This week has been the first time that I’ve been to this part of the nation since coming for Hurricane Katrina disaster relief. Rather than coming to clean out flood-ravaged homes, this time I’m here with other United Methodist clergywomen from the South Central Jurisdiction. (Roughly, the SCJ encompasses Missouri and Kansas and all states immediately below them down to the Gulf of Mexico- plus a quick grab for Nebraska up above.) We have worshiped together, prayed together, heard some great keynote speakers, and begun to talk about possibilities for our next female bishop(s). In other words, we have done some good and important work together.
I was asked to be part of a panel. “I Am Woman, I Am Clergy, I Am Tired.” I enjoyed the opportunity to think back on the years of having three young children in the home, while trying to serve a church to the best of my ability. I remembered a book that Andy and I saw back in the ’80’s: Having It All. . Just Not All at Once. Sometimes, something as minute as the title of a book can have a huge impact on lives, and those words became a guiding principle for us. We both made career choices in line with our priority for our family. For me, getting to work less than full time for 11 years was a wonderful gift. I remember still how tiring those days with young children were, even working part time.
In the spirit of rest and renewal, I’ve been able to find some time and space for play while down here. I’ve enjoyed exploring many shops and restaurants in New Orleans with some dear friends. Street musicians have kept a swing in my step as I walk. A statue that turned out to be a living person made me jump. Sitting by the side of the Mississippi by day and on the outside balcony of a restaurant at night has offered great opportunities for thinking and sightseeing.
One of our speakers reported that a man on the airplane mocked her for coming to a gathering of clergywomen. It clearly was some sort of boondoggle, he told her. Boondoggle? I had to look up that word to remind myself of its definition: “An unnecessary or wasteful project or activity.” Hmmm . . . getting to hear someone preach besides me . . . reflecting back on some important years of my life and perhaps offering some insight to others coming along . . . walking in the sunshine and fresh air, with a spring in my step . . . being with others who understand the unique joys and challenges of this preaching life . . . I don’t think the words “unnecessary” or “wasteful” describe the experience of this week. But “blessing” surely does.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
My Locked Room Mystery
I am a fan of mysteries, including the “locked room mystery.” The basic premise: a room is locked from the inside, and something (usually a murder) happens within the locked doors- how? I have my own version of a locked room mystery.
Yesterday, I was at a local hospital, visiting a church member. My preference is to take stairs instead of elevators whenever possible, but I had not been able to locate the stairway in this new-ish hospital. When I was leaving the room I was visiting, I saw a downstairs stairwell, so I took it. I opened the door onto the first floor, and I found myself in a passageway between the hospital and the doctor’s building. I tried the door to the hospital. Locked. I tried the door to the doctor’s building. Locked. I tried the door back into the stairwell. Locked. I was trapped. The only object in that locked hallway was a phone to security. I called security, and they promised to send someone to set me free.
As I was waiting in my locked room, a doctor in full scrubs appeared. “Can I help you out of here?” “Yes,” I said gratefully. “Sally?” he said. I looked more carefully under his puffy surgical cap and realized that I knew him from some years ago. He was on his way into surgery. In the thirty seconds that it took for him to use his key card to escort me back to the main hospital hallway, we reconnected. His life had taken some turns, and he was looking for a church. I knew which of our services would resonate most with his musical preferences and suggested it. He said he would come to worship this week. And then we parted ways.
With my apologies to Bogey in Casablanca, of all the locked hospital hallways in the world that he could have walked into, he walked into mine. Really, what are the odds of my getting lost in a surgical hallway in a hospital and running into a surgeon that I know personally, one who happens to be looking for a church? This is my locked-room mystery, and the question is the same: how? The answer is, thankfully, an easy and obvious one. I may not know the details, but the answer is the same as for any of the mysteries of life that I face: It’s a God thing. Who else could take a locked room and turn it into an avenue for possibility?
Yesterday, I was at a local hospital, visiting a church member. My preference is to take stairs instead of elevators whenever possible, but I had not been able to locate the stairway in this new-ish hospital. When I was leaving the room I was visiting, I saw a downstairs stairwell, so I took it. I opened the door onto the first floor, and I found myself in a passageway between the hospital and the doctor’s building. I tried the door to the hospital. Locked. I tried the door to the doctor’s building. Locked. I tried the door back into the stairwell. Locked. I was trapped. The only object in that locked hallway was a phone to security. I called security, and they promised to send someone to set me free.
As I was waiting in my locked room, a doctor in full scrubs appeared. “Can I help you out of here?” “Yes,” I said gratefully. “Sally?” he said. I looked more carefully under his puffy surgical cap and realized that I knew him from some years ago. He was on his way into surgery. In the thirty seconds that it took for him to use his key card to escort me back to the main hospital hallway, we reconnected. His life had taken some turns, and he was looking for a church. I knew which of our services would resonate most with his musical preferences and suggested it. He said he would come to worship this week. And then we parted ways.
With my apologies to Bogey in Casablanca, of all the locked hospital hallways in the world that he could have walked into, he walked into mine. Really, what are the odds of my getting lost in a surgical hallway in a hospital and running into a surgeon that I know personally, one who happens to be looking for a church? This is my locked-room mystery, and the question is the same: how? The answer is, thankfully, an easy and obvious one. I may not know the details, but the answer is the same as for any of the mysteries of life that I face: It’s a God thing. Who else could take a locked room and turn it into an avenue for possibility?
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Copyright Infringement
Really, the Supreme Court decision was inevitable. When they upheld Fred Phelps’ right to picket at military funerals, they got it right. One of the best things about this country is the gift of free speech. We only have to look at the uprisings other parts of the world to be reminded of how privileged we are to be able to say whatever we want, even if our government may not like it. We have discovered the rub in all of this free speech, though. People are free to say whatever they like, even if we don’t like it. A lawsuit that questioned the same freedoms that soldiers fought and died for was not the way to win.
Yes, his signs are terrible and offensive. Worst of all for me is that he has somehow claimed the name “church.” That’s a brand name that I bear, too. Fifteen members of a family who live together in some strange compound are able to call themselves a church and spew hatred. That’s like a place selling rancid meat and rotten potatoes and calling themselves “McDonald’s.” The lawyers for McDonald’s would shut that place down in a heartbeat. Maybe that’s the way to go . . . Let’s not assail our constitutional gift of free speech. Let’s go after him for copyright infringement.
To do so would mean that we would need to define what exactly “church” means. Ideally, it means a group of people called together by Christ, who are living out the Gospel of love in a hurting world. We could summon the image of the earliest church, where people lived together and shared all of their possessions with any who needed anything. We could claim Martin Luther King’s vision of the “beloved community,” or use Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s description in his wonderful book Life Together. These images of a group of people formed lovingly around a higher calling of love and service to the world would be a great way to define the parameters of the copyright of the brand name “church.”
However, our churches are full of people who come with these highest ideals, and also those who come for all of the wrong reasons. They may be hurting, or mad, or seeking public approval, or bored, or coming out of habit. They may harbor some of the same prejudices as Mr. Phelps, or they may come with other prejudices of their very own. They may share freely with others, or they may be looking to take as much as they can get. There are saints and sinners, hypocrites, scoundrels and the like. In other words, our churches are like any other segment of human society. Frankly, that is why I love being part of the church. There is room for everybody, including me. If we decide that “church” is only for those people who are perfect, then there probably wouldn’t be too many franchises out there.
Along with his right to free speech, I guess he has the right to call himself “church.” His family church just one more group of sinners. And so are we.
Yes, his signs are terrible and offensive. Worst of all for me is that he has somehow claimed the name “church.” That’s a brand name that I bear, too. Fifteen members of a family who live together in some strange compound are able to call themselves a church and spew hatred. That’s like a place selling rancid meat and rotten potatoes and calling themselves “McDonald’s.” The lawyers for McDonald’s would shut that place down in a heartbeat. Maybe that’s the way to go . . . Let’s not assail our constitutional gift of free speech. Let’s go after him for copyright infringement.
To do so would mean that we would need to define what exactly “church” means. Ideally, it means a group of people called together by Christ, who are living out the Gospel of love in a hurting world. We could summon the image of the earliest church, where people lived together and shared all of their possessions with any who needed anything. We could claim Martin Luther King’s vision of the “beloved community,” or use Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s description in his wonderful book Life Together. These images of a group of people formed lovingly around a higher calling of love and service to the world would be a great way to define the parameters of the copyright of the brand name “church.”
However, our churches are full of people who come with these highest ideals, and also those who come for all of the wrong reasons. They may be hurting, or mad, or seeking public approval, or bored, or coming out of habit. They may harbor some of the same prejudices as Mr. Phelps, or they may come with other prejudices of their very own. They may share freely with others, or they may be looking to take as much as they can get. There are saints and sinners, hypocrites, scoundrels and the like. In other words, our churches are like any other segment of human society. Frankly, that is why I love being part of the church. There is room for everybody, including me. If we decide that “church” is only for those people who are perfect, then there probably wouldn’t be too many franchises out there.
Along with his right to free speech, I guess he has the right to call himself “church.” His family church just one more group of sinners. And so are we.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)