I spent last week in western New York state in a lakeside community that is only full nine weeks out of the year. A very few people are year round residents. I was there for a new clergy program and spent the week hearing lectures and good preaching every day, alongside talented colleagues also in their first years of ministry. Nights brought opera, ballet, concerts, and front porch gatherings.
There, among Victorian houses complete with brick walking paths, there was an intentional presence of a bygone era. For those of us who were guests who applied to a program rather than guests who paid for their time there, we had plenty of discussions of privilege and what it meant to walk on those grounds. Retired people could more easily visit than those still working. Those who rented homes and brought their children with them to this place were well above the middle of the middle class. The community was less diverse in race and class than the places we call home.
Even for us, it was a place of leisure, as it was for the other guests. We had wonderful, engaged conversations. "Continuing education" wasn't a misnomer. Yet, I walked along the lake between lectures and the dinner that someone else was preparing. I sat with new friends in the cool of the evening air, talking. (They drink beer; my drink of choice was not available.) Meals brought plenty of laughter and conversation, too. In church world, that sort of re-creation is normally called Sabbath.
In that place of such privilege, I couldn't ignore the privilege of leisure time. I knew before that days off are a privilege not granted to many. Of course I knew that vacations, especially ones away from home, are something many people cannot afford. Then, there are those of us who have jobs that allow us time away and enough money to fund time away, but still feel we can't afford to take it. Leisure always has a not so pretty economic side to it.
But the truth is, it always has. I had to memorize the Ten Commandments in various forms throughout my life. Yes, we covered both numbering systems. Sometimes I had to recite them verbatim, other times I just had to provide the gist.
Among those commandments (which I shall refrain from numbering), the commandment to keep Sabbath has the most explanation--several sentences more explanation than any other, actually. Here's the whole thing, "Observe the sabbath and keep it holy, as the Lord your God commanded you. Six days shall you labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work--you, or your son or your daughter, or your male or female slave, or your ox or your donkey, or any of your livestock, or the resident alien in your towns, so that your male and female slave may rest as well as you. Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God commanded you to keep the sabbath day."
And still, we choose slavery. We choose not to rest. We create and support economic systems that do not allow other people to rest. We enslave ourselves and others, thereby denying God's claim on our life.
Part of the week was joining a Jewish community for their service welcoming the Sabbath--bowing, singing, eating, all out celebrating God's gift of a time of rest. May we all one day celebrate the gift of Sabbath rest.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Bigger than Hobby Lobby
At age 27, I signed up for swim lessons. It took lots of time on Google and perusing swimming schedules and I never did find a group class for adults just learning to swim. Instead, I shelled out $80 for a private instructor. I'm still terrible at the breaststroke and breathing often enough, but I can swim. Actually, I can swim pretty well.
I never learned to swim as a child in part because there wasn't anyone to teach me. Going swimming was also a big deal; pools were few and far between. Giant water parks were hours away. The primary reason that I never learned to swim, though, was that I am female and swimming requires a swimsuit. Those two things were incompatible. By about age 10--that magical age of puberty and accountability--swimsuits were frowned upon by my family. They were immodest. The need for modesty was somehow tied to being Christian, though I don't remember how.
My always chubby but always female body was always carefully guarded, especially in church. Prior to age 20, I had worn pants to church exactly once in my life. There are still Sunday mornings when I pull on a pair of dress pants and there's a quick thought, "Wow, I'm wearing pants to church." In some ways, that's a bigger deal than standing in a pulpit each Sunday. I was not required to cover my head in worship, but that was not uncommon in the area where I grew up. Youth events, even those with wild games, often required skirts for modesty's sake. My hair was very, very long until I was in middle school. Again, that age of accountability thing. By then, I could decide for myself if short hair on a woman is sinful or not. Overall, my family was of the opinion women could have short hair as long as no one was trying to pass for a man. There are biblical prescriptions to go with that as well.
My stories could go on and on. My stories are mild, though, in comparison to others. Teenage girls were discouraged from seeking medical care, especially from a gynecologist, since "no man would want to touch you after that." A friend who dared to purchase colored underwear her first year of college was dragged home since it was clear she had become promiscuous. The colored underwear was burned in a brushfire.
Churches, especially conservative churches, have made a habit of policing women's bodies--clothing, hairstyles, makeup to what they do with those bodies, especially anything that might end in a pregnant body. It's damaging in so many ways. Women learn not only to hate their bodies, but to fear them. Often, they are not taught how to care for their bodies or seek medical care. They're often reduced to only bodies. They learn, from a very young age, that being female means I'm someone the church has to worry about--the kind of worry mixed with fear of this thing in their midst. As is often the unspoken goal, they learn to hide themselves on the margins of the church and all public life.
You might guess by now this has something to do with Hobby Lobby and the recent ruling by the Supreme Court. I disagree with it for all kinds of reasons, but know this: it points to a far bigger problem in our world that has been fed by churches. We keep saying over and over and over that women's bodies are dangerous. They are dangerous when they tempt roving eyes. They are dangerous when they're pregnant, unavoidable evidence of sex. They are dangerous if they are not pure. And, of course, they should always be pretty.
And yes, all of that is lurking behind a corporation claiming religious exemption all the way up to the Supreme Court. There's no easy fix for centuries of treating women as second class citizens; it's clear we're not done yet.
Maybe, just maybe, the Church can lead the way instead of trying to tug things backward. Maybe--if the Church can learn to love our daughters and sisters, bodies and all.
I never learned to swim as a child in part because there wasn't anyone to teach me. Going swimming was also a big deal; pools were few and far between. Giant water parks were hours away. The primary reason that I never learned to swim, though, was that I am female and swimming requires a swimsuit. Those two things were incompatible. By about age 10--that magical age of puberty and accountability--swimsuits were frowned upon by my family. They were immodest. The need for modesty was somehow tied to being Christian, though I don't remember how.
My always chubby but always female body was always carefully guarded, especially in church. Prior to age 20, I had worn pants to church exactly once in my life. There are still Sunday mornings when I pull on a pair of dress pants and there's a quick thought, "Wow, I'm wearing pants to church." In some ways, that's a bigger deal than standing in a pulpit each Sunday. I was not required to cover my head in worship, but that was not uncommon in the area where I grew up. Youth events, even those with wild games, often required skirts for modesty's sake. My hair was very, very long until I was in middle school. Again, that age of accountability thing. By then, I could decide for myself if short hair on a woman is sinful or not. Overall, my family was of the opinion women could have short hair as long as no one was trying to pass for a man. There are biblical prescriptions to go with that as well.
My stories could go on and on. My stories are mild, though, in comparison to others. Teenage girls were discouraged from seeking medical care, especially from a gynecologist, since "no man would want to touch you after that." A friend who dared to purchase colored underwear her first year of college was dragged home since it was clear she had become promiscuous. The colored underwear was burned in a brushfire.
Churches, especially conservative churches, have made a habit of policing women's bodies--clothing, hairstyles, makeup to what they do with those bodies, especially anything that might end in a pregnant body. It's damaging in so many ways. Women learn not only to hate their bodies, but to fear them. Often, they are not taught how to care for their bodies or seek medical care. They're often reduced to only bodies. They learn, from a very young age, that being female means I'm someone the church has to worry about--the kind of worry mixed with fear of this thing in their midst. As is often the unspoken goal, they learn to hide themselves on the margins of the church and all public life.
You might guess by now this has something to do with Hobby Lobby and the recent ruling by the Supreme Court. I disagree with it for all kinds of reasons, but know this: it points to a far bigger problem in our world that has been fed by churches. We keep saying over and over and over that women's bodies are dangerous. They are dangerous when they tempt roving eyes. They are dangerous when they're pregnant, unavoidable evidence of sex. They are dangerous if they are not pure. And, of course, they should always be pretty.
And yes, all of that is lurking behind a corporation claiming religious exemption all the way up to the Supreme Court. There's no easy fix for centuries of treating women as second class citizens; it's clear we're not done yet.
Maybe, just maybe, the Church can lead the way instead of trying to tug things backward. Maybe--if the Church can learn to love our daughters and sisters, bodies and all.
Monday, June 23, 2014
Three Kids, Two Brides, and Me
On May 30th, I performed my 3rd wedding and my first same-sex wedding. The other first that weekend was missing a flight (and thanking God that a bar in the time-zoneless world of the airport was open).
There are a lot of things I could say about the wedding. The venue was beautiful. The food was yummy, especially the homemade desserts. It was a wedding. Some people assume a same-sex wedding has to be a bit weird, or off the wall, or something--something outside the realm of so-called normal weddings.
And it wasn't. There were cute kids in dress-up clothes, one of whom handed out flowers instead of throwing flower petals. She loved the flowers too much for them to get stepped on. Both brides wore white dresses. Parents cried. Families gathered, not all of whom were crazy about each other. It was a wedding, traditional order of service and words and all the rest.
It was a wedding that felt so right. I stood there in front of friends that I love, and miss more than I realized, and asked them to pledge their love to one another. We asked God to bless their marriage and their family that already includes three kids. The vows they wrote on their own reflected how deeply they understood the covenant of marriage they now share. I smiled throughout the ceremony without thinking about it; I was so glad I was able to bless their marriage. The joy of being with them as a minister on that day surprised me.
Sometimes, we quote the Bible, both the right and left's version of clobber verses, to talk about same-sex marriage. Sometimes, we decide to claim the Spirit is moving in new ways and forget about the verses to back it up. Too many times, we have to divvy up same-sex marriage and marriage with no adjectives, which is its own double-edged sword; if we just say "marriage" people think only a man and a woman, if we say "same-sex marriage," then we clearly must be talking about something different than real marriage.
Knowing all of that, I offer the one thing I do know as a pastor who recently and wholeheartedly uttered the words, "I now pronounce you wife and wife": the fruit is enough.
In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus said, "Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves. You will know them by their fruits. Are grapes gathered from thorns, or figs from thistles? In the same way, every good tree bears good fruit, but the bad tree bears bad fruit. A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a bad tree bear good fruit. Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Thus you will know them by their fruits."
I stood in front of these two women and I saw the fruit of their relationship: happy, crazy excited kids; family that supported them; love that was evident even to this clueless, often misanthropic person; a desire to have God's blessing, too; abundant hospitality. All around, piles and piles of good fruit.
So yes, I'm certain, the fruit is enough.
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| Photo by Jan Simonelli |
And it wasn't. There were cute kids in dress-up clothes, one of whom handed out flowers instead of throwing flower petals. She loved the flowers too much for them to get stepped on. Both brides wore white dresses. Parents cried. Families gathered, not all of whom were crazy about each other. It was a wedding, traditional order of service and words and all the rest.
It was a wedding that felt so right. I stood there in front of friends that I love, and miss more than I realized, and asked them to pledge their love to one another. We asked God to bless their marriage and their family that already includes three kids. The vows they wrote on their own reflected how deeply they understood the covenant of marriage they now share. I smiled throughout the ceremony without thinking about it; I was so glad I was able to bless their marriage. The joy of being with them as a minister on that day surprised me.
Sometimes, we quote the Bible, both the right and left's version of clobber verses, to talk about same-sex marriage. Sometimes, we decide to claim the Spirit is moving in new ways and forget about the verses to back it up. Too many times, we have to divvy up same-sex marriage and marriage with no adjectives, which is its own double-edged sword; if we just say "marriage" people think only a man and a woman, if we say "same-sex marriage," then we clearly must be talking about something different than real marriage.
Knowing all of that, I offer the one thing I do know as a pastor who recently and wholeheartedly uttered the words, "I now pronounce you wife and wife": the fruit is enough.
In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus said, "Beware of false prophets, who come to you in sheep's clothing but inwardly are ravenous wolves. You will know them by their fruits. Are grapes gathered from thorns, or figs from thistles? In the same way, every good tree bears good fruit, but the bad tree bears bad fruit. A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, nor can a bad tree bear good fruit. Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Thus you will know them by their fruits."
I stood in front of these two women and I saw the fruit of their relationship: happy, crazy excited kids; family that supported them; love that was evident even to this clueless, often misanthropic person; a desire to have God's blessing, too; abundant hospitality. All around, piles and piles of good fruit.
So yes, I'm certain, the fruit is enough.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Offensive Grace
When I was in college, I had the full scholarship--as in the school was small enough that there was only one. In exchange, I was supposed to tutor ten hours a week and generally be a campus leader. So I did--Habitat for Humanity, honors societies, and a whole host of other on-campus groups. It also meant that I was not about to get in trouble.
My junior year was rough, for a few reasons, and I decided to stay on-campus the following summer. I got a job at a local restaurant, starting work the week of finals. For the restaurant job, I needed to wear a tie, which I didn't own. Of course, I asked one of my guy friends to borrow one. He asked me to follow him back to his dorm to grab one on a rainy spring day.
My college was a conservative Christian college. Liberal in its tradition, but conservative in the grand scheme of things. That included dorms segregated by gender. When the guy from whom I was borrowing a tie told me to step into the back hallway to get out of the rain, I said I'd go to the lobby instead, where women could be until midnight. But he insisted it was silly and I should step inside for the three minutes it would take him to run to his room.
So I did. And when I stepped back out, the person in charge of all of residence life was standing there. Of course, on a small college campus where I had my hand in so many things, she knew who I was. She called me over, asked what I was doing, and didn't like my answer. "I'll contact you later," she said, as she walked off with the person to whom she had been talking.
Panicked doesn't quite cover my reaction, but it's sufficient for what went on in my room for the next few minutes. Eventually, I picked up the phone to call a friend. What else do you do but call a friend? (These were pre-cell phone days.) When I did, I had a message. It was from the person who had just caught me.
"You've never done anything like this before. Don't worry about it this time and don't do it, again."
I told that story to high school kids at camp this summer. I broke up the story with one from the Bible, the story of the woman caught in adultery, to whom Jesus said, "Go and sin no more." When I finally gave them the resolution to my own story, though, they began grumbling. Immediately, there were scoffs and grumblings and I heard at least one, "I'd have gotten in so much trouble for that!"
I laughed as they reacted and let them do so for a few minutes. It tied into the sermon well. Their reaction was a reminder of something that's easy to forget: grace is offensive.
If done well, if applied generously, if extended in the worst of circumstances, grace is offensive.
We forget that, assuming grace is something positive, wonderful, transforming. And it is. But it's also offensive.
Grace means not getting your just deserts.
Grace does not mean justice.
Grace means guilty people get off scot-free.
Of course that's offensive. And of course that's God.
My junior year was rough, for a few reasons, and I decided to stay on-campus the following summer. I got a job at a local restaurant, starting work the week of finals. For the restaurant job, I needed to wear a tie, which I didn't own. Of course, I asked one of my guy friends to borrow one. He asked me to follow him back to his dorm to grab one on a rainy spring day.
My college was a conservative Christian college. Liberal in its tradition, but conservative in the grand scheme of things. That included dorms segregated by gender. When the guy from whom I was borrowing a tie told me to step into the back hallway to get out of the rain, I said I'd go to the lobby instead, where women could be until midnight. But he insisted it was silly and I should step inside for the three minutes it would take him to run to his room.
So I did. And when I stepped back out, the person in charge of all of residence life was standing there. Of course, on a small college campus where I had my hand in so many things, she knew who I was. She called me over, asked what I was doing, and didn't like my answer. "I'll contact you later," she said, as she walked off with the person to whom she had been talking.
Panicked doesn't quite cover my reaction, but it's sufficient for what went on in my room for the next few minutes. Eventually, I picked up the phone to call a friend. What else do you do but call a friend? (These were pre-cell phone days.) When I did, I had a message. It was from the person who had just caught me.
"You've never done anything like this before. Don't worry about it this time and don't do it, again."
I told that story to high school kids at camp this summer. I broke up the story with one from the Bible, the story of the woman caught in adultery, to whom Jesus said, "Go and sin no more." When I finally gave them the resolution to my own story, though, they began grumbling. Immediately, there were scoffs and grumblings and I heard at least one, "I'd have gotten in so much trouble for that!"
I laughed as they reacted and let them do so for a few minutes. It tied into the sermon well. Their reaction was a reminder of something that's easy to forget: grace is offensive.
If done well, if applied generously, if extended in the worst of circumstances, grace is offensive.
We forget that, assuming grace is something positive, wonderful, transforming. And it is. But it's also offensive.
Grace means not getting your just deserts.
Grace does not mean justice.
Grace means guilty people get off scot-free.
Of course that's offensive. And of course that's God.
Thursday, June 12, 2014
Camp & Jesus
Last week was camp week for our Region. In one of those oh-now-you're-doing-this situations that I'm pretty sure only happens in church world, I went to camp with high school students. Yeah, I said I only do little kid camp. And I ended up as the keynote speaker for the week. Again, church world. Weird things happen.
Surprisingly, high school camp and little kid camp aren't all that different. The high school kids are better at taking showers all by themselves but both age groups have to be told they must take a shower. The older kids go to sleep way easier than the little kids; I think I got at least six and a half hours of sleep every single night. "Ok. Quiet time," actually works with high school kids. Amazing.
Crafts are just as beloved by the older kids. They, too, make messes when eating--more so than the little kids, actually. It's really nice to be able to let the kids who serve on the regional Youth Council be in charge of something for a while. No one asks for help getting dressed either. Well, if they do, they ask another camper instead of the counselor.
What was surprising to me was that the older kids cried more than the little kids usually do. The tears weren't about skinned knees or homesickness; these tears were about problems that were a lot harder to fix. Unlike the little kids, the high school kids hugged often and long. They gave side hugs and bear hugs and hugs from behind. They weren't ready to let go a lot of the time.
When the week was over, rather than tiredly trudging back to the cabins, the older kids lingered, tears in their eyes. No, not all of them did that, but a lot of them did. This week of camp was harder for me than any other week of camp I've done; well, at least it was hard in a different way. I've never thought quite so much about kids in the week following camp before. Usually, I just try to recover from my own post-camp stupor.
The last keynote of camp was a reminder of Jesus' words, "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength,' and 'Love your neighbor as yourself;' for that is the law and the prophets." As I still pray for those kids from last week, still worry about them for all sorts of reasons, I keep coming back to those words of Jesus. (Jesus' words have a way of sneaking back up at inconvenient times, for better or worse.) We're not always good at loving our neighbors, especially our sometimes-prone-to-obnoxiousness teenage neighbors. We talk about wanting youth programs and youth energy, as long as the youth do mostly what we want.
I'm pretty sure we'd be better off if we didn't worry quite so much about youth group and instead worried about how to love our kids. And you know what, the ways we love our kids at camp aren't earth-shattering, hard to do things. They're things like:
Surprisingly, high school camp and little kid camp aren't all that different. The high school kids are better at taking showers all by themselves but both age groups have to be told they must take a shower. The older kids go to sleep way easier than the little kids; I think I got at least six and a half hours of sleep every single night. "Ok. Quiet time," actually works with high school kids. Amazing.
Crafts are just as beloved by the older kids. They, too, make messes when eating--more so than the little kids, actually. It's really nice to be able to let the kids who serve on the regional Youth Council be in charge of something for a while. No one asks for help getting dressed either. Well, if they do, they ask another camper instead of the counselor.
What was surprising to me was that the older kids cried more than the little kids usually do. The tears weren't about skinned knees or homesickness; these tears were about problems that were a lot harder to fix. Unlike the little kids, the high school kids hugged often and long. They gave side hugs and bear hugs and hugs from behind. They weren't ready to let go a lot of the time.
When the week was over, rather than tiredly trudging back to the cabins, the older kids lingered, tears in their eyes. No, not all of them did that, but a lot of them did. This week of camp was harder for me than any other week of camp I've done; well, at least it was hard in a different way. I've never thought quite so much about kids in the week following camp before. Usually, I just try to recover from my own post-camp stupor.
The last keynote of camp was a reminder of Jesus' words, "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength,' and 'Love your neighbor as yourself;' for that is the law and the prophets." As I still pray for those kids from last week, still worry about them for all sorts of reasons, I keep coming back to those words of Jesus. (Jesus' words have a way of sneaking back up at inconvenient times, for better or worse.) We're not always good at loving our neighbors, especially our sometimes-prone-to-obnoxiousness teenage neighbors. We talk about wanting youth programs and youth energy, as long as the youth do mostly what we want.
I'm pretty sure we'd be better off if we didn't worry quite so much about youth group and instead worried about how to love our kids. And you know what, the ways we love our kids at camp aren't earth-shattering, hard to do things. They're things like:
- Kids get hugs when they need them (but they're never forced to hug).
- Kids are treated with respect, including being given responsibilities.
- Adults listen to kids.
- There's plenty of food.
- Kids are kept safe.
If Church did all those things well, we might be surprised at how fast God's reign takes over.
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Haunted by Words
In a few more days, I head off to camp. This year, I'm a counselor and a keynote speaker for the high school kids. God help me. Seriously.
The curriculum is based on how we got the Bible; I'm spinning it a bit to be why we care about the Bible. There's lots of talking about story, as you can imagine.
At the same time, I'm prepping my sermon for the Sunday after camp, which just happens to be Pentecost. The story we tell each year is the coming of the Holy Spirit to the church at that feast, creating something knew. Pentecost is often called the birthday of the church.
In this weird place where I'm figuring out how to talk with high school kids about what the Bible is and why it matters and preaching the story of Pentecost, I realize how many words from the Bible haunt me.
I vividly recall sitting in a class on the history of my denomination when one of the other students turned and said with more than a little irritation, "Did you memorize the entire Bible?" Well, in the world where I grew up, memorization of scripture was a big freakin' deal. In a lot of ways, the goal was to memorize the Bible.
These words, though, linger in other places. As one of Jesus' early followers, Peter, explains what is going on, he quotes the prophet Joel, "'In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh, and your sons and daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams. Even upon my slaves both men and women, in those days I will pour out my Spirit; and they shall prophesy."
The first time I really heard those words was when Berenice Clifton, a character on the '80s sitcom Designing Women whose craziness was described as "an arterial flow problem above the neck," quoted them. The episode was called "How Great Thou Art." The topic was women in ministry, and she was fighting a Southern Baptist minister who was adamant that women should be silent in church. I took notes the first time I saw that episode, at least mental notes, and went flipping through my Bible to make sure all the things she was saying were really in there. Even though I'd read the Bible in its entirety a few times by then, I heard what I'd been taught; somehow, I skipped over what would become life-giving texts.
When, in college, we had to memorize a few passages of scripture for biblical survey classes, I more or less hugged the list of texts to my chest when I saw Joel 2:28 on it. Here were the words that I had thought were marginal words, and they were important enough to be tested on. It was a dream come true for this Bible nerd still trying to hear the possibility of call.
Now, ten or twelve years later, I'm preaching on these words, as I have before. And I can't shake all the times I have heard these words before. They haunt me. They are friendly ghosts for sure, but ghosts nonetheless. They bring back other times and places even as they invite me to new things.
My conclusion, at best, is this, "You're doing it right." From the Gospel architect Luke to screenwriters to my own teachers, "You're doing it right." For I'm certain these words will haunt me all my life as they have so many faithful before me. The words will push me to new places. The words will bubble up in moments of fear, offering assurance. Words that will do all those things--yeah, you're doing it right.
I'm so grateful for these words, these ghosts. Perhaps most of all, I love that I get to introduce others to these beautiful, haunting words.
The curriculum is based on how we got the Bible; I'm spinning it a bit to be why we care about the Bible. There's lots of talking about story, as you can imagine.
At the same time, I'm prepping my sermon for the Sunday after camp, which just happens to be Pentecost. The story we tell each year is the coming of the Holy Spirit to the church at that feast, creating something knew. Pentecost is often called the birthday of the church.
In this weird place where I'm figuring out how to talk with high school kids about what the Bible is and why it matters and preaching the story of Pentecost, I realize how many words from the Bible haunt me.
I vividly recall sitting in a class on the history of my denomination when one of the other students turned and said with more than a little irritation, "Did you memorize the entire Bible?" Well, in the world where I grew up, memorization of scripture was a big freakin' deal. In a lot of ways, the goal was to memorize the Bible.
These words, though, linger in other places. As one of Jesus' early followers, Peter, explains what is going on, he quotes the prophet Joel, "'In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh, and your sons and daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams. Even upon my slaves both men and women, in those days I will pour out my Spirit; and they shall prophesy."
The first time I really heard those words was when Berenice Clifton, a character on the '80s sitcom Designing Women whose craziness was described as "an arterial flow problem above the neck," quoted them. The episode was called "How Great Thou Art." The topic was women in ministry, and she was fighting a Southern Baptist minister who was adamant that women should be silent in church. I took notes the first time I saw that episode, at least mental notes, and went flipping through my Bible to make sure all the things she was saying were really in there. Even though I'd read the Bible in its entirety a few times by then, I heard what I'd been taught; somehow, I skipped over what would become life-giving texts.
When, in college, we had to memorize a few passages of scripture for biblical survey classes, I more or less hugged the list of texts to my chest when I saw Joel 2:28 on it. Here were the words that I had thought were marginal words, and they were important enough to be tested on. It was a dream come true for this Bible nerd still trying to hear the possibility of call.
Now, ten or twelve years later, I'm preaching on these words, as I have before. And I can't shake all the times I have heard these words before. They haunt me. They are friendly ghosts for sure, but ghosts nonetheless. They bring back other times and places even as they invite me to new things.
My conclusion, at best, is this, "You're doing it right." From the Gospel architect Luke to screenwriters to my own teachers, "You're doing it right." For I'm certain these words will haunt me all my life as they have so many faithful before me. The words will push me to new places. The words will bubble up in moments of fear, offering assurance. Words that will do all those things--yeah, you're doing it right.
I'm so grateful for these words, these ghosts. Perhaps most of all, I love that I get to introduce others to these beautiful, haunting words.
Friday, May 23, 2014
Four Years
Today is the fourth anniversary of my ordination. The picture attached to this blog is from that day. Like most special occasions, people from all phases of my life were there. It was a churchy celebration for sure, but a wonderful churchy celebration. Preaching and packages and singing. Cute kids and lots of hugs.
In the middle of it all, me, with all of the craziness somehow swirling around me. Here were all the people from my many communities joined together to say, "God has called her."
For all the craziness leading up to that day, and all the hullabaloo that afternoon, I've never been quite so calm or so certain of something. The weight of the robe, the stole, felt just right. That remains true to this day.
I think back on those four years and wonder how to best measure them. There are so many ways to count.
Five baptisms.
Four funerals.
Two weddings.
Only God knows how many pizzas.
Three churches.
Three states.
Four places I've called home.
Two weeks of camp.
A lock-in or two or three.
Somewhere around 200 Sundays in worship.
Bible studies--who knows how many.
Prayers--God knows that, too.
So many things still to count. So many things that could be named. All these things that are part of the ebb and flow of church life. Well, not just church life, all life.
Because the best summation is to say that this has been my life for the past four years. There are certainly things in my life that are not church, but I mostly keep count in church time.
Four years later, I'm still glad that I responded, "Here I am."
Where shall God send me next?
Four years later, I'm still glad that I responded, "Here I am."
Where shall God send me next?
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