Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, July 4, 2021:

First Reading: Ezekiel 2:1-5

First Reading (Semi-cont.): 2 Samuel 5:1-5, 9-10

Psalm: Psalm 123

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 48

Second Reading: 2 Corinthians 12:2-10

Gospel: Mark 6:1-13

What an intriguing Gospel reading for this Sunday: Jesus rejected by people who had known him since he was little and who knew his family. Perhaps you can relate.

The first part of this Gospel (in the reaction of the people of Christ’s own country) gives us a clear warning about the risks we face when we have expectations of God that might be a bit too firm. We're not really open to God or God's hopes and plans for us when we think we know what God should be up to in the world. The society of Jesus' time had very definite expectations of what the Messiah would look like and what he would do--and Jesus was not that person. How many people ignored God, right there in their midst, because they were looking for someone or something else?

This Gospel also warns us about fame and acclaim. If you've been alive any length of time, you know that the world grants fame to an interesting variety of people, for an interesting variety of reasons--and very few of these people gained fame for their efforts to make the world a better place for more people. If we expect God to act like our modern media stars, we're setting ourselves up for disappointment.

Much of the Bible shows us God appearing as a stranger, as a baby in a manger, as an itinerant preacher, as a crucified prisoner. We hear God speaking in dreams, in a burning bush, a whisper here, a glimmering there. If we’re waiting for angel choirs in the sky to give us a clear message from the Divine, we may wait a very long time. We need to learn to listen for God in other settings.

And the end of the Gospel has a warning for us, as well. If we become believers because we think we'll be famous or we'll make lots of money or we'll have political influence--well, we're likely to be disappointed. The Gospel of Jesus is not about those things that the world considers important--no matter what those Prosperity Gospel folks would have you believe.

If we think of Jesus as building a church, the model that we see in a Gospel might point us in a different direction than the path that many of us have been treading.

Jesus sends out his disciples two by two, with no possessions and not much of a plan. Notice what he does not do--he doesn't make them create a mission statement or a business plan. He doesn't have them raise money. And he doesn't expect them to work fruitlessly--they are allowed to shake the dust off of their feet and move on if a community rejects them.

What would our lives look like, if we followed this model? What would our lives look like if we trusted God more than our retirement plans, our family members, our bosses? Where are we stuck, needing to shake dust off of our feet and move on? Where might God lead us, if we can just learn to trust and learn to move?

Jesus and Boundaries: My Sermon for June 27, 2021

On Sunday, June 27, my pastor was out of town, and he asked me to preach.  The Gospel for the day was Mark 5: 21-43, and I preached that it was a series of boundary crossings:

--By this point in Mark's Gospel, synagogue leaders are already concerned about Jesus and his popularity.  They aren't only concerned about losing their power, but they are also concerned about attracting attention from Rome, and that wouldn't go well.  But a leader of the synagogue is so worried about his sick child that he seeks out Jesus.

--A bleeding woman is so desperate that she, too, seeks out Jesus.

--Jesus heals her before he even realizes that he's done it.  Or is it her faith that heals her?  Or is it the words after the encounter?

--I gave a brief primer about purity laws, and about all the purity boundaries crossed with a bleeding woman and a dead girl--blood and a corpse, and Jesus touches both.

--We have people asking for healing for others, while we also see the bleeding woman assert her own needs--more boundary crossing.

--We see Jesus raise a girl from the dead--she's been dead for awhile before he gets there.  It's not just that her goofy relatives mistake a deep sleep for death--she's dead-dead.  Yet Jesus crosses the boundary between life and death by bringing her back.

So what do we do with all of these boundaries burst?  I wasn't sure how I was going to finish, but as I listened to my spouse chant Psalm 30, it came to me.  I love the end of verse 5:  "Weeping spnds the night, but joy comes in the morning."

As I was preaching about wholeness and healing, I looked across the congregation and realized how many people are wrestling with health issues.  I even made mention that hearing about these miracle stories might make us feel inadequate:  do we just not have enough faith to be healed?  Is it that no one loves us enough to advocate for us, the way the father does for his daughter?

I said that it was crummy theology, which you will never hear me preach.  I read the end of Psalm 30:5 again.  I reminded us all that Jesus never tells us that there will be no weeping.  But Jesus reminds us again and again that God has a different vision for us, a different world that could be possible if we let go of our rigid boundaries and strictures.  

Of course, it may not look like the wholeness that we yearn for.  But maybe it will be better.  I ended this way:  "Jesus comes to say, 'Hey, in your human brain that likes to think of things as ordered and structured, maybe reality isn't that way.  Maybe the boundaries that you think are there are not the boundaries that are really there.  Maybe all you have to do is reach out and a whole life can be yours."

Horrifying Headlines and Miracles of Nature

 On Friday, June 18, I saw this headline in The Washington Post:  "Three dead, two missing after group of tubers plunge off 8-foot dam along N.C. river."  My first thought was that a pile of potatoes had gone over a dam to injure people below.

But then I read the article, which is much more ordinary, but no less horrific.  The tubers in question were humans in innertubes, rafting down a river.

It has been a week of horrifying headlines.  I spent much of yesterday toggling back to accounts of the collapse of the condo building in Surfside Beach, even though I knew it was much too early for anyone to know the cause of it.

But I also want to remember this week as one of natural wonders.  I began the work week seeing dolphins in a tidal lake near me, and I'm finishing the work week seeing a rainbow in the sky:

I also noticed the pots of milkweed that we grew from seed.  Why does that ability to grow a plant from a seed always seem like a miracle?

Later this week-end, we'll enjoy this pineapple, grown from a pineapple top that we planted years ago.  It, too, feels like a miracle.

Language Skills and Gendered God Talk

 I am part of the group that is doing worship planning/service creating for our upcoming Synod Assembly.  We are meeting via Zoom, but the Assembly will be held in person.  However, it won't be the same kind of Assembly--there won't be displays or a prayer chapel or musical groups that will move us between segments.  We will minimize the singing during worship.

I might ask why we are bothering to assemble in person at all, and as we plan, we are aware that much can change between now and the mid-September week-end of the Synod Assembly.  I have my eyes on that new Delta variant, and I'm trying not to revert to my Cassandra self, forecasting doom.  And then there's the issue of all the money that gets spent on an in-person Assembly.  But these are not the topics I want to write about today.

Tuesday a group of us met on Zoom to look at the worship services that were created for last year's cancelled Assembly.  Our goal was to see what we could still use, and the happy news is that much of it was still workable.  We had a lot of language about significant anniversaries like the 50th anniversary of the ordination of women that we will take out.

We talked about the music, about who will be singing/playing and when, and about the settings we will use.  I felt my usual stab of envy--how I wish that music came effortlessly to me.  I come from a family of musicians, so I know that nothing is effortless.  Their capacity with music comes from many years of practice, practice, practice.

We needed someone to rewrite the petitions for the prayers, and I volunteered.  And then again, when we looked at the closing service, I volunteered for another writing task.  The leader said, "You'll be our wordsmith."  He said it in a way that made me feel valued.

And then I realized that I was once again assuming that everyone has the same kind of skills that I do, and thus, I tend to undervalue the talents I do have while wishing for talents I haven't developed.  I forget how intimidating writing prayers can be.  

As we were looking at the worship services, I found myself getting irritated at all the Father God language.  I thought, wait, I'm on the worship planning team.  Speak up!  And so, I raised my hand.

I said, "I've been at Synod Assemblies for years, and I'm always irritated by this gendered language of God.  I prefer God the Creator, but if we must have Father God language, could we also make reference to God our Mother?"

Let me stress that I am not some wild-eyed Gen Y kiddo.  I am about to turn 56 years old, and I am surprised to still have to be making this request decades after my fellow feminists first started advocating for inclusive language when it comes to God talk.  My fellow worship planners looked to be about my age or maybe 10 years older, and yesterday, I was the only female on the call.

I expected to be shot down; I was prepared to argue my point further, but I didn't need to.  Happily, my suggestions found agreement or at least no one voiced disagreement.  Our leader said, "Sure we can do that.  I'll make a note to change to expansive language when it comes to God."

Hurrah!

I think that most worshippers will not notice the absence of the gendered language of God.  A reference to Creator God gives people the space to think of that God as a father or a mother or of their favorite art teacher.  Those of us who notice gendered language will appreciate the absence of Father God, and those who need that language will still get it when we use the Lord's Prayer.  I won't fight that battle when it comes to the Lord's Prayer or the creeds, but for the prayers we're writing, we can make the language more inclusive.

In later years, maybe we'll finally live into the call to be all inclusive; maybe the larger church will rewrite the creeds and the Lord's Prayer.  And I expect that in later years, some young whippersnapper who can't be a day over 56 will let me know how my own notions of expansiveness are so very 2020's.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, June 27, 2021:

First Reading: Lamentations 3:22-33

First Reading (Semi-cont.): 2 Samuel 1:1, 17-27

First Reading (Alt.): Wisdom of Solomon 1:13-15; 2:23-24

Psalm: Psalm 30

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 130

Second Reading: 2 Corinthians 8:7-15

Gospel: Mark 5:21-43

Notice how rooted in physicality is our Gospel for Sunday. We've got a bleeding woman and a dying girl. At the end of the Gospel, Jesus orders food for the no longer dead girl. The Gospel practically oozes on the page.

Notice too how we've got a variety of people--all they have in common is their fierce belief and their willingness to do whatever it takes for healing. They will ignore all the years of ill health. They will ignore their rational voices that say that one man can't bring health. Even when they're surrounded by naysayers, they believe. They will ignore death, so powerful is their hope.

Notice that in this passage Jesus focuses his attention on some of the most outcast of his society: a little girl and a bleeding woman. If you've studied the Old Testament, you understand how outcast a woman who never stopped bleeding would be. Ancient purity codes were quite strict about body fluids, particularly when they came from women. And a female child would have also been seen as expendable, at least in the larger society. Yet Jesus doesn't withhold his power from them, even if they're not important to the larger society.

This Gospel echoes the story we heard last week. Here is Jesus again, talking to his disciples about their fears. Here is Jesus, doing what should be impossible for humans to do. Last week he's controlling nature. This week, we seem him controlling the human body. We even see him overcome death.

These stories make me think about my own faith, particularly during these hot, hazy days of summer, when it seems impossible to get off the couch. What would inspire me to go to Jesus in a similar way? I try to imagine Jesus saying to me "Daughter, your faith has made you well." I think of all the ways that my faith can--and does--fall short.

But let me not start down the spiral of self-recrimination. Let me use these ancient people pursuing healing to inspire me to pursue Jesus with similar determination.

Sand, Bone, Wave, Storm

 Today my writing time is much shorter.  I have grades due tomorrow for one of my online classes, so I've spent much of my writing time grading research essays.  

I did manage to play with a poem idea this morning.  On Friday, during the closing worship service of my certificate in spiritual direction program, we did an Ignatian exercise where we imagined ourselves in the boat with Jesus in the storm.  Were we disciples?  The cushion?  The boat?  The storm?

I wrote down some ideas that came to me as I imagined myself as the storm.  And then yesterday, I played with the voice of the sand and came up with a poem-like thing that was just 9 lines long, with no stanza breaks, which is very unusual for me.  

This morning, I wrote a bit more.  I also made word lists of words starting with s, w, t, and b.  I wrote this tweet:  "Still working on what is becoming a poem series or one poem struggling to emerge out of various drafts. Images of sand and bone, sea and wave and storm, salt and skeleton and sacrifices demanded."

Yesterday's morning was more delightful.  I want to record this Facebook post so that I remember:

"On my morning walk, I saw dolphins in North Lake--and I think I saw a baby dolphin or two (smaller back fins). Were they learning to fish? Were they having morning play time? Taking a morning swim?

The day is much more enchanted when it begins with sunrise staining the sky and the water and dolphins gliding through the lake near the shore."

And now, administrator life awaits.  Let me prepare.

Activism, Self-Care, and Transformations

Sunday morning, I listened to this episode of It's Been a Minute with Sam Sanders, an interview with Sarah Schulman.  Her latest book is a documenting of ACT UP.  It's the kind of interview that makes me want to read the book, but I know from past experience that I might get it and feel like I've already read it, because the interview was so wonderful.  So I'll wait for the library to get it.

I already knew a lot of the history, but she gives some interesting background.  For example, she notes how much activism changed once the camcorder was invented.  Before that invention, video equipment, which would include a boom mike, was too cumbersome (and expensive) to use.

It's the kind of interview that makes me feel bad about my own activism, that makes me feel guilty about even thinking I had any kind of activism credibility.  I know that's not her intention.  Those AIDS activists did amazing things, and Schulman reminds us that they were fighting for their lives--literally.  Many of those activists were very sick, and they didn't have much time.

I've done a variety of types of activism, from giving money to going to demonstrations, writing letters and making phone calls and monitoring institutions.  But is it enough?  I could argue that we haven't made the kind of changes that those ACT UP folks did.

But that would be wrong.  We worked to get marital rape bills changed and arms treaties ratified and abortion rights protected.  I think of the work of my campus to get a bus route and a bus stop.  That may seem minor, compared to changing the laws that made experimental drugs more widely available to patients with terminal illnesses.  But for people who don't have to walk a mile or two to the nearest bus stop, that work was critical.  I hope.

Later yesterday morning, as I drove home from a quick trip to restock provisions, I listened to the radio program On Being, which featured a different type of interview, Alex Elle discussing self care as a form of activism on behalf of oneself, and one's future and past self too.  She talks about a friend who encouraged her to go public with her writing and told her that if she changed one heart, that would be one heart changed, which would be significant.

I liked her interview more than her Instagram site.  I do realize I'm in the minority in that preference.  Or maybe it was because I was listening to the Sarah Schulman material again that explains why I found the Instagram site so much less satisfying than the human interview.

I do know that we are less able to advocate for others if we're not even advocating for ourselves.  I do understand that many people aren't taught the self-care lessons that Alex Elle offers.  

But I also wonder how our society would be transformed if we emerged from our self-care ready to fight more passionately for those who need our care.

All On a Sunday: Father's Day, Juneteenth, Summer Solstice

Today we have a variety of holidays to celebrate.  People who have good relationships with their fathers, or people who have children, may be celebrating Father's Day.  Others may be observing the Summer Solstice, in any variety of ways.  Some of us will go to church, as we normally do, although if you're like me, we may not know what normal looks like anymore.

If I was preaching today, would I talk about Father's Day?  Or would I talk about Juneteenth?  Both holidays offer interesting ways of thinking about our relationship to God.

Do we see God as a Father?  And if so, is that a loving parent or a judging parent?  I'm not crazy about the idea of God as Parent (of either gender). I think that God as Parent is an infantilizing metaphor. If God is a Dad (or so much more rarely, a Mom), then it follows that we're children, and too often, we see that as a reason for inactivity. But God needs us to be active in the world. I'd go further and say that God is counting on us. I much prefer the idea of God as partner. God can be the Senior partner; I'm cool with that.

Juneteenth offers other questions.  What enslaves us?  How are we benefitting from the oppression of others?  God offers us freedom, but can enslaved humans and oppressing humans fully appreciate that liberation?  How can we break free to become the humans God invites us to be?

It could be interesting to consider these questions in tandem, to ask about questions of agency.  What helps us grow?  What makes us wither?  What makes us strong?  What breaks our spirit in ways that echo across generations?

These questions are always essential, but they seem even more important as we approach the Solstice.  We are at a midpoint of the year.  We will never have more daylight this year than we have right now, on this day.  For many of us, it may feel like we get extra time in the day, even though every day only offers us 24 hours.  Let us use this space to analyze where we are right now and where we want to be.

A juxtaposition of holidays and observances gives us new opportunities to consider essential questions in different lights.  Let's make use of today's juxtapositions.  Let us correct our trajectories if need be.

Let us be free and work to free others.

Juneteenth

This week we saw the first creation of a federal holiday since the Martin Luther King holiday was created back in the 1980's--40 years!  And it seemed to happen quickly, although people have been requesting it for decades. In these days when Congress can seem to do nothing but obstruct, it's dizzying.

What makes this moment even more surreal is the declaration of this holiday in a time where we're debating how much we teach children about history.  I would argue that far more important than the facts that we teach is that we teach everyone how to think about these facts.  I would also argue for a teaching of larger cultural contexts.

Of course, that's a lot to do in a school year.  It's hard just to get through the timeline of the facts, and then I want us to do the hard work of providing cultural context?  Yes, in an ideal world I do.

I shake my head over the idea that we're teaching Critical Race Theory in K-12.  In what universe is this true?  I associate Critical Race Theory with the kind of deeper, intense work we would do in college, but I realize that many people are using this term, Critical Race Theory, in many different ways.

Many of us think of slavery as belonging to a distant era but we forget that those slave times in the U.S. really weren't that long ago.  In his excellent book How the Word is Passed:  A Reckoning with the History of Slavery Across America, Clint Smith reminds us "There are people still alive today who knew and held and loved people who were born into slavery" (p. 289).

And many of us think that slavery is over, but it's not. I remember in the late 90's hearing a commentator saying, "There's never been an easier time than now to own a slave."  We hear about trafficking and migrant farm labor, and we forget that those are often forms of slavery and bondage.

In my ideal world, we'd teach not only the cultural contexts of the past, but also of the present.  What are the forces enslaving so many of us?  We think of iron shackles, but there are other societal constructs that hold so many back:  debt, violence, educational systems.  If we compare these issues to slave times and the Jim Crow era, perhaps we'll create a generation of thinkers that are set free.

And once free, perhaps they will figure out ways not only to free others, but to make sure that others aren't enslaved, either metaphorically or literally.

Onground Intensives Done Virtually

This week, in addition to everything else in my life, I've been doing the onground intensive for my spiritual direction certificate program.  I don't have many vacation days, and I may need them later, so I decided to do the intensive from my work office, while also trying to attend to administrator duties.  It's left me exhausted.

The intensive started on Wednesday, and I was already a bit worn out.  On top of my administrator duties, I had spent several hours attending a virtual orientation/advising session and getting registered for seminary classes, along with getting documents and cashier's checks for the condo rental.

I try not to contrast the onground intensive experience that I had on campus in January of 2020 with the two virtual intensives I've had since then.  It's not a fair comparison, I know.  The good news:  the comparison makes me glad that I'm taking the approach to seminary that I am launching this fall.  My instinct was right:  it would have been hard, if not impossible, to do online seminary with onground intensives while still being a college administrator; the programs I was considering required 2 week intensives twice a year, usually at times when it would be hard for me to be away for 2 weeks--not that there's ever a good time to be away for 2 weeks in my administrator experience.

I will also wonder how my spiritual direction certificate experience would have been different if the pandemic hadn't disrupted it.  I find myself so exhausted and not taking full advantage of the offerings.  For example, last night, I sat at my office desk, alone, after the campus closed for the night, trying to do the Ignatian visualizing as part of a Vesper's service:  "Imagine that you are Simeon.  long pause   Imagine that you are Anna.  long pause   Imagine that you are Mary and Joseph, on the road to the temple.  long pause"  Eventually, I just couldn't do it anymore, and it pains me to admit, I turned my attention elsewhere.  If I had been in the chapel, surrounded by my fellow students, would I have been more likely to focus?  Yes.

We are doing the flipped classroom model, which means I worked my way through modules that were basically filmed lectures.  They were good, but less compelling than they would have been in a classroom.  Or maybe I was more distracted.  Or maybe I had already read about many of the topics, and so many of the presentations didn't seem to tell me much that was new.

It is also strange to be going through this intensive after I have decided to go to seminary.  I chose this program originally, after a period of discernment where I thought I was choosing between this program and seminary.  I was fairly sure that I couldn't do seminary in the allotted amount of time and also be an administrator.  In the pre-pandemic days, there were fewer options than there may be now that schools have had to experiment with classes done from a distance.

It's strange to be going through this intensive realizing that I'm now discerning something new.  Would I have been open to the new discernment had we been doing the intensives face to face?  If we had been able to do that, many elements of life would have been different.

I'm still grateful for the experience.  I've learned a lot, and it hasn't been that expensive.  And it's been a better use of time than many of the ways I could have spent it.  Even the shortcomings have made me realize my longings.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The Readings for Sunday, June 20, 2021:

First Reading: Job 38:1-11

First Reading (Semi-cont.): 1 Samuel 17:[1a, 4-11, 19-23] 32-49

First Reading (Alt.): 1 Samuel 17:57--18:5, 10-16 (Semi-continuous)

Psalm: Psalm 107:1-3, 23-32

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 9:9-20

Psalm (Alt.): Psalm 133 (Semi-continuous)

Second Reading: 2 Corinthians 6:1-13

Gospel: Mark 4:35-41


This Gospel may be one where we feel superior to the disciples. How could they be so lacking in faith? But those of us who feel superior may never have been through a storm, either a real one or a metaphorical storm. We may not have felt that threatened.

Maybe we can relate to those disciples in this week's Gospel. The boat is taking on water. We're sinking. We'll die out here in the middle of this lake. It was bad back there with the crowds, but we don't want to perish this way.

And so, like the disciples, we call out: "Where are you God? Don't you care about us, Jesus?"

Look at the response of Jesus in this passage. Many theologians have noted that he doesn't mock them for their fears. Their fears are real and valid. But he asks them why they're letting their fears get the best of them. It's as if he's saying, "I'm right here. I'm with you. Have you forgotten what is possible when I'm in your boat?"

And then, he calms the storm.

Just because we're believers, that doesn't mean that we will never experience storms. God is not that kind of insurance policy.  Hurricanes wipe out believers and non-believers alike.  The terror of our current wave of gun violence is how random it is, taking out people of all faiths.  Strangers may help us or strangers may hurt us--it has always been this way.

We will, and we will likely be afraid. But Jesus assures us that even though we might feel alone, we are not alone. The storms will come, and storms will go. But God is always there, with us, in our little boats.  God is there on the shore.  God is in the storm and the waves.

But let's not wait until the boats of our lives are swamped by the seas. Let's reach out to God on the sunny days too.

These Gospel stories show us a God who wants to be part of our daily lives--to go fishing, to take naps, to share meals and stories and travels.  God is there to delight in our pictures, in our loaves of bread, in our butterfly gardens; God wants to sing a new song with us, in a key we've never considered before.

What wonderful news!

Academic Planning for the Fall: Seminary Edition

Last night, I had a virtual Academic Planning session with Wesley Theological Seminary.  I have spent months thinking about my fall schedule, both the classes I might take, and the larger schedule issues:  will I still be employed?  How will my schedule of online classes that I'm teaching impact the seminary classes that I'm taking?  Will I have classes to teach?

I've spent the last few weeks studying the schedule of available seminary classes for fall and figuring out how they will be offered.  There will be online classes, virtual classes, hybrid classes, and face to face classes.  Since I expect to still be employed for fall, I plan to take classes from a distance, so no face to face classes.  I'm also ruling out hybrid classes, since they usually include a few face to face sessions.

I've spent the last few weeks referring back to the catalog to make sure that I'm planning to take the right classes.  But I decided not to register, since I knew I would be having the Academic Planning session on June 14.  Perhaps I would learn something new, and then I would need to go back and register all over again.

Now I'm wishing I had just gone ahead and signed up for those classes.  I was on the right track after all.  I didn't register immediately after the Academic Planning session because I needed to be across town at 7:00, plus I was tired of staring at the computer screen.  During the night, I tossed and turned and dreamed I couldn't get into any classes, and finally, I decided to get up to get the task done.

So of course, the system is down for maintenance.

I also have grading to do, and I had been feeling behind in that area.  And later this week, I'll be doing the onground intensive (remotely and virtually) for my spiritual direction certificate program.  I'm not surprised that I'm having trouble sleeping.  I'm making use of this early morning time, the time that most people would call the middle of the night.

So let me remember the key points of the Academic Planning Session.  For the most part, it was a review for me, but unlike some meetings that are just reviews of already known information, I was happy to hear it again.  I wanted validation and to be sure that I'd been reading the catalog and other information correctly.

It was also interesting to be on the other side, the student side, not the administrator side.  When we got to the part about academic dishonesty, I turned my camera off and took a quick bathroom break.  Having taught English classes for several decades, I understand the importance of giving credit where credit is due.  When the registrar urged us to reach out if we got into any kind of trouble and not to wait until the last day of the semester, I smiled.  I've said similar sentences in every new student orientation.

So, when the registration part of the portal opens up, I plan to register for the first required Old Testament class, and the first required New Testament class.  There's a Spiritual Formation for the Practice of Ministry section that I can take remotely, but there is no remote option for the first Spiritual Formation for the Practice of Ministry class.  That's O.K.  I'm not sure how many classes I can really do while I'm still working, and I may be working through the rest of the year, if we're not all moved to the Ft. Lauderdale campus.  The online section of the course in early church history is already full, but I'll put myself on the waitlist.  Again, if I get a seat, I'm not sure I'll take the class.  

It's hard to know how much I can do until I see the syllabi for the classes, to see how many papers are required and how many pages we'll read each week.  Once we get closer to the start of class, I should have a better idea of what the rest of my schedule will look like.  I can always use the drop-add option during the first 2 weeks, if I don't have access to course materials before then.

So, now to wait for the registration system to re-open.

Appreciation for Work in All Its Forms

 The rhythms of life on a campus interest me, how some weeks are fairly laid back, while others are much more intense.  Then there's the time here and there that compresses that rhythm into an entire week.  But most of my weeks are like that--some days are oddly empty of communication, where I have a colleague send me an e-mail, just to make sure the system isn't broken, and then there's the day when all the week's e-mails seem to come in one hour, demanding immediate attention.

I expected yesterday to be one of those intense days; it was the rare day when we were expecting so many people to come to campus that we made a list of who we should be on the lookout for.  Later, I made this Facebook post:

"We were expecting many people to come to campus today: the health inspector doing the annual check on biohazardous waste storage, the head of IT, the student considering enrolling in our Vet Tech program, and the person delivering coffee/tea pods. We were not expecting the plumber.

But we do have toilets in the women's restroom that need to be replaced, and he's here with new toilets and parts. And we don't have male students on campus today, so we can use the men's room.

Progress!"

In the end, we didn't ever see the head of IT or the health inspector.  We did get 4 of our 5 boxes of tea pods, but the potential student never came.  It was the kind of day where I didn't want to immerse myself too deeply in any projects because I knew I was likely to be interrupted.

Some of the interruptions were worth it.  Late in the afternoon, a student stopped by.  She gave me a thank you card with a kind note that thanked me for helping her.  I got downright teary.

Much of what I do to keep the school running is unseen by students, which is as it should be.  Most of the students in the school where I'm an administrator will never have me as a teacher, which makes me even more invisible.  I do find meaning in keeping the school running smoothly--being persistent in insisting that we need the toilets to be fixed, filling up the snack basket, strategizing with faculty about how to solve issues.  Often I get verbal thank yous, particularly from faculty.  

I will keep that card--I have a whole file of stuff that I save to remind me that my work is important.  Happily, there aren't many days when I need to look at the file.  I am in a space where I'm appreciated--and some days, I even get a card to remind me of that fact.

Doctrinal Differences

I have been looking at postings for faculty jobs for my spouse, and occasionally, I wander over to the English section.  That's how I came to be applying for a job at a school that has deep doctrinal differences in terms of how we understand Christianity.

Longtime readers of my blog might say, "Wait.  Don't you already have one full-time job?  Don't you already have several side gigs too?"

Yes, but I'm always thinking about how we'll afford life if/when one of my current jobs ends.  And I'm looking for work that can be done from any location, and so, when I saw the posting for an online instructor, I clicked for more information.

I knew that I would have to agree to the Christian doctrines of the school, but the process didn't tell me what those doctrines were.  I was pretty sure that they would be the more conservative doctrines; institutions that adopt inclusivity practices rarely force their employees to take oaths to uphold that inclusivity as a condition of employment.

I clicked on the application and some of the information auto-filled.  Then it was on to the questions.  The first screen seemed like straight forward short answer/essay questions.  In fact, they were questions that I had answered before, in my seminary and candidacy process.  So I cut and pasted.

Then I got to the doctrinal questions, which were even more severe than I thought.  I expected to have to say that I believed in the authority of the Bible and those sorts of questions that hearken back to the questions of what is fundamental to the faith.  I knew that my beliefs about these fundamentals is very different from many Christians, particularly when it comes to issues of grace and atonement.

And then there were the questions of behavior:  homosexuality, pre-marital sex, drinking, dancing.  At this point, I knew I couldn't really go forward with the application.  But part of me wanted to hit "Submit" anyway, as a sociological experiment.

Or was it a writerly experiment?  I really wanted to see if my answers to the short essay questions would pass muster, like the one about my relationship to Jesus Christ, which I expanded to talk about the Trinity.  Would I make it to the next round? 

In the end, I didn't hit the "Submit" button.  I'm not going to work for a place that has moral qualms about dancing, not to mention all the types of sex that are outside of the marriage of one man to one woman.

Besides, I've already gotten affirmation of my answers to those short answer/essay questions--I've been accepted into seminary! 

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, June 13, 2021:

First Reading: Ezekiel 17:22-24

First Reading (Semi-cont.): 1 Samuel 15:34--16:13

Psalm: Psalm 92:1-4, 11-14 (Psalm 92:1-4, 12-15 NRSV)

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 20

Second Reading: 2 Corinthians 5:6-10 [11-13] 14-17

Gospel: Mark 4:26-34

Today we return to those parables of potential held in tiny packages. We return to parables that remind us of what can happen when a speck of a seed is buried in the dirt and left alone. We return to parables that remind us that much happens beneath the surfaces and behind the scenes while we sleep peacefully.

We live in a culture that demands instant gratification. Many of us find it hard to read a book. I'm hearing more and more people confess that they can't even read a magazine article--their attention spans are just that fractured. We live in a culture where, if it doesn't happen immediately, people don't stick around to see what happens.

When I look at the parables of Jesus, I suspect that he was fighting a similar battle. People probably came up to him and said, "How can God be good if there's so much injustice in the world? Why does God allow the Romans to do that awful thing they did?" 

And every so often, the Kingdom of God breaks through to remind us that the Kingdom of God is not about what happens when we die.  The Kingdom of God is breaking through into our present lives, in ways we might not expect.  One day there's a seed, and then seemingly overnight, we see sprouts and shoots.

I often use a parable of my own; in my own short life, I've seen the Kingdom of God break through in glorious and unexpected ways. I remember a time that I was looking through photo albums. I didn't find the pictures of my Confirmation day that I was looking for, but I did find a picture of an old college friend, back in 1986, who was wearing a shirt that demanded "Free Nelson Mandela."

Of course, we didn't expect that would happen. We expected that Nelson Mandela would die in jail and that the country would erupt in flames and bloodshed at any moment. We attended rallies and prayer vigils, but we didn't really expect peaceful social change.

Nonetheless, a few short years after I took that snapshot of my friend, Nelson Mandela walked out of jail. And a few years after that, he was elected president of South Africa. I continue to shake my head and wonder at my lack of faith. I continue to pray for God's kingdom to break through here on earth, and I'm still often surprised when it does.

Parables remind us that God's way is not the way of the world. But God's way can lead to a world transformed: floured leavened into bread, seeds grown into orchards, a community where everyone has enough and not a single person goes to bed hungry or lonely.

Memorial Arboretum

Bishop Rev. Dr. Megan Rohrer asked, "In the midst of the AIDS crisis people found ways to lament, celebrate beloveds and memorialize the magnitude of the disaster. How will we communally grieve all we have lost to COVID?"

She posted a picture of herself, in a mask, walking in an outdoor space amongst pieces from the AIDS quilt.  We are at the 40th anniversary of the realization that we had a new disease, the disease we would call AIDS, that was stalking the gay population, so her picture and her question seems poignant.

My first thought did go to quilts:  gathering frayed fabrics and turning them into a larger, more meaningful creation, one that has a larger purpose.

Here's what I wrote.

I was thinking about COVID, how it robs people of breath. What might symbolize breath, lungs, community, those things lost, appreciation for those things regained? 

I have a vision of an arboretum or a garden in each city, with a place for names, with meditational spots for people to sit and process or simply be with their grief. I see a labyrinth where people who need movement to process life have an opportunity, and a labyrinth seems symbolic of this disease too--we're at different places on the path, we may feel separate and spaced out, but we're together. 

If each community/city across the nation and world created their version of an arboretum or garden, with native plants, we'd help heal the planet in other ways too.

And then I continued to think about this idea.  

I like that this kind of memorial could have spiritual overtones or not, depending on who is there to experience it.  And it would be ecumenical.

I like the idea of large trees, of creating memorial spaces that preserve large trees.  That seems important as a symbol, but also to the health of the planet.  I spent some time on Sunday driving through housing complexes that have gotten rid of all the trees, and how depressing that is.  

I'm also thinking of the newer research that shows that trees are more communal creatures than we once thought.  They are not solitary bulwarks.

This kind of memorial, a garden and/or arboretum, would require some amount of care.  But if we couldn't be sure the care would be there, a community could create a wild pasture/woodland/desert kind of approach--let the natural process take care of itself.

Campers Returning

Last year, many camps closed.  I remember an outbreak of COVID-19 at a camp that decided to go ahead as planned, and I remember shaking my head.

This year, I am assuming that most camps will open.  There may be differences, but camps will open.  I suspect that many camps are barely hanging on financially, so that cancelling for another year is not an option.  And many camps feel a mission, so there, too, cancelling is not an option.

Lutheridge is the summer camp nearest and dearest to my heart, and yesterday, campers returned to camp.  Lutheridge offers sleepaway camp for children of all ages and adults, a week at a time.  In the past, each week in the summer also had offerings for adults, but this year, there are only a few times when adult "campers" will be on site, and in conjunction with younger campers, for family camp and for grandparent camp.

This year, there are pod protocols:  campers will move through their days in a group, not mingling with other groups.  In the camp of my youth, we had a cabin cohort, but we had lots of times during the day when we were in larger groups:  meals at the dining hall, at the craft lodge, in the pool, during special trips to Sliding Rock, chapel/worship time.  This summer, groups will be isolated so that if there's an outbreak, it will be easier to control, and fewer people will have been exposed.

Let us pause and say a prayer for all the camps that are starting, that are preparing to start, that have never stopped.  Let us pray for all camps:  church/spiritual, Scouts, sports, all the different groups of campers.  Let us pray for those campers.  Let us pray for those who care for the children who are gathering and let us pray for the ones who serve in a more background support role (the cooks, the nurses, the directors, the ones who raise the funds).  

The words of Julian of Norwich come to me, that promise that all will be well--may it be so.

Worship: Up Close and at a Distance

My morning is getting away from me; I had planned to write about the experience of moving back to in-person worship.  I will do that at a later point.

I also want to keep thinking about what we've learned from a year of worshipping from a distance.  There are pieces of that experience that I hope not to lose.

Right now, at my church, we're back to traditional worship, and we're livestreaming it, which is then recorded for those who need to watch later.  Is that enough?  Can we do more?

The traditional service at my church has never been very interactive.  We've never been a congregation that belts out favorite songs.  We don't have a wide variety of people offering sermons or verbal meditations.

So how can we keep people involved from a distance, as we move back to gathering in person?  I was pleased to see that Rabbi Rachel Barenblat has written about this topic in this blog post:

"As we return to offering some onsite programming, like this morning's Shabbat services, we're met with a choice. We could go back to the way things were before, and stop offering an option for digital participation. Or, we can try to figure out how to chart a new path so that both the "roomies" and the "zoomies" are full participants in our community. So that those who are homebound don't lose access to what we do.

But it's not just about ensuring that if one of us is homebound or doing a stint in a rehab facility we can still watch CBI's services as though they were on tv. The real challenge is figuring out how 'zoomies' can be full participants. How we can all see each other, whether onsite or online. How all of our voices can be heard, whether onsite or online. How we can all count in the minyan, whether onsite or online."

Back to me:

I look forward to seeing what her community creates.  I look forward to seeing what all of us create.  Let us rise to the task and not faint with fear at the immensity of it.

Important Questions about Seasons and What We're Holding

 A few months ago, I wrote a blog post about adrienne maree brown's question, "How are you holding this?"  I think it's a much better question than "How are you doing?"   "How are you doing?" inspires insipid answers:  "Fine."  "How are you holding this?" lets people respond more honestly if they wish.  It's a different way of thinking about our emotional state.

Yesterday I came across another question I want to remember.  In this article, Christine Valters Paintner says that her spiritual director asked this profound question:  “What is it the season for?”  She goes on to elaborate:  "It was a profoundly freeing question, because it honored that my life had varying seasons, times when certain things were called for and other things needed to be released."

I am not good at resting in the season I'm in; I'm often looking back or looking forward.  I am so often eager to get to the next season.  And if I'm honest, I don't always even realize that I'm in one type of season and not a different one.

Let me begin this new spiritual practice.  Let me remember to ask what season I'm in, what the season needs, what I need in terms of the season.  Just as I rarely crave mulled apple cider during the summer months, perhaps I will find that different spiritual/life cycle seasons require different types of sustenance.

Perhaps focusing on the season will help me move with intention. 

Prayers for Surgery Day and for Every Day

Today is surgery day:  not my own surgery, but my sister's.  Oddly, today is also a surgery day for the husband of a colleague at work.  Both surgeries are fairly major, but both are also fairly routine these days.  My sister's surgery is now outpatient; when my grandmother had a similar surgery in the early 90's, she was in the hospital for a week.

Today I'm praying for the steady hand of surgeons, the careful analysis of anesthesiologists, for all of the support staff--let them all be patient and caring and the best version of themselves.

In many ways, it's not a bad prayer for all of us, for any day.  Let us be steady in the work that we know how to do, the work we've been trained to do.  Let us use all the tools at our disposal to do the analysis to know what is needed to do the work effectively and safely.  Let us all be patient and caring.

Each and every day, let us be the best version of ourselves.

An update:  both surgeries went well, and doctors expect a full recovery for both patients.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, June 6, 2021:

First Reading: Genesis 3:8-15

First Reading (Semi-cont.): 1 Samuel 8:4-11 [12-15] 16-20; [11:14-15]

Psalm: Psalm 130

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 138

Second Reading: 2 Corinthians 4:13--5:1

Gospel: Mark 3:20-35


We are used to the picture of the family of Jesus that we see at Christmas time: the brave, young Mary, ready for whatever God has in mind for her. Kind Joseph, who plans to leave pregnant Mary, but is convinced to stay beside her. The couple fleeing the murderous Herod.

And then, perhaps, a few weeks later, we might see the young Jesus who stays behind to learn a bit more in the Temple in Jerusalem. In some lectionary years, we see Mary imploring Jesus to save a wedding where the wine has run out; Jesus says he's not ready, Mary persists, and Jesus puts aside his own plans and transforms water into wine.

Or maybe we're used to the Mary that we see around Easter, particularly the weeping mother at the foot of the cross.

We're likely not familiar with the Mary that we see in today's Gospel, the Mary who hears the rumors of her son's madness and comes to try to get him to change course.

What's going on here? Is she embarrassed? Did she not know that being the mother of the Messiah might mean some embarrassment when the neighbors started talking?

Those of us who have ever loved someone who took a different path that the world doesn't understand may feel some sympathy for Mary. Those of us who have watched children grow up and go their own way may feel sympathy too.

When Gabriel appeared to Mary and gave her an outline of the plan that God had for her, she probably didn't envision the Jesus that appeared some thirty years later. Her whole culture trained her to look for a different Messiah, perhaps a Messiah who cleansed the Jewish homeland. She probably thought of that cleansing in military terms, the ejection of the Romans, perhaps.

She likely wasn't thinking of a spiritual revolution.

After all, there were plenty of people running around Palestine leading spiritual revolutions, all sorts of people, some legitimate, some deranged, who were happy to tell first century people how to cleanse themselves and purify their religions and make God happy. I've read one scholar who posits that the family of Jesus was upset because he could be using his powers to make money and instead he was giving away his miracles for free. In these early chapters of Mark, Jesus does a lot of healing which attracts much attention.

Or perhaps Mary was upset because she saw her son was on a collision course with any number of authorities. Maybe she wanted him to fly under the radar more.

We might argue that she has no right to feel that way, because, after all, Jesus came precisely to be on that collision course--that's what he had to do to create the salvation that he came to bring.

Even if Mary understood God's plan thoroughly, she still might want to protect her child. That's what good parents want, to save their children from harm and destruction. She still might protest the fact that the salvation of the world required the precious life of her beloved child.

For those of us struggling to chart our own course, we might take comfort from today's Gospel. If even the family of Jesus didn't fully embrace his path, we, too, can expect a bit of resistance.

For those of us struggling to live an integrated life, where our weekday selves don't contradict our Christian values, we can take courage from today's Gospel. It's not an easy task, this living an authentic life.

Of course, the Gospels don't promise us a happy ending. Even if we live honestly, we may find ourselves on a collision course with the larger world, with the forces of empire, with the culture that shoots other messages at us and infuses our surroundings with poisonous values. Even authentic people can end up martyred.

In fact, authentic people are more likely to end up martyred. But throughout the Gospels, Jesus promises that the life we achieve through our integrity will be worth the price.

Responding to the Call

This past Sunday, my pastor organized his sermon around different calls.  He read the Isaiah part of the lectionary and talked about Isaiah's call, which the reading described.  He talked about how Moses heard his call and pushed back before submitting.  He talked about Mother Theresa's call and how it changed her life.

While the call stories weren't new to me, my pastor did weave some nuggets that were new.  Or maybe I just needed to hear them again.

God knows what God is doing when God calls us.

God gives us what we need to fulfill God's call.

So, back to me, interpreting.  God can see aspects of us that we can't see.  We have gifts and talents that we don't even know about, but God does.

And if we don't have what is needed, God can provide it.