Limping and Seeing the Face of God

I have spent the better part of the last hour watching my professor's wonderful lecture on Jacob for one of my seminary classes.  One of her conclusions struck me:  "We all come away limping in our relationship with God both in ways we can see and in ways we can't."  I will continue to think about that idea, since I see limping as a bad thing.

But what if limping isn't bad?  What if limping forces us to slow down in ways that are good?  Maybe limping helps us develop compassion.  I know that it has for me.  I think of days of arthritis flares in my feet.  One day, as I left a building and thought with despair about how far away I had parked, I reflected on all the times I've felt disdain for those who will circle the parking lot, waiting for the closest spots to come available.  As I limped back to my car, I felt new empathy for those people.

My professor finished her lecture by talking about faces throughout the story of Jacob.  Early on, Jacob puts on a persona; he hides behind a face that isn't authentic.  At the end of the story, he is able to be fully present, as he reconciles with his brother Esau.  This ability to be present opens up new possibilities.  Jacob moves from persona to presence to possibility.  The poet in me loves that repetition of the letter p.

My professor also talked about how she approaches this story when she preaches it.  She has the members of the congregation turn to their pewmates, to people who aren't their families.  She has them say to each other what Esau says to Jacob:  "Truly to see your face is to see the face of God."  She talked about how moving it is for people to hear that said to them.

I would love to experiment with varieties of that experience when it's safe to be that close together again.  Maybe in the intervening time, we could do it with mirrors, although I shudder at the cost if the congregation is large.

I am also imagining how the world might change if more of us trained ourselves to see the face of God in everyone, not just hearing that our own face reflects God.

God as the New Moon Cradled in the Arms of the Old

This week, my seminary Spiritual Formation for Ministry class studied the practice of meditation.  We were given a task, to go on a 10 minute walk and meditate on creation while we were walking.  Then we had a discussion post thread that asked, "What was your experience of meditating on creation? What did you notice? Why did your mind drift during your experience?"

I really loved my response, so I want to record it here:

"When I went out on a morning walk, I intended to notice the trees and the living creatures. I was surprised that my mind kept looking at the moon and thinking about God revealed in the moon. This morning, the moon was a tiny sliver shining, but you could see the outline of the whole moon, and I thought of the old saying, “The new moon cradled in the arms of the old.” I thought about how God is often revealed in just a sliver and/or just an outline of the whole. I thought of the inbreaking kingdom of God, the now and the not yet, and how the moon this morning seemed an apt metaphor. My mind did wander because it was dark, and I was walking, and I didn’t want to fall or be surprised by other creatures on my walk."

Several of my small group members mentioned that moon metaphor, and I confess my thoughts have returned to that image several times.  I don't often see the moon and think about God.  I'm more of a sunrise gal, and if I'm going to find the moon worthy of notice, it's usually when the moon is full.

It was a great experience, and I'm glad to have had it.  It seems like the kind of experience that could be useful in a variety of settings, which is another reason I'm noting it here.  All of my groupmates talked about the value of the experience, which makes me think it would be worth replicating:  with students, with a parish, on a retreat . . . 

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The lessons for Sunday, October 10,  2021:
First Reading: Amos 5:6-7, 10-15

First Reading (Semi-cont.): Job 23:1-9, 16-17

Psalm: Psalm 90:12-17

Psalm (Semi-cont.): Psalm 22:1-15

Second Reading: Hebrews 4:12-16

Gospel: Mark 10:17-31

Today's Gospel is not one that you'll find in most stewardship campaigns.  I've been part of church council discussions that revolved around whether or not it was reasonable to expect people to give away 10% of their income.  And along comes Jesus with this message about selling everything and giving it to the poor, and then we'll be ready to follow Jesus.

We've spent centuries rationalizing our way around the demands of this text. We talk about how the needle's eye is really a gate in Jerusalem (something that scholars doubt), so that we can convince ourselves that one could be both rich and righteous, even if that might be rare. We return to our stewardship messages, reminding each other that Jesus calls us to be generous. 

Many a believer and non-believer alike might ask, "You can't really believe that Jesus means that literally."

But what if Jesus was serious?  One of the main themes of Mark is the cost of discipleship.  Here is a very real cost.

So far, this century has taught us much about the danger of counting on our possessions for security. We've seen how quickly wealth can be liquidated--and for what? I remember getting an account statement after a particularly volatile quarter. As I considered the drop in value, I thought of how much happier I might be had I given that money to the poor instead of hoarding it for my future. Now it's vanished, gone, like steam. No one has benefited--except, perhaps, for the people who made a profit off my money before it vanished. And I'm fairly certain the poor didn't see the benefit of that.

Jesus returns to this message again and again: our attachment to money is spiritually dangerous, the biggest spiritual danger that most of us face. Comparatively speaking, he doesn't spend much time at all on other sins. He never talks directly about homosexuality, the issue that's splitting so many churches. But he returns again and again to the message that the rich must share with the poor.

Jesus calls us to radical generosity. We are to do more than just follow a set of laws, like the young man was so capable of doing. We are to jettison our stuff, so that we're more able to follow Christ. Jesus calls us to give away our wealth, so that our grasping hands can be open for the blessings that God wants to give us. We are to unclench our hands, release our money (and fear), and trust in God.

Most of us aren't very good at trusting in God.  We'll trust the Wall Street investors who control our retirement accounts much more deeply than we'll trust God.  But we can learn to trust God.  What would happen if we increased our giving by 1% each year?  What would happen if we took all the stuff we no longer use to people who could use it?  What would happen if we adopted a meatless day of the week?  What other types of activities could we do to decrease our reliance on our own wealth?

Like every other spiritual trait, we grow stronger as we practice. Unclench those greedy, grasping hands. Open your hands and your heart to the gifts that God wants to give you.

Meditation on This Sunday's Readings in "A Women's Lectionary for the Whole Church"

Readings for Sunday, October 10, 2021

2 Samuel 20:  1-3, 14-22

Psalm 50:  14-23

1 Corinthians 6:  1-6

Mark 6: 1-6

In this Sunday's Gospel, we see Jesus rejected by his hometown.  We may be familiar with the disbelief of the hometown crowd:  they know his family, they've seen Jesus as a child.  There's that sneering tone:  "Who does this guy think that he is?"

And note the power that their negativity holds:  "And he could do no deed of power there, except on a few sick people laying hands and curing them" (verse 5).  It's a curious turn, since the people acknowledged his wisdom and power just a few verses before this one.  And then they doubt, which affects not only them, but Jesus himself.  He moves along to the next place.

Is this lesson the one we are meant to learn?  If we're not gaining traction, move along?  If we encounter doubt and undercutting of our projects, move along?  What happens if we don't move along?  And how do we know when it's time to leave?

The Gospel reading seems less straight forward when we think about all the people who are named, all the relatives of Jesus.  In his commentary on Mark, Mark for Everyone, N. T. Wright reminds us that many of these relatives will be important in the life of the early church, including his younger brother James.  But in these early chapters of Mark, James is not always on the side of Jesus.  But within the coming decades, James will be part of the team that spreads the Good News that Jesus tries to preach in these early chapters of Mark.

As we consider this Gospel, let us remember that God's timeline is often not a human timeline.  I find it useful to think in terms of chairos time, God's timeline, a time that is separate from chronos (clock) time.  A project that seems impossible today may not be impossible forever.

The Feast Day of Saint Francis in a Time of Pandemic and Planetary Collapse

Today we celebrate the life of St. Francis. Many congregations do this by having a pet blessing service. Here again, we see a powerful life story reduced to something significantly more mundane. I would argue that the church almost always does this reduction act--and why? Why give up the power of these stories that way? We see that in our approach to Jesus Christ, and in our approach to every other believer who has a dramatic story. Are we afraid of the implications?

Perhaps we tame these figures because we realize that if we follow the teachings of Saint Francis, or Christ before him, too closely, we'll be required to give up our comfortable lives.  But we live in a time of plague and planetary collapse where many of us will be required to move to something different.  Saint Francis shows us that giving up our privilege and comfort can bring us a new type of joy.

We often remember St. Francis because of his work, "The Canticle for the Creatures." Many people see him as one of the early environmentalists. I have no problem with animal rights crusaders and the environmental movement, but it's important to remember that St. Francis spent many years of his early ministry living with lepers and caring for them. He gave up everything he owned--and he was rich--in a quest for a more authentic life. He inspired others to follow the same path, and he founded two religious orders that still thrive (and one that has vanished). In his later years, he worked to end the Crusades. He also created the first Nativity scene, and he used live animals, so that visitors to the scene could more fully use all their senses.

In churches that celebrate the life of St. Francis, will we hear these parts of the story? I doubt it. Those are the parts of the story that are threatening to the social order. We can't have young people behaving in the way that St. Francis did. What on earth would happen then?

Our society would be transformed. And one of the ways that Christians have let down their faith, this is one of the most damning: we dampen the transformative message of the Gospel or we dumb it down into some sort of self-help drivel. The Gospel can transform us as individuals, sure, but then we are called to go out and transform our societies. God has called us to do redemptive work.

Here's a prayer that I wrote for today:

Creator God, we don't always take good care of your creations. Please give us the generosity of St. Francis as we wrestle with the best way to use our resources. Please open our hearts the way you opened the heart of St. Francis so that we can take care of the members of our society who are at the lowest levels. Please give us the courage to create communities which will allow the light of Christ to shine more brightly.

First Meeting with Seminary Faculty Advisor

Yesterday I had my first meeting as a seminary student with my faculty advisor.  Before the meeting, I was happy to discover that I had been assigned to the director of the Theology and the Arts track, who is also the director of the Luce Center for Theology and the Arts, which sounds like one of my dream jobs.

Our meeting didn't last long, but it was wonderful.  It was a meeting where we were supposed to talk about my progress and my form that I filled out, the form that mapped out my future semesters and which course I would take.  My advisor and I agreed that it's really tough to make that plan right now.  There are so many questions.  Where will we be in the course of this disease?  Will there be courses on campus?  Will there be on-campus housing?  Will I still be employed?

I said, "Part of me thinks that this may be my last full-time job with health insurance, so maybe I shouldn't give it up."  My advisor told me that his wife is an Episcopalian priest who has just taken a job in Maine, and that's given them a chance to compare health insurance plans.  We talked a bit about what we might all accomplish if we didn't have to consider basic health care/health insurance and how we would provide for it.

My plan for the near future, next semester, is to take the second half of the classes that I'm taking now.  They're basic classes, the building blocks for future classes, and happily, they are ones that work well online.  My advisor finds himself wrestling with that question of which classes really need to be in person and which ones can be adapted.

As we closed, my advisor reminded me that he's there to be an advocate for me, if there's ever anything for which I need that kind of support.  Or that if I'm ever confused about requirements, I should come to him.  I said that I'd keep in touch with him by way of e-mail to let him know that I was making progress.  He smiled and said, "You gotta love mature students.  They understand the benefits of staying in touch."

I also realize how lucky I am, that I've always had advisors who wanted the best for me, without any of the creepiness that can develop.  And I feel lucky now, with my current advisor.  At a later point, I'll have more questions that I'll need help with.

And perhaps I'll continue to have the kinds of questions that are more on me to decide.  How fast should I be progressing?  Do I move to DC full time or think about the hybrid options?  I like the idea of reporting to campus for long week-ends periodically, but my heart really yearns to be part of the seminary community.  Of course, at this point, the seminary community isn't what it was before, with more of us feeling safer about online classes.  

So yes, I have lots of the sorts of questions that cannot be answered right now.  I am learning to live with the mystery, to live with the knowledge that has always been true, but in pre-Covid times, many of us could pretend otherwise.  Our lives will have all sorts of twists and turns, and while we can have long-term plans and goals, they are likely to be upended, and we'll have to pivot.

And for most of us, there are all sorts of ways to pivot, if we remain nimble and open to the possibilities.

"Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness": October Arrives

 Let me capture the earliest hours of October 2021 with some snapshots, while at the same time wondering if future generations will understand what a snapshot is.

--This morning the AC cut off, and I wondered if it had sprung some sort of leak.  No--what I was hearing was rain.  I usually don't hear the rain in the well-protected 6th floor condo where we live now.  October is off to a rainy start down here in South Florida. If we can't have leaves scuttling across the pavement, at least the rain will keep the temperature less hot. Can I write a whole blog post about the weather? A poem?  I'm sure that I can, but it seems so tiresome.  Once you've read the autumn poems of Keats and Yeats, why bother?

--Earlier this week, I looked up from writing accreditation documents to see the young man who always finds me when he needs to see his parole officer on the 3rd floor.  I have a key fob that will open the 3rd floor door from the rickety staircase outside, and he was stuck in our elevator once and doesn't want to be again.  He comes periodically, but Monday, he told me this was his last visit.  I was expecting the heartwarming ending, but he told me he was going to prison for leading cops on a high speed car chase through Plantation.  He told me that he wasn't afraid of prison, that he was tired of being on probation where he had an ankle monitor and people could monitor him.  I didn't point out that he was about to go from the frying pan into the fire, in terms of being monitored.  I said a silent prayer for him, and out loud, I said, "I wish you all the best."

--Yesterday I got word that one of our colleagues who works on multiple campuses had been told that yesterday was her last day.  I moved student files out of her office so that if she comes to clean out her office, she can do so without anyone watching her do that.  As I moved student files to my office, I tried to decide if this act makes me compassionate or a stooge of some sort.  Then I wondered if I even knew the definition of stooge.  Then I moved more files.  Then I thought about how long it would take to clean out my own office.

--But let me end on a happier note.  Today I have my first meeting with my seminary faculty advisor.  I wrote to him because I had a form that needs to be filled out before I can register for Spring classes.  He wrote me the kindest e-mail back.  I realize I shouldn't be wowed by professional courtesy, but I am.

--Even more impressive:  my faculty advisor is the head of the Theology and the Arts program at Wesley, the one who wrote me a very helpful e-mail back in Feb. when I had first discovered the program.  The seminary assigned me the advisor who I would have most liked to have guiding me.  Hurrah!  Again, I realize that I shouldn't be so surprised and happy.  But I've been in academia a long time, and I realize how much it takes to perform these miracles and wonders.

And now that the rain seems to have stopped, let me go out and take my first October walk.