Yes, I am reading a bodice ripper and I will not be ashamed! I know that I should be reading something like Marcus Borg’s Jesus in Contemporary Scholarship. I could glean so much from reading a few pages of The Christian Century. Instead I am reading the part when Blaze grabs his beloved Denver by her milky shoulders and kisses her. Who has names like these? Who genuinely has milky shoulders (and not because I spilled a container of milk all over myself)?
Perhaps I should be diving deeply into Biblical exegesis and review the Second Declension Nouns in Koine Greek. That should make an excellent cure for insomnia at the office, but one should not fall asleep at the office. I suppose there are a lot of books I should be reading, and I will get around to them, but frankly, I really want to know where things are going between Denver and Blaze. Will he warm her icy heart? Will they find that sunken treasure in the Northern Atlantic before their nemesis does? Will he ever take off that tight black t-shirt that hides perfectly sculpted abdominals? I really need to know!
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
Indulge Me
I missed reading the book Salvation for Dummies that has all these rules about levels of sin and which Biblical scriptures to take literally and which ones to interpret and which ones to simply ignore and how to get your ticket punched so that you know God really loves you and all who think and believe just like you, but readily smites those who disagree or differ from your world viewpoint. But I think I can glean a few key points:
1) Reason has no place in religion. Thinking leads to ideas, ideas lead to questions, and questions are simply the devil's subversive way to steal your soul.
2) While the Bible may say, "Love your neighbor," remember, sinners aren't your neighbors. They are sinners and must be shunned. Don't say they are bad, though. Simply smile and say, "Love the sinner, hate the sin," remembering that in this case, love means marginalizing them from your faith community and helping denigrate them in society as a whole. If someone brings up Jesus's dining with sinners, see # 3.
3) Make holy scripture work for you by selectively choosing which scripture passages to a) strictly interpret according to the English translation of the Bible; b) randomly interpret as long as doing so does not make you look hypocritical; and c) ignore completely when doing so interferes with your theology (see: Lev. 19:9 et al.). If someone starts saying things about revelation over time, tell them they are unorthodox and refer to #1.
4) Jesus loved dinosaurs. The scientific evidence is in a Florida museum. In fact, the donkey he rode into Jerusalem on may have, in fact, been a baby brontosaurus.
5) We were never related to apes. Not that our current and past religious and political leaders don't often make us wonder, but nonetheless...
6) God speaks American English and loves us most. If God didn't, why is the Bible written in American English, except for the King James Version, and it's only in King James English because American didn't exist. But if it had, it would have been in American King James English.
7) Forgiveness is only an idea in theory. When the church catches someone in need of forgiveness, members of the church should shame them and relegate them to neighbors who are sinners; therefore, you don't have to be nice to them.
1) Reason has no place in religion. Thinking leads to ideas, ideas lead to questions, and questions are simply the devil's subversive way to steal your soul.
2) While the Bible may say, "Love your neighbor," remember, sinners aren't your neighbors. They are sinners and must be shunned. Don't say they are bad, though. Simply smile and say, "Love the sinner, hate the sin," remembering that in this case, love means marginalizing them from your faith community and helping denigrate them in society as a whole. If someone brings up Jesus's dining with sinners, see # 3.
3) Make holy scripture work for you by selectively choosing which scripture passages to a) strictly interpret according to the English translation of the Bible; b) randomly interpret as long as doing so does not make you look hypocritical; and c) ignore completely when doing so interferes with your theology (see: Lev. 19:9 et al.). If someone starts saying things about revelation over time, tell them they are unorthodox and refer to #1.
4) Jesus loved dinosaurs. The scientific evidence is in a Florida museum. In fact, the donkey he rode into Jerusalem on may have, in fact, been a baby brontosaurus.
5) We were never related to apes. Not that our current and past religious and political leaders don't often make us wonder, but nonetheless...
6) God speaks American English and loves us most. If God didn't, why is the Bible written in American English, except for the King James Version, and it's only in King James English because American didn't exist. But if it had, it would have been in American King James English.
7) Forgiveness is only an idea in theory. When the church catches someone in need of forgiveness, members of the church should shame them and relegate them to neighbors who are sinners; therefore, you don't have to be nice to them.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Communion
I don’t take much with me when I come to communion, just everything. I move forward slowly, my hands outstretched, right palm over left palm facing up. I lower my eyes because of what I drag behind me. I drag with me every foolish plan, every deception and lie that I tell myself. I drag with me little hurts from the week, small sins, and my cowardice. I am embarrassed by my overwhelming need. I have overwhelming need.
“These burdens don’t belong to you, give them to me,” God says. Give to you? What do I give to you? I feel like I have nothing, but I put down my brokenness. I give it to you. It gave me identity, but I realize it is a false identity.
“Take, eat, this is my body given for you, do this for the remembrance of me. Take me instead,” God says. What else can I do? Has anyone ever said anything so passionate and truly meant it? How romantic and true! Do I want what God offers me? Will I receive God? I will take and eat. I will, with God’s help.
You don’t ask for much, just for me to show up and take what you want to give me. So I show up. I come to communion with all that I am and all that I am not. I put down those sorrows, schemes, and burdens. I take and eat in remembrance of you.
“These burdens don’t belong to you, give them to me,” God says. Give to you? What do I give to you? I feel like I have nothing, but I put down my brokenness. I give it to you. It gave me identity, but I realize it is a false identity.
“Take, eat, this is my body given for you, do this for the remembrance of me. Take me instead,” God says. What else can I do? Has anyone ever said anything so passionate and truly meant it? How romantic and true! Do I want what God offers me? Will I receive God? I will take and eat. I will, with God’s help.
You don’t ask for much, just for me to show up and take what you want to give me. So I show up. I come to communion with all that I am and all that I am not. I put down those sorrows, schemes, and burdens. I take and eat in remembrance of you.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Be my prayer
Barbara Crafton once wrote that far too many of us believe that prayers are these tidy little narrative paragraphs, filled with impressive words and even more impressive petitions. Being intimidated by such a demand, many of us decide we don't pray or we spend exorbitant amounts of time listening to others tell us how we should pray. It's one of the top questions we get as priests: help us pray better, as if it's a competition and not something we do in every moment.
What if we allowed our concept of prayer to be a bigger, daresay, more inclusive act, even non-act? It is, you know.
Prayers are certainly those simple words uttered by children at the encouraging of their parents, and they are those childlike words uttered by adults when we are in the throes of turmoil and strife so that the only words we can speak are the ones we prayed as children. Prayer is that deep fear we keep buried within our soul so far away from words that we dare not speak of it, even to God and especially to ourselves. Prayer is that joy so overwhelming that we can only yell of it out loud at the top of our lungs to the whole of creation. Prayer is the excruciating strain of our muscles as we run that last mile, not sure we'll make it, but just...a...bit...more...and...done. Prayer is the sheer exhaustion of a long day, when we finally stumble into a soft bed in a safe home and sigh long and deep. Prayer is also the mother who has no bed for her children, but decides to rest, anyway, because tomorrow will come.
Prayers are the tears we cry when we can't reach for the words or are too scared to say them or are too amazed at what we have seen to disturb the moment with sound. Prayers sing in the shower and dance when no one watches and fall in the drops of sun over our faces in the first breaths of spring. Prayer is the belief that invites us to question and the questions that compel us to act. Laughter prays to God in sheer delight. Silence prays, too. Simply living and moving and standing and sitting prays. Wiggling toes in mud with a child and twirling hair on a first date prays. Prayer is our afternoon meeting is-he-still-talking boredom and our Friday night oh-great-it's-the-weekend excitement. Prayer is watching your neighbor water her flowers, the ones her husband planted before he died. Prayer is reading and believing and reading and doubting. Prayer is the taste of really good chocolate and the joy at loving your dog or cat or Jane Austen movie.
Prayer is every single moment of our creation. We ourselves are God's prayer. Our lives are our prayer.
So let us pray.
What if we allowed our concept of prayer to be a bigger, daresay, more inclusive act, even non-act? It is, you know.
Prayers are certainly those simple words uttered by children at the encouraging of their parents, and they are those childlike words uttered by adults when we are in the throes of turmoil and strife so that the only words we can speak are the ones we prayed as children. Prayer is that deep fear we keep buried within our soul so far away from words that we dare not speak of it, even to God and especially to ourselves. Prayer is that joy so overwhelming that we can only yell of it out loud at the top of our lungs to the whole of creation. Prayer is the excruciating strain of our muscles as we run that last mile, not sure we'll make it, but just...a...bit...more...and...done. Prayer is the sheer exhaustion of a long day, when we finally stumble into a soft bed in a safe home and sigh long and deep. Prayer is also the mother who has no bed for her children, but decides to rest, anyway, because tomorrow will come.
Prayers are the tears we cry when we can't reach for the words or are too scared to say them or are too amazed at what we have seen to disturb the moment with sound. Prayers sing in the shower and dance when no one watches and fall in the drops of sun over our faces in the first breaths of spring. Prayer is the belief that invites us to question and the questions that compel us to act. Laughter prays to God in sheer delight. Silence prays, too. Simply living and moving and standing and sitting prays. Wiggling toes in mud with a child and twirling hair on a first date prays. Prayer is our afternoon meeting is-he-still-talking boredom and our Friday night oh-great-it's-the-weekend excitement. Prayer is watching your neighbor water her flowers, the ones her husband planted before he died. Prayer is reading and believing and reading and doubting. Prayer is the taste of really good chocolate and the joy at loving your dog or cat or Jane Austen movie.
Prayer is every single moment of our creation. We ourselves are God's prayer. Our lives are our prayer.
So let us pray.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
You don't look like a priest
She said, as I held my bottle of wine and (shockingly) my opinion. She punched a few more buttons on the cash register as she continued to chat away about how she'd never seen a girl priest before and didn't know there were female priests and oh, can you marry?
No, I tell her, but I can date.
She tells me to have a nice day. Apparently, irony is also something she's never seen before, either.
I check my reflection in the rear-view mirror. What does a priest look like? Maybe they don't historically wear lipstick and mascara, at least in public, but they do now. Many priests I know have preacher bellies (a friend's observation; not mine). I'm vain enough to admit I workout and count points to avoid that particular attribute. I wonder if the "don't look like" means, "Geez! You have breasts!" Maybe. Maybe not.
Do priests look holy, like Julie Andrews at her wedding in The Sound of Music? Do they look kind and unassuming, a sort of Wilfred Brimley meets your grandmother? A few priests I know have dreadlocks. One has facial piercings. Most look like they watch college football games and mow their lawns on Saturday, in between writing sermons and caring for the dying. A few scare me - Botox in men saying the Eucharist is just wrong.
Priests look like us, and we look like God, according to the line in Genesis. You don't look like God, I catch myself thinking as I see a pundit delivering a political opinion somewhere south of reflective and intelligent. You don't look like God either, we think as we see someone who is so other we might think we hate them.
But oh yes, they do.
No, I tell her, but I can date.
She tells me to have a nice day. Apparently, irony is also something she's never seen before, either.
I check my reflection in the rear-view mirror. What does a priest look like? Maybe they don't historically wear lipstick and mascara, at least in public, but they do now. Many priests I know have preacher bellies (a friend's observation; not mine). I'm vain enough to admit I workout and count points to avoid that particular attribute. I wonder if the "don't look like" means, "Geez! You have breasts!" Maybe. Maybe not.
Do priests look holy, like Julie Andrews at her wedding in The Sound of Music? Do they look kind and unassuming, a sort of Wilfred Brimley meets your grandmother? A few priests I know have dreadlocks. One has facial piercings. Most look like they watch college football games and mow their lawns on Saturday, in between writing sermons and caring for the dying. A few scare me - Botox in men saying the Eucharist is just wrong.
Priests look like us, and we look like God, according to the line in Genesis. You don't look like God, I catch myself thinking as I see a pundit delivering a political opinion somewhere south of reflective and intelligent. You don't look like God either, we think as we see someone who is so other we might think we hate them.
But oh yes, they do.
What I really think about during church.
Something that surprises me is the thoughts that wander through my head during the service. In seminary and before, I really thought I would have just holy thoughts, glorious reflections on the saving work of Jesus Christ displayed in the Holy Eucharist. I was going to have great thoughts. Yeah, well, I guess not...
1. Does this collar make me look like I have a double chin? Could liposuction suck that out? Why did I have to make such a big deal and tell people that they should not obsesss on outer beauty? Why did I laugh at people with plastic surgery? Now I have to live my life with a double chin because of my big mouth and foolish pride. Let me subtly reach up and check, dang it, that is a double chin!
2. I wonder what the dog is doing. I bet she is back on the couch. She is not supposed to be there, but she looks so cute sitting on the cushion.
3. "Flintstones, meet the Flintstones, what is the next lyric?"
4. Wow, he looks great this morning! Why did I vow to forsake all others? There is no good reason for that part of Holy Matrimony. Heck, is marriage even a sacrament? Focus.
5. Aagh, no, why did I wear this pair of underwear? They always ride up right when we get to the Sanctus.
1. Does this collar make me look like I have a double chin? Could liposuction suck that out? Why did I have to make such a big deal and tell people that they should not obsesss on outer beauty? Why did I laugh at people with plastic surgery? Now I have to live my life with a double chin because of my big mouth and foolish pride. Let me subtly reach up and check, dang it, that is a double chin!
2. I wonder what the dog is doing. I bet she is back on the couch. She is not supposed to be there, but she looks so cute sitting on the cushion.
3. "Flintstones, meet the Flintstones, what is the next lyric?"
4. Wow, he looks great this morning! Why did I vow to forsake all others? There is no good reason for that part of Holy Matrimony. Heck, is marriage even a sacrament? Focus.
5. Aagh, no, why did I wear this pair of underwear? They always ride up right when we get to the Sanctus.
Monday, February 2, 2009
I'm not anxious. No. Really, I'm not.
No, I am not anxious! I am not having an anxiety attack! That is ridiculous. Why would I have an anxiety attack? Of course, there was no mistaking the telltale signs of rapid heart rate, feeling short of breath, and the overall sense of anxiety. That would be an anxiety attack. Uh, oh now I am feeling dizzy as well.
I start reassuring myself with thoughts like: “no, that is not an anxiety attack, you are just dying, now, try to do it quietly and before anyone sees you.” Too late, one of those overly caring individuals with too much time on his or her hands then tells me: “you look tired.” Aagh, that is much worse. I thought I was keeping my insanity to myself, but now I realize the anxiety is written across my face. This anxiety is making me look ugly. Oh no!
I take a deep breath and think, what could I possibly be anxious about? Hmm…let me think. I have injured my back. That is certainly painful. It feels like it will take forever to heal. What else? Well, I did suffer a couple of miscarriages a few months ago. I am sorrowful about that. My marriage is, well, okay I have anxiety about that. Yep, I think that I have good reason to be anxious. In fact I have many good (not really good) reasons to be anxious.
All right, I am going with it. I am having this anxiety attack. I admit it! I am freaking out a little bit. Okay, more than just a little bit, I am freaking out a lot. I want to avoid thinking about these heartaches and obstacles. I want to believe that these sorrows just roll off this duck’s back.
Somehow I should be better at dealing with life’s uncertainties because I am a priest. Somehow I should continually feel a peace which passes all understanding at all times and in all places in the face of personal terrors. I should not be afraid, but I am afraid.
I feel anxious, frightened and alone. I feel like my life is a total disaster. I feel like a fool trying to pretend that my life is not a mess. But I thank God that I do feel because I would stink as a priest otherwise. I would stink as a person.
At times like this, I find myself surrounded by a great cloud of messy witnesses. I find out that those around me are struggling as well. Little by little, the walls we put around ourselves start dissolving. We see the individual hidden behind that wall, bruised but alive. He or she has been waiting, and waiting for a moment to emerge, to tell his or her sad story also, and to tell the truth. The tears tumble down, the breathing hitches, and the anxiety is gone.
Yes, I have reason to be anxious, but somehow by admitting it, I know it is going to be okay. The anxiety attack stops. I laugh a little realizing that maybe having an anxiety attack is okay. I can laugh. The anxiety is gone, for now, but it knows where to find me.
I start reassuring myself with thoughts like: “no, that is not an anxiety attack, you are just dying, now, try to do it quietly and before anyone sees you.” Too late, one of those overly caring individuals with too much time on his or her hands then tells me: “you look tired.” Aagh, that is much worse. I thought I was keeping my insanity to myself, but now I realize the anxiety is written across my face. This anxiety is making me look ugly. Oh no!
I take a deep breath and think, what could I possibly be anxious about? Hmm…let me think. I have injured my back. That is certainly painful. It feels like it will take forever to heal. What else? Well, I did suffer a couple of miscarriages a few months ago. I am sorrowful about that. My marriage is, well, okay I have anxiety about that. Yep, I think that I have good reason to be anxious. In fact I have many good (not really good) reasons to be anxious.
All right, I am going with it. I am having this anxiety attack. I admit it! I am freaking out a little bit. Okay, more than just a little bit, I am freaking out a lot. I want to avoid thinking about these heartaches and obstacles. I want to believe that these sorrows just roll off this duck’s back.
Somehow I should be better at dealing with life’s uncertainties because I am a priest. Somehow I should continually feel a peace which passes all understanding at all times and in all places in the face of personal terrors. I should not be afraid, but I am afraid.
I feel anxious, frightened and alone. I feel like my life is a total disaster. I feel like a fool trying to pretend that my life is not a mess. But I thank God that I do feel because I would stink as a priest otherwise. I would stink as a person.
At times like this, I find myself surrounded by a great cloud of messy witnesses. I find out that those around me are struggling as well. Little by little, the walls we put around ourselves start dissolving. We see the individual hidden behind that wall, bruised but alive. He or she has been waiting, and waiting for a moment to emerge, to tell his or her sad story also, and to tell the truth. The tears tumble down, the breathing hitches, and the anxiety is gone.
Yes, I have reason to be anxious, but somehow by admitting it, I know it is going to be okay. The anxiety attack stops. I laugh a little realizing that maybe having an anxiety attack is okay. I can laugh. The anxiety is gone, for now, but it knows where to find me.
What is sexy?
Mr. Darcy with next month's mortgage payment in one hand and a pint of Ben and Jerry's Phish Food in the other. Oh, and he's just come from a quick dip in the pond in front of his English estate. Swagger from a guy who has a regular therapist is sexy for me, but since I'm single and over 30, I might not be the best standard. Jesus had some sex appeal (okay, for those of you who are easily offended, that was the shot across the bow - stop reading now. It only gets worse). After all, the scene with the woman at the well has some nice undertones of sex. And the story of Ruth and Boaz is sexy. After all ladies, the feet is a Hebrew euphemism for the part of the male anatomy used for thought much of the time. When Ruth is uncovering Boaz's feet near the end of the story, she's not checking to see if his sheets are from Pottery Barn. Song of Songs is just one big sexy book. So why are we so afraid to read sex in the Bible? Or even humor? Isn't that like reading a shadow of who we are as humans, to leave out our laughter and our sexuality? So today, now, bring sexy back. Read the Bible.
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