Wednesday, October 31, 2018

A Story from a Good Witch

We were tabling on behalf of the church at some community Halloween event. I don't remember which event, really, but remember that I was in a witch costume. It's still my go-to, making use of an old graduation gown. All I had to do was add a hat and some other accessories.

That night, a witch and a tourist sat together at the church's table, handing out candy and information. I also have a photo of the witch me with Jesus, just for fun, but I digress. As we were sitting there, I saw a little girl about seven talking with a woman I assume was her mom. Her mom was clearly encouraging the little girl to come over, presumably for candy.

Instead, when she was finally convinced to come over, she did so cautiously, and in her very polite seven year old voice asked, "Excuse me. Are you a good witch or a bad witch?"

It was not the question I was expecting, so I smiled warmly and answered, "Oh, I'm definitely a good witch!" I may have offered her some candy, but I don't remember. I have long remembered her question, though. Had I thought about it very much, of course I was going as an evil witch. My black hat and gown, my green skin, my green gloves that lengthened my fingers, and my pointy shoes all said evil witch. I was pretty much channeling Witch Hazel from Bugs Bunny or the Wicked Witch of the West. No pink-clad Glinda was in sight.

Of course, confronted with a curious seven year old, I responded that I was a good witch. More than that, though, I think about her mom, encouraging her daughter to be so brave. The little girl came up to me on her own. She asked her question all on her own. She overcame her fears of the witch to do all of those things. And when she happily ran back to her mom, she had learned that things weren't quite so scary as she imagined.

This week, neighbors have been attacked in so many ways. They have been killed for being black, for being Jewish, for being trans, for being Latinx, for just being. In light of this, I am even more mystified by this little girl who bothered to ask. She walked into her fear instead of away from it. When she did, she found something far different than she imagined.

I am reminded of Jesus' teaching that the Reign of God belongs to children just like these (Matthew 19:14). When preaching that passage, I most recently talked about the inherent vulnerability of children. Now, I'm thinking I should have talked about the bravery and curiosity of children. They learn something new every single day. They go into the world expecting something amazing. They ask questions because they're used to not understanding. When they are scared, we expect them to engage their fears rather than run away from them. We expect them to learn the world is not so scary a place after all.

How much better we'd be if we had the same expectations of adults.

Thursday, September 27, 2018

Behind Closed Doors

I love the story of the hemorrhaging woman. It appears in all three synoptic Gospels, juxtaposed with the story of the healing of Jairus' daughter. In the story, Jesus is on his way in a crowded street, following Jairus, and the woman--we never know her name--comes up and touches his cloak. He feels the power go out of him, healing her of twelve years of nonstop menstrual bleeding. At least we think it's menstrual bleeding; of course, no biblical author would be quite so descriptive.

When I was a child, I heard the KJV: an "issue of blood." The language is antiquated now, except women's blood is still an issue that only gets talked about among women. The hearing going on right now, the reality of what happens when women speak out about sexual harassment and assault, has me thinking so much of the women's issues we talk about behind closed doors. "Mixed company" my mother would say. There are things we don't talk about in "mixed company."

The list is long, so very long, and crosses a wide stretch of biology: menstruation, childbearing, nursing, menopause, breast health, and of course, anything to do with sex. Yet, when the doors are closed, when it's women with other women, we talk. Women my age talk about contraception--all the time. It's one of the more universal subjects, actually, because it matters so deeply to us. What works? What doesn't? What tools do you use? I know the contraception choices of at least four other women who go to my hair salon; I don't know their names.

We keep each other company while nursing babies. Like many women, I choose seats close to women nursing in public, smile to show I'm safe, and help them hold a safe space for feeding their child.

Older women make mammogram and lunch plans together, keeping each other company through this odious task. It hasn't been that long ago that my friends and I conquered first pelvic exams the same way.

I am so aware of the world of women that happens behind closed doors.

Behind closed doors, we search out tampons for each other.
Behind closed doors, we help teenagers figure out all the ins and outs of menstruation.
Behind closed doors, we tell our stories of assault and harassment to one another--at least some of us do.
Behind closed doors, we devise plans to keep each other safe: public places for dates, escape plans for long-term relationships, well-timed phone calls with safe words.

There is so much that goes on behind closed doors.

And what I'm guessing many men don't know is that on the other side of those closed doors, there are often posters taped. They have help numbers for issues that disproportionately affect women: domestic abuse, human trafficking, and sexual assault. Bars have started posting lists of drinks you can order to ask for help. One drink means call me a cab; another means call the police. Things like that.

Great hope and great pain meet there, behind closed doors.

Here is a truth of the Gospel spoken through the hemorrhaging woman: women's issues are not to be locked behind closed doors. Her issues belong in the public square. And when they finally make it there, she is believed, healed, and the world is transformed.

May it one day be true.






Thursday, August 23, 2018

Jealous of Resurrection

Some days, I am jealous of resurrection.

I'm the pastor who hates preaching on Easter. Mostly, I hate it because there's not much else to say about Easter. Some colleagues have said that we talk around it all year, so it's strange and difficult on the Sunday when we tell resurrection and resurrection only.

The story of resurrection is both terrible and beautiful. The most horrible lasts a few days, even an agonizing death only a few hours. Death's hopelessness lasts only a few hours more--three days is kind of pushing it actually. It's more like a day and a half, at least the way I count time. Friday night to Sunday morning bears little resemblance to Thursday night to Sunday night.

Either way, resurrection chases away hopelessness unexpectedly, wonderfully--and quickly.

I have never seen a resurrection so quick in real life. More painfully, I have rarely seen suffering so brief, so fleeting, so quickly reversed. Sure, the resurrected Christ bears the scars of suffering, but they are not the oozing raw of wounds that are hours old.

I am jealous of resurrection.

I know I'm dancing around the question of suffering--why and how and lack of God's intervention. More than that, I'm wondering about redemption. That's the part of resurrection that is most appealing to me: how God takes the terrible and transforms it into something beautiful, something beyond any expectation. I'm pretty good with evil existing, with our complicity in evil systems, with our creation of them to start with. Well, good is the wrong word--at least this is how I narrate evil. I'm far more worried about the evil we do together than the evil we do alone.

It's the timeline for resurrection that troubles me.

I just finished the most recent season of Orange Is the New Black. This season, unlike last season, ends with redemption--at least for some. The show is difficult, for sure, but hopeful. In the midst of violence, addiction, hopelessness, lost causes, broken relationships and every other heartache of prisoners, somehow, this is not the end. OITNB would scandalize many good Christians, in part because it does not attempt to hide brokenness. It amplifies the complexity of brokenness, in fact.

That's not clear until the final episode of this season. For twelve shows, I was wondering if this was just going to keep getting worse. The thirteenth episode is downloaded to watch again at the gym. Somehow, in the midst of so much that is terrible, there is overwhelming redemption. It is not that everything is right; it is the promise that it can be. Maybe you just have to make it through the twelve episodes before you see it.

I know the can be is Gospel. I know that's resurrection, redemption.

Still, I wonder how long. How long? How long?

How long before redemption?

I wish I knew. I do not, but I do trust that God does. As some rough political years roll on, I am jealous of resurrection. And I hold on to the hope that it is coming.




Thursday, July 26, 2018

July 24, 2018

July 24, 2018

I woke up early, sick to my stomach because I ate things I shouldn't of the night before. I stayed up and wrote a sermon.

I ate a late breakfast, watched some TV, took a shower, and headed to Costco. 

On Sunday, I'd received an email asking for goods to be donated to help families being reunified following separation under Trump's zero tolerance immigration policy. On Sunday afternoon, I sent out an email to the congregation asking for water, pads, stuffed animals, snacks, backpacks and a few other things. We needed them all by Tuesday night. With the limited time frame, several people sent money instead of dropping off goods. I was headed to Costco to spend that money on what was needed. 

I put giants boxes of Always brand pads in my cart, along with boxes of trail mix and boxes of granola bars. I went to the back of the store to get water, but settled on Gatorade instead. I don't get stomach bugs often, so it was not too long ago that I found out that Gatorade can be a magical elixir. It seemed that people recently released from detention might need that magical elixir, even if it was much more expensive. 

I checked out and went on my way. As I was walking out of the doors, my phone rang. A colleague in Tucson was calling. Were we doing anything? They money donated for immediate needs. Could we get stuff there? I told her I would gladly turn around and buy more supplies if she told me how much. I hadn't been able to find my Costco card before leaving home, so I went back for a temporary one a second time. I grabbed a cart a second time. I bought nuts instead of trail mix this time, but still pads, Gatorade, and granola bars. I loaded these items into my car.

I called my partner as I left the parking lot to tell him it was a good thing I'd gotten his car instead of my much smaller one. When I got to the church, I unloaded so that everything could be better reloaded later. I added to the stash of what was already waiting in the classroom.  

Then, I called my contact at the social service agency to confirm a drop-off time and see if any needs had changed. The needs had, in fact, changed some. The families had requested Bibles in Spanish, men's deodorant, a broader assortment of hygiene items, and shoelaces for kids and adults. Detention, after all, is a form of jail. Of course, the officers took everyone's shoelaces, even the kids'. 

I sat at my desk and cried. The horror settled in. My government, my neighbors see these kids and their parents as dangerous enough to lock them up, even taking away their shoelaces. I'd always assumed that when someone was released, whatever items were taken were returned to them. Apparently, this is not true. These kids and their parents need shoelaces. 

Sometimes, we count atrocities in both humanizing and terrifying ways. I've never been able to shake the sight of the piles of shoes in the Holocaust Museum in D.C. Now, I'm wondering, where are there piles of shoelaces? Can they be counted? What is done with them? Who keeps them? Who notices the workboot laces and purple sparkles of children's laces in the same bins? Where are all of those shoelaces now? Somewhere, there are thousands of shoelaces. Somewhere, there is this tangible record of this horror unfolding on our borders. I wonder who is bearing witness to these piles of shoelaces.

Time ran slowly for a while. I sat, shocked by the weight of the terrible. I know my horror pales in comparison to what my neighbors are going through. I cannot imagine what it is like to have your life fall apart so completely that you must ask neighbors for shoelaces. 

I cannot forget those shoelaces. I imagine that from now on, every time I touch shoelaces, I will remember this day. 

More friends and colleagues donated money that afternoon. I stopped to get food for myself at the grocery store because my packed lunch was insufficient. Deodorant was on sale, as were school supplies, so I gathered up backpacks and deodorant, $90 worth. When I got to the register, I stumbled into a sale, so it was only $65. I was in a hurry, needing to be back at work, so I didn't go back for more. 

Back at church, I unlocked the doors. Friends I had not seen in quite some time brought supplies. Another friend and I sorted through donations, getting them ready to go. At 7, I loaded my car. For some unknown reason, I reserved this task for myself, wanting to somehow count, know what was loaded. 

Having money left from donations and some more thrown in over the course of the afternoon, I stopped at Target and bought every single pair of shoelaces I could find that might possibly be of use. They only had laces for men's shoes, but I bought them. Workboot laces and sneaker laces and dress shoe laces. Seventeen pairs. The total was within 20¢ of the money I had left. I added the shoelaces to everything else and went home, so very tired. 

Once upon a time, I would have said exhausted. That is not true. I was very tired. I was not exhausted. People who need shoelaces are exhausted, not me, who curled up in bed and watched a movie before drifting off to sleep, safe and secure in my own home.  

May God have mercy on our neighbors who need shoelaces. I don't know how to ask for God's mercy for the rest of us.

Tuesday, July 24, 2018

Hope of a Teddy Bear

This week, I have wept. Before this, I'd held back tears about the children in cages in detention centers. Maybe that's why it's been so long since I've written, actually, unwilling to open the flood gates. The dumpster fire is raging after all. 

But many times over the last two days, I have wept. 

On Saturday, an agency reuniting families sent a request for donations of items. While families have been held, there was little to collect in the way that churches do. The list was not long and many of the things you would expect: water and Gatorade, backpacks, pads, and snacks. I cried over one item, though: small stuffed animals. It wasn't the stuffed animals, but the descriptor given: "comfort items for the children." 

My heart broke, the flood gates opened, and they haven't stopped. 

It's a clinical descriptor, one I've heard before in education about child development. However, the deep place that I know it from is The Giver. If you haven't read the children's book, go get it and read it. I guarantee your local library has it. Like many of my favorite books, it's set in a dystopian time--future or past, I don't know. It is a world of sameness, though, and familial bonds have intentionally been destroyed. Children are born in one place, birthed by women of sturdy stock, but placed with families deemed more functional. Among many things, love is not a concept or a practice. Read the book; I promise that it's really good. 

In that world, children are given specific clothes to mark transitions. Items come and go at specific times in development, as they do for all children in the community. One of those items is a comfort object. The main character's sister, Lily, is near to losing hers because of her age. It is, indeed, called a comfort object. She doesn't realize in other places, it would be called an elephant. She has had it since infancy and sleeps with it at night. After all, that's what comfort objects are for. 

There's some horrible reality when this phrase from dystopian fiction comes barreling into requests from churches. Last night, I went to Target and bought ten small teddy bears as my family's contribution to the drive. Comfort objects. 

My own childhood comfort object is stashed away at home. I've had it for more than thirty years now, a gift from family friends for my third birthday. At least that's what my family tells me. I don't remember getting Flop, but I do remember him always being with me. He's a pink rabbit, now faded to nearly gray. His eye and head were reattached by my grandmother, her stitches still visible. Like Flop's origins, my family remembers nighttime searches for him so that I could sleep. There were trips back to grandparents' houses to retrieve him and flashlights taken to the playhouse. He was necessary and loved. My mom still rolls her eyes when I mention him, remembering the many times she moved hell and high water to find him; she'd do it, again. He's still in my home for a reason. 

Maybe I would not cry so much for these children if I didn't have such an attachment for Flop. He represents a stability that every child deserves, from the bunny himself to the people who searched for him throughout my childhood. My parents still attend church with the people who bought him for me. There is so much stability wrapped up in that raggedy stuffed animal. 

I am glad for these tears because we should mourn for these children who will never have that sort of stability in their lives. We should mourn for our complicity in their reality. 

Strikingly, the best secular descriptor I have for the Reign of God also comes from The Giver. When the main character, Jonas, is realizing the gift he possesses, he catches a glimpse of red as he and his best friend are tossing an apple back and forth. In this world of sameness, most people do not see color. He only sees it occasionally and is never quite certain it was there and no one else sees it. When he does catch a glimpse, he wants to know more; it piques his curiosity. "Red" he learns later. "Red" describes this amazing thing. 

I often think of that image. It's Matthew's "the kingdom of heaven is at hand" and all of the already and not yet of the Gospels. It's the upside down of Luke that God would choose the poor over the rich, the child over the leader, and the simple over the complex. It's beautiful and hopeful, even in the midst of threat.

As I write, people are dropping off the items needed. I have prayed over them many times today and will pray over them some more before handing them off. I hope they are at least a glimpse of something else. I don't care at all if the people receiving would call it the reign of God. I hope they see a glimpse of a world where hungry people are fed, thirsty people are handed water, and children are comforted. I hope they see a glimpse of the fact that many of us would not choose their reality for any one. I hope it is a beautiful, wonderful glimpse of something, anything else. 

Here's hoping this little teddy bear does exceeds expectations in the Reign of God.  


Thursday, February 22, 2018

The Scars of Billy Graham

"America's pastor" died yesterday, and I had to pull myself out of a nightmare this morning. In that nightmare, I was yelling at an old white male minister who had no interest in God's call of women and God's welcome of LGBT people. I think by the time I woke myself from that nightmare, the dream version of me had the old minister on the ground kicking him, while he laughed at me. The nightmare was unnerving and visceral; I curled into a tight ball for more than half an hour upon waking until the terror subsided.

With all the people celebrating Billy Graham's life and ministry, let us not forget the damage he inflicted. To be fair, I have no personal memories of Billy Graham. He was getting old by the time I was born and his son has been far more likely to make headlines in my lifetime. I did grow up in churches that sang "Just As I Am" as their closing hymn every week; later I would learn that was a direct influence of the Billy Graham crusades. My nightmare was likely invoked by the NBC news coverage was airing in the doctor's office waiting room yesterday morning. I tried to ignore it, but saw the blonde woman wearing make-up rivaling Tammy Faye Bakker out of the corner of my eye. She kept talking about her love for Jesus and how he would cure the malignancy of the soul. I could not ignore her claim that she talked someone off a ledge on Twitter that morning. I wish they had just kept talking about the Olympics. It was all somehow related to Billy Graham.

So back to him. One of his legacies is continued rejection of LGBT people. The language itself even seems old to me. It shouldn't, really. It's some more "Love the sinner, hate the sin" bullshit. I shouldn't be surprised. Unfortunately, there's not much else to say about this particular topic. LGBT have been beaten up by the Church plenty, and this prominent preacher added to those beatings.

Not too long ago, Vice President Mike Pence quoted the Billy Graham rule that he would never be alone with a woman he isn't married to. Dinner, some say, while older versions definitely say alone. I grew up with those sorts of rules. Hell, I grew up in a place where men were served first at church potlucks and family dinners. No matter the reasons or interpretation of the rule, it's a clear sign that women are and should be second class citizens. Or maybe it just means that they can't be trusted, and are tempting, and all of the problematic sorts of traditional beliefs about women. I can't help but think of the hindrances to ministry for both genders.

More than that, I think of the man at my church with whom I've spent countless hours alone. I was single and twenty-eight years old when I was called to be the pastor here. He's fifteen years older than me and married. We've kept the Thursday night coffee shop open and carpooled to meetings in other cities. His wife is also an active member of the church. There are about a hundred points in there where all I can think is, "Yes, we should be able to trust each other." I made a promise to be the pastor of this church, which includes not having romantic relationships with members. He and his wife have made many promises to each other, one of which is monogamy. Because I am their pastor, they should be able to trust me. While I was raised with the "abstain from all appearance of evil" version of Christianity, I can't help but think that if carpooling with someone of the opposite sex is an appearance of evil, your worldview is distorted.

As terrible as those things are, I also have this sneaking suspicion that Billy Graham's version of Christianity is inextricable from our current societal ills. His emphasis on a personal relationship with Jesus is widely accepted in more conservative versions of Christianity. Faith becomes both private and personal in the come just as you are Christianity. As I consider conversations about guns, food security, education, healthcare, and just about everything else in the public sphere, I consider how little interest there is in the common good. In Arizona, we opt for 55+ housing developments that pay no taxes to support schools; we also rank 50th in teacher pay. Over and over again, we choose what is good for the individual instead what is good for all of us. That's a long list all on its own. It doesn't help anything when faith is about personal salvation instead of faith lived within and supported by a faith community.

I believe Billy Graham tried his best to be a faithful servant of God. I believe his ministry was transformative for many more people than mine ever will be. But that good doesn't erase all of the bad. Some say it's not Christian to speak ill of the dead. Maybe they're right. But whether we choose to talk about the good and the evil of Billy Graham, we will still be haunted by his ghost.  

Wednesday, February 14, 2018

You are dust...

Home is an elusive thing for me. Bits of home are in Kentucky, Tennessee, Georgia, Missouri, and Arizona. There are people in all of those places who feel like home. There's the scent of a tobacco barn, of a summer night, of magnolia trees and palo verde trees in bloom. Home, I've been told, is a feeling rather than a place. Maybe that's true, too.

And it's because of that placelessness that I love these ashes. I packed some ashes into little bags last week to send home with parishioners. I have a Ziploc pack of them stashed in my office. The grit and dirt of them is a familiar feeling on my hands. The imposition of them on my forehead remains one of the most grounding acts of the year. The echo of the ancient promise from Genesis sounds, "You are dust, and to dust you shall return."

I know the story of humans made out of the clay from the earth has no scientific merit; I am still amazed by its theological merit. Being formed by the hands of God is less intriguing to me than being formed from the dirt--no, the dust. This is the very stuff that we wipe off our shoes and wash off our cars. More importantly, this dust is the stuff that creates life for us. We do not eat without that dirt. The breads, the vegetables, the fruits, the animals we eat all depend on the dirt.

Most days, I only walk on pavement and concrete. I tried and failed to grow herbs on my patio because Phoenix heat is brutal. The rich smell of freshly turned earth is a memory more than reality now. In childhood, I watched the tractor's blades reaching deep down into our garden dirt, pulling up the rich dirt from below. It would be tilled into something ready to receive the seeds and plants that would grow into food of all sorts. I remember the feel of this dirt under my feet during those first warm days of spring, as I walked along enjoying the clumps of earth breaking apart under my bare feet. A few days later, I would walk behind my father, dropping seeds for corn and beans into the earth. The task got harder as I grew older and farther from the ground, but it remained mine.

Wonderfully, Ash Wednesday calls out the ancient promise, "You are dust, and to dust you shall return."

Perhaps the mortality reminder would be more difficult had I grown up in a different place and time. Appalachia is a little friendlier with death than most places. I grew up trotting through cemeteries, hearing stories of people who died before I was born. They were dear, treasured, and loved even in death. I remember the sketch of her tombstone my grandmother kept folded in her Bible after those plans had been made. I now visit her grave in the cemetery I once walked with her.

There, children were always present at funerals and funeral homes. My cousin and I curiously touched our dead great grandmother when no one was looking. Once the curiosity was gone, we camped out in the women's bathroom on the wicker love seat, sinking our toes deep into the purple shag carpet on the floor.

Older phrases creep into my vocabulary sometimes, courtesy of my grandparents. "Laid a corpse" doesn't sugarcoat much of anything. Having a distant cousin who owned a funeral home made things a little different, too. "He didn't want to be embalmed so George has him in the freezer," doesn't sugarcoat much of anything either.

The fact that you will one day die shouldn't be news to anyone.

But I digress, dust-creatures.

Remember that you are tied to this earth. You are made from it and will return to it. This earth sustains you. Life cannot be sustained without this dirt. Remember that this remains true in the cities and on the farms, and for all people who have ever lived. And you, dust-creature, belong to God through it all.