God often appears as a stranger, and good things come to those who invite a stranger in. For those of you who protest that modern life is so much more dangerous than in Biblical times, and so it was safer for people like Abraham and the Emmaus couple to invite the stranger to stay, I'd have to disagree.

Without that hospitality, those strangers never would have known their fellow traveler. We are called to model the same behavior.

One thing we can do in our individual lives is to adopt a Eucharistic mindset. Never has this been more vital. Most people have ceased cooking for themselves, and many Americans are eating at least one meal a day while they drive.

Rebel against this trait. Look for ways to make meals special. Cook for yourself. Invite your friends and loved ones to dinner. Occasionally, invite someone to join your group that is outside of your regular friendship circle--the new person at church/book club/work.  Each week, go to a different bakery and buy yourself some wonderful bread. Open a bottle of wine and savor a glass.

If we can't be together in person, we can do this virtually.  One of the good realizations to come out of the pandemic is that hospitality can be shared from a distance.  It's easier for many of us to have a video call than a phone call, and many of us have the technology to do this now, with our computers and smart phones.  Technology can be distancing, but it can also connect us.

Jesus calls us to a Eucharistic life, which requires a major readjustment of our mindset around the issues of food, drink, time, and hospitality. Consider the Capitalist/Consumerist model that our culture offers us, and the invitation from Jesus looks even more attractive.

So, before the day gets later, go and buy some bread. Think about the many ways that bread (and other grains) sustain most of us throughout the world. Drink some wine and think about the miracle of fermentation; ponder the reality that in many parts of the world, people drink fermented beverages because the water supply is tainted, but fermentation provides some protection.

You are the leaven in the loaf, the yeast that turns grape juice into the miracle of wine--how can you make that manifest in the world today?

Bucolic Blooms and Neighborhood Blossoms

 Long ago, in the late 90's when we moved to South Florida, my inner visual artist was excited by the quality of the light which was so different than the light of Lowcountry South Carolina.  Yesterday, as I took my walk through the abundance of blooms in the DC neighborhood near my seminary, I thought about changing landscapes through the seasons, a different kind of delight for my inner visual artist.

If you've been reading my blog posts over the past nine months, you've seen me taking note of these changes.  Some of them are the product of nature.  When we drove away from South Florida last summer, we talked about how green everything was once we escaped Florida.  As I've driven back and forth across the mountains, along Interstate 81, I've noticed how the landscape has changed from the deep greens of late summer, to autumnal bronzed brilliance, and now, the spring shape shifting of various trees blooming and blossoming, along with patches of tulips and daffodils.

Yesterday, as I drove back from my Easter break and the Create in Me retreat in the mountains of western North Carolina, I thought about how bucolic the countryside was, in a way different from the drive in March.  Back then, I described the landscape this way in this blog post:  "green fizz look of the first growth of spring."

The light green has deepened for many of the farm fields.  I was surprised by how many flocks of sheep I saw.  I also saw horses and cows, but I expected those.    As I traveled through the late fall and winter, I didn't see as many animals in the fields, but yesterday was different.

I got back to my seminary apartment, and I was surprised by how many blooms I saw.  When I left, almost 2 weeks ago, I thought I had seen the best of spring:  the daffodils were beginning to droop, as were the tulips.  The cherry trees had finished.  I was happy to get to the mountains to realize I hadn't missed the dogwoods.

Turns out, I haven't missed them here in DC either.  Yesterday I took a walk and marveled at all the dogwoods and the redbuds that were in full blossom, along with the azaleas--what beautiful azaleas!  When those hadn't bloomed in early April, I assumed we just didn't have any.  Wow--what a difference 10 days makes!

As I walked through the neighborhood, I thought about how I had seen the houses through the seasons, which ones were decorated for which holidays, what had bloomed through the year.  I will miss them, but I am looking forward to getting to know a new landscape.

Back Down the Mountain

Yesterday, at the end of the Create in Me retreat, instead of driving 12 hours back to Florida, I walked down the road to my house in the residential section of Lutheridge.  Today, however, I do have a long drive:  between 7-8 hours back to my seminary apartment.  However, I don't dread it.  Much of the scenery is much prettier than past year's drives.

It's nice, also, not to dread that return to "real life," that leaving of the mountain top experience.  The bulk of my "real life" is a dream come true:  being a seminary student.  The job that pays part of the bills, teaching college English classes online, isn't onerous.

Last year, I left the Create in Me retreat with my right arm in a cast, wrist broken within it, knowing I was going to need surgery.  I am also glad not to be facing that.

Let me do my last packing and head out.  I don't leave quite as early as I once did, but it will soon be time to go.

Morning Prayer with Psalms and Beads

Yesterday at the Create in Me retreat, I was in charge of the morning devotion time.  We had planned on this, and someone in a planning meeting suggested that we have a devotion time that showed us how to use prayer beads. So on Thursday night, I made the announcement that we would be using prayer beads on Saturday morning, so people should be sure to stop by the prayer bead station; they would need at least 5 beads on Saturday morning.

I decided that we would do something very different than the usual approach to morning devotion at this retreat, which uses song and story.  I felt a bit apprehensive, because it was different, but then I reminded myself that it's only a 15 minute devotion time.

I chose a passage of a Psalm for five different prayer possibilities.  I explained who/what we would be praying for, asked people to choose a bead, read the Psalm, and was silent for 45-90 seconds to give people time to meditate, pray, and/or contemplate.  Here's what we did.

We began by anticipating the day with Psalm 108:  2-4.

We prayed for the larger world with Psalm 19:  1-2.

We prayed for those in leadership of all kinds (state, local, world, Church, work, and the people in the room, most of whom are in leadership positions in our lives) with Psalm 33:  14-17.

We prayed for those who are ill or in trouble of any kind with Psalm 69:  13-17.

We then moved to gratitude with Psalm 31:  7-8.

And then we ended with a Psalm verse to send us on our way into our day exploring the intersections between faith and creativity with Psalm 84:  5.

Several people told me how much they liked and appreciated this approach, and one woman took a screenshot of my notes so that she could have the Psalm passages.

Pouring Paint

When the Create in Me retreat is at its best for me, I get to try new things.  That part is not the most important part for me; the most important part of the retreat is reconnecting with friends.  But it's great when I get to try an artistic technique I might never try on my own.

I've been hearing about paint pouring for years.  It always sounded interesting, but I haven't tried it--until yesterday.

In some ways, it reminds me of alcohol inks:  the way you have minimal control of the finished product, the way the paint swirls, the way the finished product might look different when it dries.

We tried some techniques with string, and other ways to affect the finished project.  I had trouble photographing with the big fluorescent light overhead--hard to get rid of that glare on the wet paint.

It was fun.  In the piece below, I was trying for autumnal colors, but purple tried to take over, the way that purple so often does.

I have a similar problem with paint pouring that I do with the pieces I made with alcohol ink.  I can make a number of pieces in small time, and then what do I do with them all?

In short, it was great to experiment with supplies that I didn't have to buy separately, store on my own, feel guilty when the paint dried up in the containers because I didn't have time or space to do this art more often.

Today it's on to trying more stuff.  Last year, I had a broken wrist, and I couldn't do much.  This year, I want to do it all, and I'm overwhelmed a bit.  But maybe I'll try to make something with fabric edges made from this antique cutter:

Flooding, Windows, and a Retreat Begins

 After a week of really good sleep, last night was rougher.  I would have expected it to be better--we were at the end of a successful installation of sliding glass doors and windows.  But I was jangled.

I spent the day reading reports from my old neighborhood, the one in South Florida that flooded on a regular basis.  One of my neighborhood friends posted video of her flooded property, which I watched.  If her place flooded, I'm sure our old house flooded, since we often flooded when she didn't.

Ft. Lauderdale got 25.91 inches of rain in a 24 hour period.  The previous record was 14.59 inches.  I was first aware of the situation because I'm still on an e-mail list from the city of Hollywood, which was also inundated.

Yesterday was such a strange mix of emotions:  gratitude for not owning a house in a flood zone, survivor guilt because we left while others haven't been able to do that, sadness over a historic flood that one day will seem like a small flood in comparison, worry about friends who are still there.

I had emotions not related to the flood.  Yesterday was our window installation, which made me anxious:  fear that the wrong windows would be on the truck, fear that more rot would be discovered, fear that we'd have the wrong size openings for the windows going in where there weren't windows before.  Two of our windows are very high, up in the vaulted ceiling.  One of the installers told me that it wasn't really that high, that they'd worked on much higher windows.

Happily, I didn't have to stay in the house trying not to watch the installation.  I headed up the hill to Lutheridge's Faith Center to help get ready for the Create in Me retreat.  This year, we're exploring the theme of Creation out of Chaos, and our text is the Noah and the ark story.  We chose this theme and text back in 2018, for a 2020 retreat which had to be canceled.  Back in 2018, I pushed for that theme because of my experience with Hurricane Irma.  Sadly, it is no less relevant.

I created some fish out of foil and decorated them.  I made strips of fabric for an interesting garland that was designed to evoke water.  I helped others get materials and drove people to parts of camp and tried to stay out of the way when people were on ladders to create installations like this one:

I'm sure I will have more pictures later.  Today is the first full day of the retreat, and I am so blown away by all the raw materials that are in the Faith Center.  I'm sure that I was in a jangled state last night in part out of anticipation of the wonders of this retreat.

Breakfast will be served soon, so let me get ready for the day.  Again and again, I know how fortunate I am.  Again and again, I offer thanks.

Once I Saw through a Glass Darkly

This morning I'm thinking about that quote of Paul's, the one about seeing through a glass darkly.  When I was younger, I thought it meant that it was like seeing through a window at night.  But lately, I've thought about a different possibility.  We've had windows through which you see darkly--but we're in the process of replacing them.

Yesterday's installation went well, although the windows didn't arrive as expected.  We had also ordered sliding glass doors, so some installation could happen.

Our wall that faces the mountains has three sliding glass doors and a solid door, which means the back wall is almost all windows.  But the old sliding doors were pitted and dappled and impossible to make clear:

And yes, we did try to scrub them with a variety of cleansers. There were also places where condensation seemed to have settled in--here's a view from the old windows in the study/office:

When the professionals took the doors out, we discovered some rot, which wasn't a surprise to me.  It was clear from the damaged subfloor that there had been water intrusion.  Our installer took the rotted places out, replaced the wood, put flashing on the wood, and now everything should be water tight.  Hurrah!

Last night, I was struck by the difference in the view with new windows:

And here's the view from the windows in the study/office:

The old windows are in better shape, so the difference between them may not be as startling.  At the end of the project, we'll have 3 additional windows, so hopefully there will be a bit more light coming in.  Of course, we have lots of tall trees around the house, so the light will always be dappled.

At least when the project is finished, the glass in the house will not be dappled, even if the light is dappled.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The lessons for Sunday, April 16, 2023:


Acts 4:32-35

Psalm 133

1 John 1:1—2:2

John 20:19-31


I love the post-Easter encounters with Jesus. It's as if the Gospel writers knew that we'd need to be reminded of the amazing thing that has happened. It's no wonder that Thomas said he wouldn't believe until he'd touched the wounds.

Jesus was dead. He wasn't just passed out or in a deep sleep or let off the cross early. He died and rose again.

Notice that here, as elsewhere, Jesus knows what humans need and meets them on that level. He doesn't get huffy. He doesn't say, "Well, if Thomas isn't glad to see me back from the dead, then I'm not going to talk to him. I'll just hang out with people who believe." No, he lets Thomas put his hands inside of his side wound, if that's what it takes.

He forgives the doubt. He forgives the disciples who ran away. He doesn't show up to berate the disciples for hiding in a dark room when they've got work to do. He forgives all the human ways we can't rise to the vision that God has for our behavior, for our blessed lives.

Notice in these post Easter lessons how Jesus roots his actions in the physicality of life. He cooks people breakfast when they've been off fishing. He breaks bread and blesses wine. He presents his very wounded body. For those of us modern Gnostics who want to deny that Jesus was as human as the rest of us, these lessons seem specially placed to help us work against that belief. Jesus was NOT just a mystical creature with a human form that he could put on and take off, like a special set of clothes.

Perhaps that should be a lesson to the rest of us as well. When we feel despairing, we should look for ways to root ourselves in our physical lives; maybe we should try baking bread or cooking a meal. Maybe when we're almost sick with missing the ones that live far away, maybe instead of moping, we should write a letter to our loved ones, telling them how much we love them. Maybe we should plant some herbs or flowers, get our hands in the dirt, remember our roots in the world that deserves our love and attention.

Perhaps this approach would make a good way to minister to others. Instead of some sort of theoretical approach to evangelism, we should look minister to our neighbors’ physical needs; then we can think about their spiritual lives. We should ask people to dinner instead of asking, “If you died tonight, would you go to Heaven?” We should describe the great potluck dinner that awaits them at church, instead of the Heavenly feast that we have to wait so long to experience.

God came to this world to become physically involved--we are called to do the same.

Judas and Why We Take Classes

 Today, a quick post before turning my attention back to seminary writing.  Actually, my attention is never very far from seminary writing, but today I actually need to get some words recorded.

Yesterday morning, as I was thinking and reading, I had that stray thought flit through my brain, the one that wonders why I bother to go to seminary.  Couldn't I achieve the same thing by reading and writing on my own?  Granted, I wouldn't have the credentials at the end that might open up new career doors--but in terms of intellectual stimulation, couldn't I achieve the same thing?

Last night's class on the Gospel of Luke reminded me of the benefits of taking a class that's happening in real time, instead of just watching recorded lectures.  We had a great conversation about Judas Iscariot, a conversation that wouldn't have happened if we hadn't been there asking questions.

I asked what had been on my mind--could we really be sure that he exists, since he is such a perfect foil as a character.  We concluded, after fruitful conversation, that he probably did exist.  The early church would have been embarrassed by him.  The early writers would have had reason to keep him out of the Gospels.  He's an embarrassment and a puzzle--how could he have spent so much time with Jesus and acted the way that he did?

We talked about how little is known about him in the Gospel of Luke.  It's other Gospels that mention that he holds he purse or that he is greedy.  But Luke does include the bit about Satan entering Judas, which led to some interesting conversation.  We talked about agency.  I said that Judas still had free will, even after Satan entered him.  In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus prays for all the disciples because Satan will be doing winnowing and coming after all the disciples.  We see different outcomes of that prayer.

My professor said that Judas still has agency, even after Satan entered him.  I said that Judas could have said no, just like Mary could have.  My professor said, "Satan entering Judas doesn't immobilize him any more than the Holy Spirit entering Mary immobilizes here--what is true of good entering us may also be true of evil."  I do realize that others may have a different view of possession and how the forces of good and evil work.

One of my classmates put the idea in terms of remembering, both the kind that involves the memory and the kind that involves putting body parts back together.  She theorized that Judas had gotten lost, that he couldn't remember himself, as happens to all of us from time to time, for so many reasons.  And that's when we need Jesus to re-member us.

The other reason for the language of Satan, my professor said, is that it moves the story from one of a friend betraying a friend.  It is that story--but it is much more cosmic.

And here's one more nugget.  My professor acknowledged that the Gospels don't answer all the questions that she has.  She said that when she keeps coming back to a question that the Gospels refuse to answer, that maybe it's time to ask a different question.

In short, it was a great class, with lots of interesting give and take, throughout the class.  It was a great reminder of why it is worth it to take classes, instead of just watching YouTube videos or doing readings on my own.

Relaxed Easter Sunday

We had a much more relaxed Easter than we sometimes do.  Often we've gotten up very early to get over to the church to set up for Easter sunrise service; we've been part of the team that plays music.  Once we've done the Easter sunrise service, in the past, we would stay at the church the whole morning and participate in every service.

We did leave a bit earlier yesterday so that my spouse could get to choir practice before the 10:30 service.  But we only live minutes away from our current church, so it felt leisurely.  I sat in the large fellowship area and read my textbook for Church History II class.  There was no Easter breakfast or coffee cake or hardboiled eggs.  That felt sort of strange.  Happily, I had brought my own homemade bread, and there was tea at the hot beverage area.

The church service was a bit more crowded, but not as crowded as the early service.  I've been to the early service, and usually there are 15-25 people.  Yesterday, it was packed; I was able to observe because the church service wasn't done when I first arrived, and I could see the church empty out as I read and ate my bread.

The church service had some special elements, lovely flowers and some special musical instruments.  Easter is the day of brass instruments, and we had two.  We had bells to jingle when we heard the word "Alleluia."

At the end, we came  home, did some grilling, including grilling the bread dough I made, which gave us a delicious meal.  I got some grading done, and we called family members or made plans for a call on a less hectic day.  We ended the day by listening to music and watching reruns of Mash and All in the Family (as if it was a Sunday evening in the 1970's).

I will close with pictures of the flamingos in the neighborhood that flanks my seminary.  

When I was taking the pictures, a woman walking her dog told me that the woman who lives in the house designs these seasonal decorations for the flamingoes.  

I asked the dogwalker to tell the woman how much joy they have brought me.  

They make me want to do something similar in my mountain home.  We shall see.

Gardeners and Other Easter Types

 It is Easter morning, and we will go to church for the later service, where my spouse will sing in the choir.  It is Easter morning, the first Easter in many years that I don't have a lot of church duties.  I am aware that it may be one of the last Easters where I don't have a lot of church duties, so we have taken a low-key approach to Holy Week.  Plus it's been very rainy, which made me want to stay put.

We have found ourselves exhausted, part way through a home remodel, part way through an intense schedule of classes, both ones I've been taking and the ones I've been teaching.  We've spent much of the time between Thursday and now sleeping and napping.

I have been thinking about the stories we don't hear in our liturgies.  In the past few years, I've been hearing more about the women who stayed at the foot of the cross and the women who came to the tomb--who may have been the same women.  I'd be surprised if more conservative churches are focusing on those women; I'd be happy to be surprised.

One year, I thought about the gardener, and a poem came to me.  It tells the story of the first Easter morning from the view of a gardener.  It was inspired by the piece of the Easter story where Mary thinks that Jesus is the gardener, which made me think about the fact that there must have been a real gardener and made me wonder what he thought of all the commotion.

It first appeared in issue 3 of Eye to the Telescope.  The whole volume is devoted to persona poems and edited by Jeannine Hall Gailey.

The Gardener’s Tale


I liked to get to the garden
early, before the harsh
light of day revealed
all my mistakes, all the growth
I couldn’t contain.

I liked the pre-dawn
hours, when I knew
the flowers by their smells
as I rustled
their stems.

That morning I saw
him first. He asked
for bread, and I had a bit
to share. I offered
him olives and some cheese
from my son Simon’s goat.

We talked of ways to attract
butterflies to the garden:
the need for nectar
and leaves for the babies.
I showed him a tree
that had been ailing,
and he suggested a different nourishment.

I thanked him for his wisdom
and moved to the border
of the garden. I didn’t make
the connections until I heard
the shrieks of the women
and Peter nearly knocked me down.

Did We Need to Have Judas?

A week ago, my World Religions seminary class met for one of our two week-ends that we met in person.  We discussed the book Silence by Shusaku Endo.  We primarily looked at it as a springboard to talk missionary work, but it's also clearly a Christ story of some sort.  We disagreed about the ways it represents a Christ story, but that didn't worry me too much.  It's an ambiguous book, and we're not in training to be literary scholars.

We are in training for various types of religious mission, and it was interesting to hear various responses.  I was surprised to discover how many of my classmates believe that Jesus is the only route to salvation.  I was also surprised to find myself thinking of Judas Iscariot after one of my classmates said that we had to have Judas, because without Judas there's no betrayal which means there's no salvation.

That started me thinking about how much we need Judas.  I firmly believe that had there been no Judas, we'd have had a crucifixion.  The fact that Jesus was crucified, not stoned or beheaded, tells me how much that Rome felt Jesus was a threat to the empire.  They didn't need Judas to identify him.  

So why have the Judas thread of the story?  The most obvious answer is because it really happened.  Maybe that's true. It does appear in all four canonical Gospels, which is rare, for an event to appear in all four Gospels.

But I've spent the last week thinking about how convenient it is to have the story of Judas.  It gives us a way to talk about betrayal, all the ways we can betray God.  There's the Judas way and the Peter way as part of the Good Friday story.  As we look at the rest of the canonical Gospels, we see that there are any number of other ways to betray God.

I've talked about the theology of the cross, about substitutionary atonement theology and how I don't believe it anymore.  I don't believe that God required this kind of sacrifice--if so, why would we want to worship such a God?  I do believe that the powers of evil, the powers of injustice, the powers of empire--I do believe that all these powers and principalities are very strong.  While I hope that they will eventually be defeated, I do think that if someone like Jesus comes along, there will be a temporary defeat, and it's more about the powers of evil than it is about the weakness of good/God.

And the powers and principalities don't need a Judas to help them.  The powers and principalities will use a Judas, certainly, but they don't need a Judas.

The world shows so many ways to betray God.  The Easter story shows us that the betrayals and defeats are temporary.

The Brokenness Before the Beauty

Today, much of Christendom will celebrate Good Friday, the day that remembers the Crucifixion of Christ. This is the day that no bread can be consecrated. Many Christians will fast today. Some will fast until Easter morning.

I have already heard a great Good Friday sermon.  At seminary chapel on Tuesday, we had a Holy Week theme, and our guest preacher preached on the crowds demanding the release of Barabbas, not Jesus.  Our guest preacher cautiously approached the substitutionary atonement theology that rears its ugly head on Good Friday and beyond.  He reminded us that this theology comes to us from Anselm in the 12th century, not from God.

He said that humans required the crucifixion of Jesus, in the way that human brokenness so often does.  God did not require the sacrifice of Jesus.  He talked about Jesus and the ways that Jesus sought to heal the world.  He ended his sermon by saying, "Jesus released Barabbas.  Let us have the strength to release Jesus Christ." 

Tonight I will go to a Good Friday service at another new church of mine, the one near my North Carolina house.  It will involve Stations of the Cross and walking outside.  I'm interested to see what they do with all the potential.  I have not done much with Stations of the Cross in the past, just a Good Friday service here or there, plus a few encounters with art that uses the Stations of the Cross.

from Mary Button's "Stations of the Cross:  Jesus at the Border"

It is good to remember how much of the world is stuck in Good Friday.  It is good to remember, as our guest preacher did, how we are called to stand in solidarity with those who are broken by the world.  It is good today to reflect on God, who can make beauty out of the most profound ugliness, wholeness out of the most shattered brokenness.

Maundy Thursday: Back to the Table

Here we are, Maundy Thursday again.  I am in a house that I didn't own last year.  Last year, Maundy Thursday was the day before I broke my wrist.  This year, I am hearing all the broken body parts of our liturgy differently.

Diana Butler Bass has already written the perfect Maundy Thursday essay, the type of essay where I almost decide I don't need to bother to write anything further.  She writes "Christians mostly think of Maundy Thursday as the run-up to the real show on Friday."  And then she writes a whole essay to address this idea:  "What if we’ve gotten the week’s emphasis wrong?"  She writes a whole essay to expand on the idea that the table, the meal, should be the main point, not the cross.

On this day, I'm thinking of Anselm and his ideas of atonement.  On this day, I'm wondering what would have happened if Christianity had emphasized something different, if the cross could have been a different kind of symbol.  More on that tomorrow.

On this day, I'm thinking of those earliest Christians, sharing all they had, not calling themselves Christians yet, just a group of people who had experienced something shattering.  They gathered to try to understand what had happened and how to move forward.  They expected Christ to come again soon, in their lifetimes.  Reading Paul in that context changes some of his letters for me.  I still wonder if we would be better off without them.

I still wonder what letters are lost to us, letters from other earliest followers of the new way.  I am dreaming of a recipe book from those earliest Christians, a book of recipes and stories about new life.

This week, with its mix of Spring holidays, including Ramadan and Passover this year, along with all the Christian holidays, also reminds me of a poem I wrote long ago now, while all these images swirled in my brain and my quilt group met. We wouldn't have had the meal that the poem describes, but everything else is factual. Well, I wasn't exactly the lapsed Lutheran in the sense that I once was, but like the rest of the poem, it's true, if not factual.

It was first published in Ruminate.


Eucharist

I knead the bread leavened with beer,
stew a lamb shank in a pot of lentils,
prepare a salad of apples, walnuts, and raisins,
sweetened with wine and honey.
No one ever had herbs as bitter as this late season lettuce.

My friends gather at dusk, a motley band
of ragtags, fleeing from the Philistines of academia:
a Marxist, a Hindu, a Wiccan, a Charismatic Catholic,
and me, a lapsed Lutheran longing for liturgy.

Later, having drunk several bottles of wine
with prices that could have paid our grad
school rents, we eat desserts from disparate
cultures and tell our daughters tales from our deviant days.
We agree to meet again.

Gnarled vegetables coaxed from their dark hiding places
transform into a hearty broth.
Fire transubstantiates flour and water into life giving loaves.
Outcasts scavenged from the margins of education
share a meal and memories and begin to mold
a new family, a different covenant.

Meditation on This Week's Gospel (and the Holy Week Trajectory)

 The readings for Sunday, April 9, 2023:

First Reading: Acts 10:34-43

First Reading (Alt.): Jeremiah 31:1-6

Psalm: Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24

Second Reading: Colossians 3:1-4

Second Reading (Alt.): Acts 10:34-43

Gospel: Matthew 28:1-10

Gospel (Alt.): John 20:1-18


Finally we move through Holy Week to Easter Sunday. At last, our Lenten pilgrimage draws to a close.

The stories we hear during Holy Week remind us of how to move from lives that have been reduced to ash back to lives full of resurrection.  What is often lost in the Holy Week stories is the larger story of resurrection.

As you move through the rest of the liturgical year, and as you move among Christian circles, pay attention to which stories of this week we circle back to.  Is it the crucifixion or the empty tomb?  Is it the meal shared together?  Is it the victorious entry into Jerusalem on a colt?  What are the stories that Christianity tells most often?  And more important, why?

My guess is that you'll hear more about the crucifixion than the other elements.  Modern Christianity tends to focus on personal salvation and to see the cross as the source of that salvation.  In one of my seminary classes this week, I heard a fellow student say that without Judas and his betrayal, we wouldn't have had salvation because we wouldn't have had the resurrection.  I would counter that Jesus was on a collision course with the Roman empire and that he would have been killed anyway.  He was crucified, a capital punishment reserved for those who were a threat to the state.  He was on Rome's radar.

I would argue that somewhere through history, Christianity lost the thread of the good news declared by angels.  Jesus is about more than our individual salvation.  Jesus came to save the world, and I think he meant to save our societies more than our souls.

Imagine how our world would be different if we focused on Maundy Thursday, not Good Friday.  This idea isn't mine--I've been reading many theologians saying something similar.  In this essay "The Holy Thursday Revolution,"  Diana Butler Bass asks, "What if the table was the point?"

In fact, we see Jesus move back to tables again and again, throughout his ministry and after his resurrection.  There's something powerful about a meal shared together, something transformative, something vital.  Jesus shows us a ministry of inclusion, and he gives us a way to model it, a way that has proven timeless.

The world cries out for resurrection.  Maundy Thursday shows us how to begin.  Good Friday shows us the risk of continuing the work of Jesus.  Easter promises us that the forces of empire, the systems of domination and death, will not have the last word.  The stories after Easter return us to meals together. The work of transformation awaits. 

Erasure Poem as Lectio Divina and/or Teaching Tool

Last night in my Luke class for seminary, we arrived at the Palm Sunday text--a happy coincidence, not a planned collision.  My professor wanted to try something interesting.

One of the dangers/problems with a familiar text is that we think we've heard it all already.  How can we approach it with fresh ears?  The Palm Sunday text is one of those familiar stories, yet it is so different from Gospel to Gospel.

My teacher gave us the text of Luke 19:  29-40 as a Word doc.  We had five minutes to see what words spoke to us.  We changed the text of those words to a different color, then we blacked out the rest of the text, using the highlight feature of Word as a black highlight. 

I had never done this in Word before; I've always just used a marker, the few times I've done it.  And I've never done erasure poetry, which my professor called blackout poetry, as part of a religious practice.

At first I thought it was a blah effort--and then I wrote the words in my notebook:

Untying

Path down

Loud voice

Stones shout

Very interesting! Several other students read their poems and they were all so different.  Mine was the shortest and sparest.  But the long and winding ones intrigued us too.

This exercise seemed to have a lot of applications, which is why I'm recording it here.  It could work well as part of lectio divina, where we look at a text (often reading it out loud) several times to see what is speaking to us.  It could work well as part of a Bible study.  And I'm interested to think of its applications in the English classroom, applications beyond a poetry writing session.  Hmmm.

There are so many delights to being a seminary student, and last night's class reminded me of them. Once again, I feel so lucky.  And I'm happy to think about the ways I'll apply some of these possibilities to the English classroom, where I will be teaching in person again for the first time since the pandemic.

Field Trip to a Buddhist Meditation Center

To get the MDiv degree, Wesley Seminary requires a World Religions class.  In theory, I approve.  In practice, many of the options haven't appealed to me.  I want the knowledge that might come after spending a term studying another religion, but I don't really want to immerse myself that way.  So when I heard about the World Religions as Resource for Theology and Mission class, I thought this approach would be my best option.  Even though it would mean a heavy load, I decided that I had time and money, and so I signed up.

I'm glad that I did.  It's been a remarkable experience.  The field trips were the most attractive part of the class, when I heard about it in advance.  It's probably the main reason I signed up; I knew that we would have this opportunity primarily because the professors had connections to area religious leaders, and that if someone else taught the class, we might not have the same opportunities.

On Saturday, we went to the last of the experiential parts of the class.  On Saturday, we went to a Buddhist meditation center in Silver Spring, Maryland.

We had an initial talk about Buddhism, as we sat in one of the meditation spaces.  Then, because that space was booked for a different group, we walked to the house across the street to do our meditation together.

I wish I could report that doing meditation led by a Buddhist was easier than the meditation that I do at the end of yoga classes, but this is not the case.  Still, it was a valuable experience.  

I was impressed by all the flowers--and these flowers are brought as offerings by local Buddhists.  They also bring food, so much food that the monks who live in the meditation center never have to cook.  We also got to see a tree that is the kind of tree that the Buddha sat under centuries ago when he had his first revelations:

To close our day, we did a meditation with a woven cord that connected us all.  And at the end, if we wanted a blessing, we came forward to receive it, along with strings from the cord tied around our wrist by the monk.

My wrist, in front of my seminary apartment window sill

This trip to the Buddhist meditation center was a great way to end our time together as a class.  If I'm ever lucky enough to get to lead this kind of class, I hope that I can orchestrate some similar experiential trips.  I learned much more from them than I ever can from a book.