Ranya Idliby: The Faith Club: A Muslim, A Christian, A Jew-- Three Women Search for Understanding
Henri J Nouwen: Life of the Beloved: Spiritual Living in a Secular World
Karen Armstrong: The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness
John Galsworthy: The Forsyte Saga : The Man of Property and In Chancery
Judi Hollis: Hot & Heavy: Finding Your Soul Through Food and Sex
Renita J. Weems: Listening For God: A Ministers Journey Through Silence And Doubt
Joan Oliver Goldsmith: How Can We Keep from Singing: Music and the Passionate Life
Thursday Morning, 10:15 a.m.
My Grande Nonfat, No Whip Mocha has cooled.
I want to microwave it.
Between my office and the kitchen a large 12-step group is meeting.
There is a way around, and they are screened off for privacy.
But the kitchen end is not screened off.
And this group is Food Addicts Anonymous.
...
I contemplate the scone crumbs on my desk.
I decide to wait.
I guess the Great Knitting Ban of 2008 has been good for my reading, because I am now up to 18 books. I didn't set an overall goal for the year, but as I look back, I'm mostly delighted with the books on my list. The Faith Club:A Muslim, A Christian, A Jew-- Three Women Search for Understanding is no exception. One of the authors sent me a review copy, thinking RevGalBlogPals might like to use it for a book discussion (as I believe we will later this year). Three laywomen whose faith practices varied from not much to only at home to pretty devout gathered to discuss their personal religious histories, the impact of culture and their understanding of the theology of their faiths. They met regularly for several years, beginning with the idea of writing a book for children, but in the end opening and changing all their lives.
I appreciated their honesty about uncomfortable conversations and even confrontations.
I highly recommend this book for groups, both interfaith and not. There is a huge discussion guide and suggestions for starting a Faith Club of your own. I wish I could meet all three of the authors: Ranya Idilby, Suzanne Oliver and Priscilla Warner. They already feel like friends.
Waking slowly, working through night's stiffness
I remember dreams of my hometown
brick sidewalks and beloved faces
Still in bed, I am embraced
I rise to wake my daughter
Downstairs dogs want petting
my glasses--where?--on the coffee table
the book I'm starting to read
prescription filled and taken
jeans to put in the dryer
towels that need to be folded
dishes that need to be loaded
leftover pizza in the refrigerator
love in the faces of husband and daughter
bliss in the tails of dogs that are wagging
On the mantelpiece in a crystal vase
hyacinths cut from our garden yesterday
dress the air with thick joy
I wrote this three years ago after a health scare that proved to be just that, and I really needed to read it as I go to meet with the doctor again to discuss ongoing pain in multiple joints that is becoming limiting and, well, scary. This piece was used in worship on the 2nd Sunday after Pentecost and references three of the lectionary texts for that day, as well as the fourth text of stories from my life.
The Psalm, 46, is my favorite, and boy, do I need to remember that right now.
(These texts come up on June 1st. If you're a pastor or worship leader and might want to use this piece, do send me an e-mail. I'm happy to share it.)
Between the Rock and the Hard Places
2nd Sunday after Pentecost, Year A
(Genesis 6:9-22; 7:24; 8:14-19 and Psalm 46 and Matthew 7:21-29)
Psalmist
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear,
though the earth should change,
though the mountains shake in the heart of the sea;
though its waters roar and foam,
though the mountains tremble with its tumult.
Fear-filled Woman
(sings)
Rain, rain, go away; come again some other day.
(speaks)
Once upon a time it seemed so simple.
Rain came and rain went and there would always be another chance to play, to rejoice.
But sometimes the rain just falls and falls and it won’t stop at all.
The phone rings and it is the kind obstetrician.
She doesn’t want to tell me, I’m sure she doesn’t want to tell me.
The test results are back, she says, and it’s not good.
I brace myself against the kitchen counter,
try not to weep in front of the children playing close by.
I try.
Once the phone rang, and it was my father,
trying to tell me the hard news that my mother was dying.
He couldn’t find the words,
could only say, “It’s bad; it’s bad.”
And in his voice I heard how bad it was,
I felt it in the trembling of his slow-pronounced words.
When he died, too, the news came on the phone,
and then I couldn’t hold back the tears.
Can a person spring a leak?
We huddled together on the kitchen floor, the children and I.
We wept together.
We just wept.
Just like the rain, falling and falling and falling…
Psalmist
Therefore we will not fear…
Grieving Follower
There fore
Japheth
(sings)
I’ve been working on the Ark,
all the live-long day.
I’ve been shoveling the--
(speaks)
Who gets all the dirty work?
Japheth, that’s who!
From morning until night I work as hard as I know how,
and then there is a little sleep beside my dog,
and then it starts all over again.
Not that we would know from the sky whether it was day or night.
But the animals know.
And they make sure we do, too!
They bray and whinny and whine and trumpet;
they bark and call and cry and complain.
My brothers see to the food, but my job?
Well, the less said about that the better.
40 nights we have settled them for the night,
and 40 mornings we have risen to feed them,
and 40 days I have cleaned up the “leftovers.”
And I’m tired, Lord.
I’m tired.
I’m tired of the cross words between the women
and the scuffling between my brothers—
and me, too.
I’m tired of wondering when the rain will ever stop.
I’m tired of listening to it,
And feeling damp,
And the smell, Lord, the smell.
It’s bad enough in here,
but on deck,
I can only smell rain.
Psalmist
There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
the holy habitation of the Most High.
God is in the midst of the city;
it shall not be moved;
God will help it when the morning dawns.
The nations are in an uproar, the kingdoms totter;
God utters his voice, the earth melts.
The LORD of hosts is with us;
the God of Jacob is our refuge.
Grieving Follower
When the one who showed you the way is gone,
how do you know which way to turn?
There has been so much hiding and so much running,
and that is not what was like to be with him.
He was open, out,
free and loving to all he met,
talking even to those who disagreed,
welcoming especially those who are despised in town and in temple.
O, God!
How long will it take me to figure out what to do next?
I’ve walked so many lonely roads wondering.
Some say he has been back to see them, but I’m not among them.
I want to believe it’s true.
I don’t know whether I am more sad that he was killed or more sad that,
if he’s really risen,
he hasn’t come near me.
It’s like standing out in the middle of a storm,
*hoping* the lighting will strike you!
Maybe then I would know how to live.
Psalmist
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Fear-filled Woman
A very present help in trouble.
Grieving Follower
A very present help in trouble?
But where is God now?
Japheth
That’s what I’d like to know!
Wouldn’t it have been better to drown and get it over with?
(pauses)
Well, I don’t really mean that, God, I really don’t.
I just wish you would show me a sign,
A sign that all this shoveling and seasickness is worth it,
that there’s some reason for doing it.
Grieving Follower
All I have are the stories he told,
stories his best friends didn’t always understand.
“Don’t build your house on sand, only a fool would do that.”
And of course I knew that.
Sands shift.
They are not dependable.
Of course a solid foundation is better for a house.
What does that have to do with heaven?
Psalmist
There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
the holy habitation of the Most High.
Fear-filled Woman
Cry me a river.
Japheth
Try an ocean!
Psalmist
The holy habitation
Grieving Follower
Heaven was sitting at his feet, listening to him talk.
Heaven was watching his kindness,
feeling his concern,
warming to the light of his serious joy.
Psalmist
BE STILL!!!
And know that I am God.
Fear-filled Woman
I am sitting in the waiting room.
The x-rays have gone to the doctor to be read,
And I am very much waiting,
Waiting for some news.
And there seems to be no middle ground.
There is only terrible fear or utter relief.
I pray.
God,
I say,
I know I don’t have to be afraid to die.
I’m *not* afraid to die.
My heart is racing.
Psalmist
Be still.
Grieving Follower
Sometimes I get too tired to keep walking
And I just sit down.
Psalmist
Be still.
Japheth
Just past mid-day,
At least I think it’s mid-day,
The animals rest,
And so do I.
Psalmist
Be still and know.
Fear-filled Woman
I’m not afraid to die,
But I am so afraid to lose living!!!
Psalmist
Know that I am God.
Grieving Follower
In the stillness
I could hear my heart,
But little else.
And then these words:
You know what to do.
Fear-filled Woman
Do not be afraid.
Japheth
I will establish my covenant with you.
Psalmist
God is our refuge and strength,
A very present help in trouble.
Grieving Follower
Love the Lord your God.
That comes first.
“Love the Lord your God
with all that you are and all that you have.”
And then there is the other:
“Love others as well as you love yourself.”
Psalmist
Our refuge
Our strength
Grieving Follower
Jesus is the rock;
He gave us the foundation.
He did tell us how to live!!
Japheth
God is always there,
The rock at the bottom of it all,
The solid Earth under all that is--
Even in the rain,
Fear-filled Woman
Even in the waiting,
Holding me,
Strengthening me.
How else would I have gotten out of bed to come here?
Psalmist
The Lord of Hosts is with us.
Grieving Follower
Why didn’t I understand sooner?
Japheth
I guess I knew it all along,
Even when I was shoveling.
Fear-filled Woman
I wondered, “Who is in charge of hope?”
And I realized I am!
No one else can take it away.
Psalmist
A very present help in trouble.
Grieving Follower
I think I’ll go back into the city.
Fear-filled Woman
I hear the nurse at the door.
Japheth
Look, the rain is letting up!
Psalmist
A very present help in trouble.
All
A very present help.
Pure Luck rolled in around 4:40 a.m. Sam whined and moaned his happiness, while Molly gave a gruff pre-dawn "Wwrroo." After petting both dogs for a while ("Never have fewer hands than Berners," he always says.), he got in bed. Molly followed. Needless to say, I soon got up to avoid being pushed out as she scooted in my direction.
He has been working nights since he left here on March 30th and will sleep a lot today, I imagine.
In a day or two we will all be back on the same schedule, but even when we aren't, it's good to have him home.
This is our bipolar life. After almost six years of marriage I am almost used to it, better able to cope with protracted absences. But I hope I never lose that feeling of joy when I see his car pull up out front, whatever the time of day or night.
Today The Princess and I went out to Mother's Day lunch, just the two of us.
Going out to a restaurant, just the two of us, is a new enough thing to have a lot of shininess attached to it. After all, we had to wait for everyone else to leave home, temporarily, to really have the opportunity. I enjoyed discussing the menu with her, because it happens that she has been to this particular Japanese restaurant many times with her dad, while I have been there only once. (As Pure Luck can tell you, there is no bread at Japanese restaurants, so we enjoy sushi, etc, when he is out of town. I cannot convince him that Chicken Tempura is the new, improved version of Chicken Fingers.)
We both wanted a Shrimp Tempura roll, but The Princess lobbied for the version containing Unagi.
"What's that?"
"Mom, it's eel."
"Um. Eel. Ew."
Eyeroll.
"Mom, what is your problem with eel."
"It's electric?"
Giant eyeroll.
"Tell you what," I said, "when you pay for the sushi, I'll try eel."
"I'll start saving up now," she said.
Now there are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of services, but the same Lord; and there are varieties of activities, but it is the same God who activates all of them in everyone. (1 Corinthians 12:4-6)
God of wind and fire,
We come to you this morning a group of people from different places, different histories, with different gifts, all given by you.
Help us to appreciate the gifts of others, to see those gifts and affirm those gifts, to tell others how much we value the gifts they bring to our lives and to the life of this church. Help us to speak to one another, to have the gift of honest tongues proceeding from appreciative hearts.
For too often we operate from a place of fear, concerned for survival, jockeying for position, only able to be "right" if someone else is "wrong."
Help us to take a step back from our assumptions.
Help us to listen for you in the wind, to feel you in the tongues of fire.
Activate us for you, O God: Creator, Christ and Holy Spirit. Amen.
This book by a British academic, Lisa Isherwood, whose perspective is both feminist and ecologically conscious suggests an alternative view of Jesus, suggesting that if we have considered a black Jesus or a female Jesus, we might also need to consider a Fat Jesus as the ultimate in liberation theology Jesus imagery.
I like her concern for the hungry in the world. I share her dismay at the way "Christian" weight loss programs tie fatness or overeating to sin and, in her estimation, promise salvation in being thin.
But some of the ideas she puts forth leave me wondering where she got her version of Christianity. I just don't find the lusciousness in it. I'm not saying I don't want to find it, just that I don't.
I may be the wrong person to review this book accurately, since I'm a card-carrying member of Weight Watchers. I don't think being thin solves all the world's problems, but I'm pretty sure that carrying as much weight as I was a year ago wasn't doing anybody any good. If I was taking up space to prevent being invisible--and that's certainly part of it--I need to develop some other way of being prophetic.
Interestingly, I saw someone I would categorize as a longtime acquaintance in the grocery store today who did not recognize me, which lets me know the change in my appearance is pretty major. I am also noticing how strange it feels to be really small, not just short, in a crowd of people. You have to learn to inhabit space very differently. I can't become taller.
I first learned about the book from Sally at Eternal Echoes, and I do commend to you the poem she wrote after reading the book.
Do you watch Lost? Sometimes after an episode airs, I read the comments on Television Without Pity. This is often a mistake, because the thick-headedness of some commenters raises my blood pressure. But many times someone posts a link to a fascinating screen cap, or has a better idea of what a character said than I did, so back I go.
This was one of the thick weeks. One of the worst tendencies of the group was in evidence: all the male, African-American actors look alike.
Except that they do not.
When I complain about this to my sons, they say, rather reasonably, "Stop reading it!"
But I want those links, see above.
It's much the same with politics. The current debate, which has had its elements of misogyny, has now progressed to a not-so-thinly-veiled racism that offends and disturbs me.
Yesterday, Senator Clinton cited an Associated Press report "that found how Sen. Obama's support among working, hardworking Americans, white Americans, is weakening again, and how whites in both states who had not completed college were supporting me."
Um.
Yes. All white people who did not go to college think alike, and all white people who went to college and don't support Senator Clinton are, what? Shiftless?
After listening to the press and talking heads and politicians pillory Rev. Dr. Wright, I want to know how we can say this race is more about misogyny than racism.
Really, it's about a paradigm shift. It's about a move from an old way of thinking to a new way of thinking that makes the generation gap of the 1960's look like a crack in the sidewalk. And it's not about age, clearly. It's about a desire to look at the world through a different lens, one that isn't about old allegiances or practices. It's a new way that leaves out those who insist on being left behind.
I guess I'm talking about church now, too. When "everyone" went to church, when in the post WWII paradigm, the Leave it to Beaver era, we could support numerous institutions and indulge in our Edifice Complex, we could be separatist without anyone drawing attention to it. Women played certain roles in churches; cultural groups had their own parishes. In my small city, there were Catholic churches "known" as Polish, French, Irish and Italian, and all those on the peninsula, relatively close together.
My Cousin Jack famously wrote the book, Why Christianity Must Change or Die, and I am right there with him. We can't live this way anymore. Push is coming to shove. The life of faith, and the life of the body politic, must transcend boundaries of ethnicity, gender and orientation. I believe it's the life to which the Divine Source of All Love calls us.
But if I really believe that, I can't be satisfied with saying, "Let those who disagree go home." On the ground, in a smaller church, I am trying to find a way to live it that includes everyone, that makes no assumption that people who vaguely resemble each other are the same, or that only a certain group works hard, or that I know everything about any of them.
The hard part is this: we in churches feel the general tension of the economy, heating prices, expense of health insurance, but we also grapple with an end to the culture's "protection" of Sunday morning, the declining availability of organists, the aging out of the generation that put all church events first and a demand that the things we do be not just convivial but meaningful. We don't know what it looks like. We hear stories, we LIVE stories of failures to graft the new branch onto the old tree.
I don't really understand grafting very well. But I know it's possible on trees and plants. Surely it must be possible for churches, too. I think we need to try before we cut down all the trees and start again.
Tonight I slipped across Main Street between meetings to grab a cup of coffee at the Starbucks. They're getting to know me already, one barista has asked me to pray for some he cares about and the nonfat, no whip mocha is no surprise even if it's not memorized, just yet.
I grew up watching my feet beneath me on brick sidewalks, and I still find it energizing. This posh part of the town I'm serving, though, has little to do with the historical town, little to do with the church and its people. National brand outlet stores surround the church, so close that you almost have to be looking for it to find it.
But today as I pulled into my parking space, the one with the sign that protects my spot from consumers, I saw a couple watching me, and when I got out of the car, they asked if I might be the pastor? Visiting from Georgia, they noticed the banner on the front of the church and wanted to see the place in this shopping Mecca where God is still speaking.
It's the challenge the church faces. Can we find a way to work together, to figure out what really matters, to be the faithful people of God on Main Street despite Burberry and Timberland and Ralph Lauren? Can we mean something to the eclectic residents, from those who go back to the town founders to those who work in the stores to the people who have come from away to live in the "country" areas nearby?
And those are very near by, less than a quarter of a mile from Main Street, right down from the fire station and just beyond an ancient cemetery, there are cows on the corner.
I know more about cappuccinos and scones than I do about cows. I'm at home on Main Street, walking past the places that push shoes and children's togs. It occurs to me that a pastor too comfortable there probably needs a push from without or within to take that walk down the hill, to sit and listen to the concerns that come with age and long residence. I like both, so there must be others like me. I have a feeling it's not too soon to start praying for that person to come to the church on Main Street.
This week, Questing Parson and Mrs. QP are visiting in the area, and as if it wasn't enough to have them come to church on Sunday, they came back our way and took The Princess and me out to dinner tonight. We suggested a favorite local place, the route to which showed them the fullness of the neighborhood I've lived in for 18 of my 21 years in City By the Sea.
Questing Parson has a new toy, a Kindle, Amazon's wireless reading device (and it's possible I may covet it, just a little). The Parson is quite the Kindle evangelist. We looked at all it could do, how the settings could be personalized, the font enlarged, how quickly the new Al Gore book could download.
At dinner, he asked me to tell the story of how RevGalBlogPals came to be. I love to tell the story, how a two line post by St. Casserole, derived from a conversation with her husband, grew 115 comments, a webring, a blog and a CafePress store in about 48 hours. And that was just the beginning. So many people came into my life, and others have connections I don't even know about, kindled by that one small flame.
On our street this afternoon, I introduced QP to my neighbors, who also blog, and we mentioned the other Methodist blogger my neighbor couple knows, also a RevGalBlogPal. As we arrived at the restaurant, I had a text message from another clergywoman blogger friend.
And just this morning, I gained reassurance from one friend and got comfort from another in little chat boxes, and when I made an error that I hope will prove funny and not catastrophic, I knew who to call for perspective.
All day I've talked with different people about what the Church is coming to, about what our own churches face, about the shift from an old model to a newer one for ministry, about the way women fit in and don't, are accepted or aren't, in the parish and in our denominations. An older pastor from the South and a younger pastor from Maine stood on the sidewalk and shared the same hopes and concerns and puzzlements about their wider church. Four women ministers wondered when we will all learn what some churches know already, that being a faith community does not require a traditional church building.
I wonder what God will do with me, in the long run.
The Internet, then, has kindled many connections of a new kind, a breath of fresh air in my life and ministry fueling my passion for ministry. It's a different kind of Pentecost, this kindling of hearts across the ether, a wireless connection of the deepest kind, personalized, suited to me, just right for the world at this moment, reminding us that the world really is small, that it's time to think about how other people live, too.
Something new is kindling.
Operator
Information
Don't try to tell me
What number to call
My mother used this number
When I was very small
And everytime she dialed it
She always got 't call the
Operator
Information
Please give me Jesus on the line
We had just finished re-bandaging Sam's paw, when my cell phone rang and I hopped up to grab it.
Snowman sounded terrible as he said hello, very different from the way he seemed to be when he called earlier today.
"Mr. W isn't coming back."
Mr. W is his clarinet teacher.
There are many kinds of helplessness in parenting, and I've been through some before, but this just made me hurt for my boy, knowing there is nothing I can do.
I asked if he still wanted to go back next year, not knowing who will be coaching him through college and conservatory auditions.
"Yes," he answered, one of many monosyllabic responses that, along with periods of grief-filled silence, formed our conversation.
We don't know yet what Snowman's possibilities really are, but we were counting on Mr. W to help him make the most of them. Snowman wants to be a musician; he really cares about nothing else, and he works hard to show us all, his family and his friends and, yes, his teacher, how committed he is.
He's not grown-up, not a college student even, not a man, like his brother, still my child--well, they both are--and I am trying to learn how to parent via cellphone, to find some way to reassure in the ether, to find some way to touch the boy who is so far away and yet so close.
At the top of the stairs coming up from the lake, he found a little turtle. When we hung up, or rather closed our cellphones, he was not alone. And neither was I.
Oh prayer is the number
Faith is the exchange
Heaven is the street
And Jesus is his name
Operator
Information
Please give me Jesus on the line
("Operator" by William Spivery)
O LORD, how manifold are your works! In wisdom you have made them all; the earth is full of your creatures. Psalm 104:24, NRSV
Last night I got a phone call from a friend in the regional Bernese Mountain Dog Club (or Bearnaise Sauce Dogs, as St. Casserole dubbed them), to check in about planning a picnic for this summer. Yes, I do belong, believe it or not, to a breed club. Two, actually: one regional, one national. It happened because Molly had many orthopedic problems as a puppy, and when I went to the Internet looking for information, I found the clubs.
I had always been a cat person. It came as a great surprise that I could love a dog, and now two dogs, with the abandon and occasional anxiety previously reserved for my children. I expected larger cats. (Yes, I hear you dog people chortling at my foolishness.)
Dogs and cats, and any animal we can love, really love, prove God for me. Oh, there are other things, too. Sunsets, harvest moons, lilacs, daffodils, mountains, the ocean, things so beautiful they couldn't possibly be merely random. And then there are human relationships, with their aggravations and their deep satisfactions, and physical pleasures. Love, and really good sex, and a piece of gooey pepperoni pizza--all these things transcend ordinary reality and make me want to shout, or purr, or wroo-wroo my praises.
Animals, with their determined focus on their own pleasure or their desire to be faithful to us, with their enthusiasm for chasing each other or rolling in something that smells delicious, for curling up next to us when we feel low, for simply being present to us--they are made in God's wisdom.
Yes, even Baby, the cat who brings wildlife indoors, brings some of that wisdom to the fore. She loves me as much as a cat can love a person. She suffers when I turn her out of the room, hoping to sleep. She spends her days contentedly on my bed, rubbing up against anything of mine I don't think to put on a hanger.
If only I spent my days as attentive to God, even when God seems absent...
I will sing to the LORD as long as I live; I will sing praise to my God while I have being.
May my meditation be pleasing to God, for I rejoice in the LORD.
(Psalm 104:33-34)
So Moses went out and told the people the words of the LORD; and he gathered seventy elders of the people, and placed them all around the tent. Then the LORD came down in the cloud and spoke to him, and took some of the spirit that was on him and put it on the seventy elders; and when the spirit rested upon them, they prophesied. But they did not do so again.
Two men remained in the camp, one named Eldad, and the other named Medad, and the spirit rested on them; they were among those registered, but they had not gone out to the tent, and so they prophesied in the camp.
And a young man ran and told Moses, "Eldad and Medad are prophesying in the camp."
And Joshua son of Nun, the assistant of Moses, one of his chosen men, said, "My lord Moses, stop them!"
But Moses said to him, "Are you jealous for my sake? Would that all the Lord's people were prophets, and that the LORD would put his spirit on them!" And Moses and the elders of Israel returned to the camp. (Numbers 11:24-30, NRSV)
Were they prophesying in the parking lot?
In the life of a local church, we often feel "we" have the monopoly on truth and "they" are totally off base, "we" and "they" sometimes meaning only the people we assume will not agree with us on something. "We" believe in doing a certain thing in a certain way, so "they," who disagreed with us last time, will naturally fight us to the death this time. Or "we" support the pastor, so naturally "they" will fight him or her.
I used to be part of the "we" that supported the staff in the large church where I was a member. I was completely sure, way back then, that anyone who didn't agree with the staff was bent on destruction. I've come to a more moderate viewpoint since then, at least I hope I have. Everyone worries about being believed and respected. Everyone needs a chance to be heard. And if we'll really listen to one another, well, there may be prophesying in camp.
Mondays in my new job are meant to be a "work at/from home" day, for reading and writing, but thus far there have been appointments on all of them.
Today, not so. I am staying home. I have two books to read (not sure which will be the priority yet). I'm going to take a walk. The dogs will be glad of company.
I'm going to think back on my birthday yesterday and remember:
The sun is shining here again. I'm picturing myself at the Star$$$ for a very nice cup of coffee and some reading time in the window. What are you up to today?
(A Communion Meditation on Luke 24:28-31, Part Four of a series using Henri J.M. Nouwen's Life of the Beloved)
Once upon a time, when I was a young bride, I took up bread baking. For several years, as part of a larger effort to cook things from scratch, I baked bread each week. Each Saturday I gathered the ingredients: whole wheat flour, fresh yeast, honey, molasses, salt, water. I mixed them in a large ceramic bowl, white with blue stripes. I began to learn the science of how long to let the dough rise, how quickly the yeast will foam and bubble, how long to knead without kneading too long. Soon it became an intuitive process, no longer ruled by timers and recipes. I learned to live into the bread-making.
Then I had a baby, and I am sad to say that except for a few times here and there, I have never returned to regular bread-baking. #1 Son is 22 now, so there has been a long gap. I became a purchaser of bread and a maker of sandwiches to pack in lunches for the three children who eventually came to me. I’m not sure I would really know how to begin the process now, what corner of my kitchen could be made warm enough for the rising. My hands and wrists, compromised by a quirkily named syndrome, would no longer be able enough for kneading.
My hands touch bread in a different fashion now. No longer the baker or even often the sandwich-maker, I am now the Bread-Breaker and the Bread-Giver.
Most of us, most of the time, share that bread with a familiar community, following familiar rituals of consecration and distribution. We gather as the Body of Christ, and we share the Body of Christ. It’s part of who we are, perhaps a part we don’t stop to examine often enough.
After Hurricane Katrina, I traveled to Mississippi on a mission of pastoral relief to a Methodist minister whose house had been devastated by flooding during the storm. Rev. R rode out the storm in the crawlspace attic of her ranch home, along with her husband, her mother, two young children and a dog with an upset stomach, while her house filled with five or six feet of water below. My presence for two Sundays allowed her to take some time off, much needed as she worked on plans for rebuilding her home.
On that second Sunday, we celebrated Communion. Warned in advance, I knew that they came forward to receive the bread and the juice. I knew, also, that R had a habit of tearing the bread for her parishioners, then handing it to them. The sharing of that bit of practical information led to some conversation about the logistics of trays being passed or bread being dipped into juice, about what we are accustomed to doing and what seems odd simply for being unfamiliar.
I followed the words in their order of service and said exactly the words the people expected to hear. (At least I hope I did!) I wasn’t there to bring them some new way of doing things, but to keep things going for them as best I could. I worried a bit about being coordinated enough to hold the plate and tear the bread and hand it to each person while remembering to say the words they expected to hear: "The Body of Christ, broken for you."
When the first person in line came to me, and I tore the bread, I had one of those moments of intense surprise, as if the bread itself were saying to me, “Gotcha!” Or as my second son, Snowman, would say, “Snap!”
Yes, it was a “snap” moment, and it reminded me later of that greatest of “snap” moments, experienced in the story of the Road to Emmaus. Two of the followers of Jesus are walking to Emmaus on Easter evening, when a man falls in and walks with them. The reader knows from the beginning it is Jesus, but Cleopas and his friend cannot recognize him. They tell him of all the events that have taken place, and still they grieve for their master, saying they never believed he would die, for he was to redeem Israel. And although they have been told the story of the empty tomb, they cannot put together all the pieces of the story until Jesus begins to explain the words of the prophets, all while they are walking along the road.
Luke writes:
As they came near the village to which they were going, he walked ahead as if he were going on. But they urged him strongly, saying, “Stay with us, because it is almost evening and the day is now nearly over.” So he went in to stay with them. When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him.
(Luke 24:28-31a, NRSV)
Snap! Their eyes were opened, and they recognized him! It happened in the breaking of the bread. There was a first time that people who knew Jesus made the connection to him through the bread that represented his body. And they would go on to recognize him, to perceive his presence, each time the bread was broken.
Snap! As I tore those pieces of bread at the faraway Methodist church, Christ’s presence became apparent and took away all my worries about getting Communion “right” that day.
Sometimes we have to experience something anew to remember what we were doing in the first place.
That morning, I let go the idea of procedures and prayer books and simply gave the bread.
"What a wonderful mystery this is! Our greatest fulfillment lies in giving ourselves to others. Although it often seems that people give only to receive, I believe that, beyond all our desires to be appreciated, rewarded, and acknowledged, there lies a simple and pure desire to give…Our humanity comes to its fullest bloom in giving. We become beautiful people when we give whatever we can give: a smile, a handshake, a kiss, an embrace, a word of love, a present, a part of our life…all of our life."
(Henri J.M. Nouwen, "Life of the Beloved")
We are beautiful when we give. We embody God’s love.
Yesterday a special person in this congregation, Nancy B., gave me a gift. It was a sample of lotion, and the lotion smelled like Sweet Peas. But it also smelled just like love.
We are beautiful when we give. We embody God’s love. This is no theoretical or metaphysical concept. It smells as good as the lotion. It feels as real as the bread. It tastes indescribably sweet.
The loaves of bread on the Communion table remind us that, just like the bread, we are the body of Christ. Like Cleopas and his friend, we are often content to tell the story of how confusing or disappointing the world seems to us, how things aren’t fair or didn’t turn out the way we planned. We’re not ready for that “snap” of recognition to take us by surprise, that reminder that to be the Body means to be the bread, and to be the bread means to be broken.
A whole loaf will never feed anyone.
Breaking bread allows us all to share it and to take it beyond these walls to the community and to the world, a living witness to Jesus Christ.
When he was at the table with them, he took bread, blessed and broke it, and gave it to them. Then their eyes were opened, and they recognized him. (Luke 24:30-31a, NRSV)
We are called to be the bread, broken and given. We are many kinds of bread and serve in many different ways. But in each case the loaf must be broken open to feed the world. If we strive to remain whole, not sliced or cubed or torn into pieces, we will be static and stagnant, engaged in tactics of preservation and survival. Where would we be if Jesus had chosen to protect himself?
Instead, Jesus allowed himself to be given for our healing and our reconciliation with God. To be his body faithfully, we must be broken and given, too, opening ourselves to the “snap” of recognition that will point the way into the future, for each of us and for this church. Beloved, we are given to be the bread, embodied. Amen.
It's one of those Good News, Bad News things.
The good news: I haven't weighed this little since about 1992.
The bad news: Because I dropped into a new "decade," I lose a daily point, leaving me with 19.
It's not a lot of food, although you also get 35 weekly points which can be spread out however you see fit. But it really means looking at what I eat on any given day and deciding what I'm willing to give up for the duration. (And another point when I hit the next decade, but I imagine that is months away.)
You can also eat the equivalent of your earned Activity Points on the same day, but I am laid low at the moment with my wrist problem, feeling pretty enervated, so that won't be a help for now.
Because they don't give Rest Points, darn it!
Sally created this week's Friday Five, posted over at RevGalBlogPals:
Part of the Ascension Day Scripture from Acts 11 contains this promise from Jesus;
"But
you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you
will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the
ends of the earth.”
Then he was taken from their sight into the
clouds, two angels appeared and instructed the probably bewildered
disciples to go back to Jerusalem, where they began to wait and to pray
for the gift Jesus had promised.
Prayer is a joy to some of us, and a chore to others, waiting likewise can be filled with anticipation or anxiety....
So how do you wait and pray?
1. How do you pray best, alone or with others?
As a retired Baptist and a transplanted Southerner, I really appreciate prayer with others. It's not the most comfortable practice for many people in New England or frankly for many of my UCC friends, but I know there have been no more powerful moments than those when others have prayed for me while we are together, and I hope those I have prayed with would say something similar. I do pray alone, in a sort of running conversation with God, but I love praying with a partner or with a small group. I've been known to call a particular friend and pray with her on the phone. (You know who you are!)
2. Do you enjoy the discipline of waiting, is it a time of anticipation or anxiety?
I guess it depends on what you're waiting for!
3. Is there a time when you have waited upon God for a specific promise?
I had to read Sally's answers to understand how she was using the word "promise," in her case a vision she had after losing a baby that prefigured the twins she gave birth to later. So if by "promise" we mean glimpse of something we think we understand, I would say, it can be a long time! The image of being a pastor, a confirmation of call, had to be followed by school and a search process. That's natural. The vision I had of myself in a relationship again after my divorce took years to be realized, but those dreams did manifest in ways I could never have really imagined. Were those specific promises from God? I don't believe in a micro-manager, but I do believe in glimpses of the true and the possible, and I would call those divine.
4. Do you prefer stillness or action?
Considering that I am currently mourning having to sit quietly with my hands in my lap in these darned wrist guards, I guess we would have to say "action."
5. If ( and this is slightly tongue in cheek) you were promised one gift spiritual or otherwise what would you choose to receive?
DEEDS OF POWER!!!! (1 Corinthians 12:28) Hands down.
Heehee.
(This is the piece that will run in the local paper on Saturday, with a few pseudonyms added!)
You would think they were the first daffodils anyone had ever planted.
I haven’t been much of a gardener, really a plant-killer when it comes to indoor plants, and knowing my limitations, I choose outdoor plantings that are as hardy as possible. When we moved into our house ten years ago, I planted a forsythia beside the garage; it is still going strong! A year or two later I put in two lilac bushes, also apparently Songbird-proof!
But in front of the house grew many shrubs beyond the point of pruning to a reasonable size: two aged rhododendrons on either side of the front steps, numerous yews, low-lying green bushes I never identified and a quince drooping over the driveway and threatening to scratch the car. When the rhododendrons threatened to meet over the front steps, I finally took action. Last summer my husband cut them down, and the quince and the unidentified growing objects. The trunks of the rhododendrons, unearthed, stood in front of the house for some time, a kind of de-gardening performance art installation. Early in the fall, he removed them, and left me with a blank slate, ready for planting.
I must repeat. I am a notorious plant-killer. I consulted my sister-in-law, who knows what will grow where and what each plant needs to thrive. We went to the nursery together and began our planning. Over the course of several weeks, we worked together, adding various bags of nourishing things to the soil, planting two mini-rhododendrons that will never grow as large as the previous variety, and preparing to put in (hopefully Songbird-proof) bulbs.
When I was a little girl growing up in Virginia, we moved to a house one fall that brought us a springtime backyard surprise. In a hidden corner of the yard, behind a bush where leaves had been left in a pile, we began to see a glint of yellow. I asked my mother, “Why did the flowers grow in such a funny place?” She told me someone must have tossed old bulbs behind the bush instead of re-planting them in the flower bed. But the bulbs had ideas of their own. They were not finished in this world. They were not finished being beautiful. Jonquils arose from the darkness and would not be ignored.
Bless our God, O peoples, let the sound of God’s praise be heard, who has kept us among the living, and has not let our feet slip. (Psalm 66:8-9)
Last fall, I told the story of my planting efforts at Main Street Church, but this spring, our time together has ended. The church I left behind will welcome its new pastor this weekend. Although I am not with them, I trust they are blooming.
Now I am working a new garden, north on the highway instead of south and west. Now I am pacing the boundaries of a new community. What will grow here? Are there “shrubs” we will remove? How shall we prepare the ground to best suit what we hope to plant? I don’t know who their long term gardener will be, but I trust God to bring pastor and church together just as the turning of the seasons brings the green shoots from the bulbs in the dark earth to the light above ground.
Bless our Creator, O flowers, who has brought us up from the darkness and has let our petals unfold in the sunshine! (Songbird 1:1)
At my house, the flower beds are a riot of daffodils. When I saw the first one open, I ran outside early in the morning with my camera. You would think no one had ever successfully planted a daffodil bulb in the history of the world! I remember the way my knees felt, and the hard work of digging each hole with my little spade, the prayers invoked over each that the squirrels would not take them.
What is God working in our lives right now? What rests in darkness, seemingly, when in fact it is preparing to emerge? That darkness may be depression, uncertainty, grief or disappointment, but it may also be the quiet womb preparing to support new life. In the winter of the spirit, and in the quiet workings of the heart and mind, we may feel we reside in darkness. But if we can be patient, we will wait faithfully for the changes a season or two will bring, observing each little thrust-up blade of green, watching for the signs of further growth and rejoicing in the flowers’ eventual opening.
And don’t stop there. The work continues. Today I am planting pansies.
