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.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Interviews
I am spending the bulk of this week in Columbia, MO, in Board of Ordained Ministry meetings. I’ve been on both sides of the interview table for ordination. Twenty five years ago, the only question I remember being asked- repeatedly- was how I could be both married and an itinerant minister. (I’m pretty sure they didn’t ask the guys that question.) My interview team was made up of three people, and it was the only team that had a woman on it. I am certain that they must have asked me questions about theology and the like, but I don’t recall them. Remembering how nervously incoherent that I was at the time, I am amazed that anyone thought it worth their while to ordain me.
Fast forward twenty-five years. I’ve been sitting on the interviewer side of the table for over a dozen years. There are a lot of nervous people that come to sit in front of my team. I understand, I really do. I try to smile and joke and do whatever I can to help them give their best interview possible. I remember what it is like to be scared when it feels like so much is on the line, like career and God and stuff. Sometimes the interviews are fun and easy, akin to colleagues sitting around and talking good theology. We plumb the depths of some issues together, and we all walk away a little more enlightened than when we began. I’ve got an interesting real-life church situation that relates to my assigned interview topic of sacramental theology that I’ve been sharing with some of the candidates. It helps tease out some of their beliefs about baptism, while I’m also getting some good insights about what to do about my own situation.
Not every interview is a walk in the park. Sometimes the advance written work is lacking, and sometimes the conversation takes an unfortunate turn. When that happens, it is painful for all of us in the room. There is never any joy in an answer that is “no” or “not yet,” even when it is the right thing to do. We all know how much time and money and work and prayer it takes to get to these interviews in the first place. We know what is on the line, since we have been there ourselves. Thankfully, those hard moments are the exception, but they do exist.
So, I’m spending much of this week in interviews. Like everyone else, I have other demands on my time. In fact, I’ll need to leave early for a funeral. Although I have other places I could be, it feels important to be here this week. I’ll smile at the candidates, try to ease their nerves, ask tough questions when needed- but, I will never ever ask a candidate if they believe that they can be both happily married and in itinerant ministry. I don’t have to ask, because I know the answer for that myself.
Fast forward twenty-five years. I’ve been sitting on the interviewer side of the table for over a dozen years. There are a lot of nervous people that come to sit in front of my team. I understand, I really do. I try to smile and joke and do whatever I can to help them give their best interview possible. I remember what it is like to be scared when it feels like so much is on the line, like career and God and stuff. Sometimes the interviews are fun and easy, akin to colleagues sitting around and talking good theology. We plumb the depths of some issues together, and we all walk away a little more enlightened than when we began. I’ve got an interesting real-life church situation that relates to my assigned interview topic of sacramental theology that I’ve been sharing with some of the candidates. It helps tease out some of their beliefs about baptism, while I’m also getting some good insights about what to do about my own situation.
Not every interview is a walk in the park. Sometimes the advance written work is lacking, and sometimes the conversation takes an unfortunate turn. When that happens, it is painful for all of us in the room. There is never any joy in an answer that is “no” or “not yet,” even when it is the right thing to do. We all know how much time and money and work and prayer it takes to get to these interviews in the first place. We know what is on the line, since we have been there ourselves. Thankfully, those hard moments are the exception, but they do exist.
So, I’m spending much of this week in interviews. Like everyone else, I have other demands on my time. In fact, I’ll need to leave early for a funeral. Although I have other places I could be, it feels important to be here this week. I’ll smile at the candidates, try to ease their nerves, ask tough questions when needed- but, I will never ever ask a candidate if they believe that they can be both happily married and in itinerant ministry. I don’t have to ask, because I know the answer for that myself.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Parking
Some of us at church have been having a discussion lately on one of those good-to-have problems. Participation in our choirs, band, and bell choirs is such that the small parking lot by the choir room and office is getting filled up on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings. At times, some of our disabled folks are having trouble finding a place to park.
The other day, in an effort to encourage others to (as my associate pastor says) “Park far and sit close,” I announced that the pastors will park in the farthest-away spots on Sunday mornings. I’m inviting the choir and band members to join me. I’ll be past the recycling bins beyond the gymnasium. It will be an inconvenient hike to my office, but I don’t want to ask others to do something that I’m not willing to do myself.
And then I began to feel a little sorry for myself. After all, I’m often lugging a briefcase and computer, along with various other Sunday morning items. And it truly is a hike from where my car will be to where my office is; several miles and uphill both ways, the more I thought about it. The other day, I was walking into the hospital for some visits and wondering to myself how long I would have to keep up this self-imposed parking exile.
Grace happened in one of those getting-your-attention-moments. I discovered that both of the people whom I was visiting were going to be discharged from the hospital soon; discharged into hospice care. Their earthly life is coming to an end, and they will be receiving palliative comfort care in these final days. Both of them are beautiful people who have had long lives, and so these moments are tinged with both joy and sorrow.
As I walked (walked!) out of the hospital that day, my perspective had changed dramatically. What a blessing it is to be able to hike across a parking lot and through a building. How small of me to be thinking about my own inconvenience. I know it sounds cheesy and preacher-y, but what I heard in my head that day was this: If Christ could die for me so that I could face life and death with hope, then the least that I can do is walk across the parking lot for someone else.
So, this Sunday and the next and for all of the ones after that, I’ll be getting to church first on Sundays so that I can snag the farthest away spot. It’s the least I can do . . .
The other day, in an effort to encourage others to (as my associate pastor says) “Park far and sit close,” I announced that the pastors will park in the farthest-away spots on Sunday mornings. I’m inviting the choir and band members to join me. I’ll be past the recycling bins beyond the gymnasium. It will be an inconvenient hike to my office, but I don’t want to ask others to do something that I’m not willing to do myself.
And then I began to feel a little sorry for myself. After all, I’m often lugging a briefcase and computer, along with various other Sunday morning items. And it truly is a hike from where my car will be to where my office is; several miles and uphill both ways, the more I thought about it. The other day, I was walking into the hospital for some visits and wondering to myself how long I would have to keep up this self-imposed parking exile.
Grace happened in one of those getting-your-attention-moments. I discovered that both of the people whom I was visiting were going to be discharged from the hospital soon; discharged into hospice care. Their earthly life is coming to an end, and they will be receiving palliative comfort care in these final days. Both of them are beautiful people who have had long lives, and so these moments are tinged with both joy and sorrow.
As I walked (walked!) out of the hospital that day, my perspective had changed dramatically. What a blessing it is to be able to hike across a parking lot and through a building. How small of me to be thinking about my own inconvenience. I know it sounds cheesy and preacher-y, but what I heard in my head that day was this: If Christ could die for me so that I could face life and death with hope, then the least that I can do is walk across the parking lot for someone else.
So, this Sunday and the next and for all of the ones after that, I’ll be getting to church first on Sundays so that I can snag the farthest away spot. It’s the least I can do . . .
Monday, February 14, 2011
Running
I am not a runner. I used to be one. In high school, I was on the track team. I enjoyed the exercise, and it got me out of the agony of high school p.e. class. Granted, most of my high school track meet memories are of a tinny voice over the loudspeaker announcing, “There are still a few runners finishing the race, so please stay off the track.” Fast, I was not. But I was a runner back then.
I have a cousin who is a runner, even though she is a smidge older than me. She is a runner and a breast cancer survivor, and I admire her greatly for both of those things.
I am not a runner. However, Andy and I joined a gym awhile back. It felt like a guilty pleasure, yet another advantage of the empty nest. Instead of going to evening school programs, we now have time to take care of ourselves. At the gym, I have gotten into the habit of using the treadmill while watching television. A few weeks ago, I decided to try running for a few of minutes here and there during my workout. And then one night, I decided to try to do something I haven’t done for 35 years. I ran a mile nonstop. I’ve even done it a few times since, and I feel oddly proud of myself. But, I am still not a runner.
If I were a runner, I would feel committed to putting in ever-increasing mileage. As it is, inertia (or common sense) might kick in any day, and I will be back to walking my treadmill workout. That will be fine. As long as I’m not a runner, I can stop at any time, with no harm and no foul. No, I am not a runner, but I am someone who’s running right now.
I think that is why it is so important for me to bear the name “Christian.” It infers a state of my being, not something that I can stop doing if I get bored. Inertia or preoccupation might mean that there are times when I’m not acting like much of a Christian, but it still is who I am in spite of myself. Bearing that name keeps me striving to behave like one. Spending my life training and working to get better at being a Christian sounds exactly like what I want to do. It’s not all about my action, of course. When the day comes that I’m not able to hold up my faith, my faith will hold me. Until then, I want to keep working at it.
No, I’m no runner. But I am doing my darnedest to be something much better.
I have a cousin who is a runner, even though she is a smidge older than me. She is a runner and a breast cancer survivor, and I admire her greatly for both of those things.
I am not a runner. However, Andy and I joined a gym awhile back. It felt like a guilty pleasure, yet another advantage of the empty nest. Instead of going to evening school programs, we now have time to take care of ourselves. At the gym, I have gotten into the habit of using the treadmill while watching television. A few weeks ago, I decided to try running for a few of minutes here and there during my workout. And then one night, I decided to try to do something I haven’t done for 35 years. I ran a mile nonstop. I’ve even done it a few times since, and I feel oddly proud of myself. But, I am still not a runner.
If I were a runner, I would feel committed to putting in ever-increasing mileage. As it is, inertia (or common sense) might kick in any day, and I will be back to walking my treadmill workout. That will be fine. As long as I’m not a runner, I can stop at any time, with no harm and no foul. No, I am not a runner, but I am someone who’s running right now.
I think that is why it is so important for me to bear the name “Christian.” It infers a state of my being, not something that I can stop doing if I get bored. Inertia or preoccupation might mean that there are times when I’m not acting like much of a Christian, but it still is who I am in spite of myself. Bearing that name keeps me striving to behave like one. Spending my life training and working to get better at being a Christian sounds exactly like what I want to do. It’s not all about my action, of course. When the day comes that I’m not able to hold up my faith, my faith will hold me. Until then, I want to keep working at it.
No, I’m no runner. But I am doing my darnedest to be something much better.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Perfectly homemade
I decided to make cookies this morning. Fancy, lovely, Valentine’s Day cookies. For these fancy cookies, I started with a chocolately dough for rolled cookies. I used ruffled-edge heart cookie cutters to make a sandwich-style cookie. The top layer had a heart cut-out, with a dollop of raspberry jam nestled within. The chocolate-raspberry heart cookies were finished with a sprinkling of pink and red sugar. I planned to give these cookies my children at college, my parents, and perhaps my office staff. I envisioned being asked where I had purchased these amazing cookies, and I even practiced my modest reply, “Oh, well, I made these myself.”
The gulf between plans and reality once again loomed large. I followed the instructions to the letter. I rolled out the dough between wax paper, to avoid getting white flour on the deep chocolate cookies. I even baked the cookies on parchment paper- parchment paper! And yet the cookies squished and broke and did all of those things that my cookies tend to do. There were more sprinkles on the floor than on the cookies. After spending all morning on this affair, I ended up with exactly 18 cookies to show for my labor. And- they do not match the picture in my head or in the book. They are not perfect, but they are perfectly homemade. No one will doubt that I made them myself.
I heard a theologian speak last week. That person commented, “I almost wish that Jesus had never said that.” The quote being referred to was, “Be perfect, even as God in heaven is perfect.” The theologian went on to talk about how that insatiable quest for perfection can lead to countless problems. After all, if we will not accept anything less than perfection, then we will find much about ourselves or anyone else unacceptable. I am as prone to fall into that trap as anyone. None of us likes to be imperfect, and we especially don’t like for other people to know that we are imperfect. And yet . . .
Knowing that God made us and remembering that God loves us gives us great freedom within our imperfections. We don’t have to pretend to be something that we are not, because being God’s child is all we need to be. We keep trying, naturally, for the best. In the meantime, however, we celebrate that we are perfectly homemade- by God.
The gulf between plans and reality once again loomed large. I followed the instructions to the letter. I rolled out the dough between wax paper, to avoid getting white flour on the deep chocolate cookies. I even baked the cookies on parchment paper- parchment paper! And yet the cookies squished and broke and did all of those things that my cookies tend to do. There were more sprinkles on the floor than on the cookies. After spending all morning on this affair, I ended up with exactly 18 cookies to show for my labor. And- they do not match the picture in my head or in the book. They are not perfect, but they are perfectly homemade. No one will doubt that I made them myself.
I heard a theologian speak last week. That person commented, “I almost wish that Jesus had never said that.” The quote being referred to was, “Be perfect, even as God in heaven is perfect.” The theologian went on to talk about how that insatiable quest for perfection can lead to countless problems. After all, if we will not accept anything less than perfection, then we will find much about ourselves or anyone else unacceptable. I am as prone to fall into that trap as anyone. None of us likes to be imperfect, and we especially don’t like for other people to know that we are imperfect. And yet . . .
Knowing that God made us and remembering that God loves us gives us great freedom within our imperfections. We don’t have to pretend to be something that we are not, because being God’s child is all we need to be. We keep trying, naturally, for the best. In the meantime, however, we celebrate that we are perfectly homemade- by God.
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