One of us loves Good Friday; therefore, every sermon is really about Good Friday. Even Christmas. What fun. Several of us don't eat what we should or exercise enough. Clergy aren't big contenders to finish a marathon or a brisk walk around the block. A few of us have broken marriages, strained relationships with our children, or a nice big fear of relationships all together. We are competitive with each other over congregation size (mine is bigger than yours!); preaching; program ideas; and theories on the atonement. We are a motley crew of God's beloved who strangely mirror the vast imperfections of the rest of humanity. Go figure.
But we gathered together, as we do with some regularity, at our fall clergy conference. And after the evening programs, the initial, "How are you doing?" to those we haven't seen in a while, and the obligatory glass of questionable wine, some of us meandered our way down to the lakeside and started a fire in the outside fire pit. The usual suspects, the outrageous and wild children of this clergy family who are often more interested in laughter than being better than someone else.
And we reckless ones did what we do best: sat together and laughed. With each other. At each other. And loudly.
Soon, others joined us. Priests who openly welcomed gays and lesbians and women. Priests who probably don't want to admit the church has gays and lesbians and women. Clergy who voted Republican and those who voted Democrat and those who don't vote at all. Older ones hoping the formidable structures of the church hold together a few more years for their retirement and younger ones who know everything and talk endlessly about how, if people would just listen, they could save the church. Deacons and priests and even a bishop. The span of differences of the human family gathered around that fire.
In our differences, we laughed.
Laughter is God's favorite prayer, I think. That wonderful sound that comes from joy and love overflowing from our souls to join the songs of angels. Laughter reminds us that we are funny and beloved and silly and reckless and vulnerable, and all that is held in joy and love.
Some did not join us. Perhaps they didn't want to laugh with us. Perhaps they thought our time together would have been better spend discussing the Christology of the Gospel of John or the comparative pneumatology of Rite I versus Rite II. Some didn't even come to the conference. Perhaps they thought they had better things to do.
They didn't.
Because those evenings around the fire, we were together, reconciled by our laughter. We remembered we liked each other, we even loved each other. And if a group of clergy can remember that holy place, there is indeed hope for the world.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Friday, October 23, 2009
Joy
I wonder: what is joy? We have conferences about finding one’s joy. We are encouraged to do things “joyfully.” But what is joy?
We are unable to quantify joy. We do not have a clear definition. My little dictionary says: “gladness, pleasure.” But what does that mean? We know when we have joy. We know that feeling that wells up within us when our hearts open and our spirit sings within us. We certainly know when we lose our joy. Life seems to lose its luster. How do we get joy? Often we find ourselves blindly seeking after it, like it can be found or achieved like climbing Mount Everest. We think that one day it will be ours, forever.
I read an article in Newsweek recently about happiness. We often interchange happiness and joy, so I think that the article has something important for us to know. The article ended with a quotation from Eleanor Roosevelt. In effect she says that happiness is a byproduct. If your goal is just to go out and find happiness, you will embark on a fruitless journey. I agree with her.
Think of the time and energy that is wasted in looking for happiness or joy in someone’s arms, at the bottom of a bottle, or filling up space with stuff. We don’t feel joyful. We just feel empty and used. We use others in our mission to find happiness or joy, but what if joy is just a byproduct of love?
If joy is just a byproduct, maybe we need to seek after love. We must chase after and pursue love in all its glorious forms. Perhaps if our goal is to go out and find love, joy will be our companion (of course, usually joy’s buck toothed, boorish sister sorrow tags along too). We find love when we put ourselves out there, when we give our love (even knowing that it might get rejected). We freely offer our help to others. We smile at strangers. We listen to each other. We begin a journey to love, and joy comes too!
We are unable to quantify joy. We do not have a clear definition. My little dictionary says: “gladness, pleasure.” But what does that mean? We know when we have joy. We know that feeling that wells up within us when our hearts open and our spirit sings within us. We certainly know when we lose our joy. Life seems to lose its luster. How do we get joy? Often we find ourselves blindly seeking after it, like it can be found or achieved like climbing Mount Everest. We think that one day it will be ours, forever.
I read an article in Newsweek recently about happiness. We often interchange happiness and joy, so I think that the article has something important for us to know. The article ended with a quotation from Eleanor Roosevelt. In effect she says that happiness is a byproduct. If your goal is just to go out and find happiness, you will embark on a fruitless journey. I agree with her.
Think of the time and energy that is wasted in looking for happiness or joy in someone’s arms, at the bottom of a bottle, or filling up space with stuff. We don’t feel joyful. We just feel empty and used. We use others in our mission to find happiness or joy, but what if joy is just a byproduct of love?
If joy is just a byproduct, maybe we need to seek after love. We must chase after and pursue love in all its glorious forms. Perhaps if our goal is to go out and find love, joy will be our companion (of course, usually joy’s buck toothed, boorish sister sorrow tags along too). We find love when we put ourselves out there, when we give our love (even knowing that it might get rejected). We freely offer our help to others. We smile at strangers. We listen to each other. We begin a journey to love, and joy comes too!
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Litany of the Inquisitive
The Litany of the Inquisitive, most properly said in a public arena, preferably after an excruciatingly long day while the unwitting celebrant tries to finish her grocery shopping, traditionally begins with a furrowed brow, a slightly-opened mouth, then the words, “Are you a priest?” although another opening option includes, “Are you a nun?”
To which the strange woman in clergy apparel responds, “Yes, I’m a priest.”
The Litany continues with any number of appropriate responsorial sentences: I’ve never seen a girl priest; can you marry; can you date; are you Christian? All responses demand an answer, and the liturgical standard holds that the longer, more exhausting the priest’s day has been, the more inquisitive the litanist will be, thus adding substantially to the length of the Litany.
Or maybe I’m just a person who gets irritated when she’s tired and in no mood to delve into theological discussions while I’m buying lettuce and red bell peppers at the grocery store.
As an ordained woman in a highly Roman Catholic area of the country, my clerical garb invites odd looks and questions from those who just don’t know. They don’t know that for over thirty years, many of the mainstream Churches and Synagogues have ordained women; that we can date, at least in theory; and that we can marry. They don’t know that we bless, marry, baptize, and bury the children of God, just like the boy priests. They don’t know that we aren’t new and novel in the Church. Women were integral in the early Christian church, so when any woman is ordained, she is simply reclaiming a role stripped from us for centuries.
Perhaps, though, in their questions, they want to know. So they ask questions that are obvious and safe, instead of challenging the patriarchy of whatever faith they belong. They see something, or actually someone new and different, and inquire. Some people share their condescension at my role in the church, but most are simply intrigued, even happy to know I, with thousands of my sisters, exist and stand in pulpits and behind altars and pray beside hospital beds and in public gatherings all over the world.
Perhaps the Litany of the Inquisitive, like so many prayers, is God speaking to us through our own questions. Faith is always more about daring to ask the questions than sitting smugly within the answers that are probably wrong or at least mildly off-base. In the Gospels, many of Jesus’ teaching moments occur in response to questions, both genuine and surly. The hows, whos, and whys of life are the access into our deepest thoughts, fears, and doubts. Within our human desires, perhaps the deepest longing is to know. Not a sinful desire, mind you, unless we are so convinced that we know everything that we, in turn, dismiss what we do not know and strangle the mystery, ambiguity, and grace out of life.
So when we see something that we didn’t know existed, like Bigfoot or the first truly carbon-neutral car real people can afford or a clergy person who is a woman, humanity inquires.
And God says such inquiry is good and reminds me to be patient as the Litany is prayed in its fullness. God also tells me I can go up to a male priest one day and perform the Litany, just for laughs. After all, laughter is a prayer She always loves to hear.
To which the strange woman in clergy apparel responds, “Yes, I’m a priest.”
The Litany continues with any number of appropriate responsorial sentences: I’ve never seen a girl priest; can you marry; can you date; are you Christian? All responses demand an answer, and the liturgical standard holds that the longer, more exhausting the priest’s day has been, the more inquisitive the litanist will be, thus adding substantially to the length of the Litany.
Or maybe I’m just a person who gets irritated when she’s tired and in no mood to delve into theological discussions while I’m buying lettuce and red bell peppers at the grocery store.
As an ordained woman in a highly Roman Catholic area of the country, my clerical garb invites odd looks and questions from those who just don’t know. They don’t know that for over thirty years, many of the mainstream Churches and Synagogues have ordained women; that we can date, at least in theory; and that we can marry. They don’t know that we bless, marry, baptize, and bury the children of God, just like the boy priests. They don’t know that we aren’t new and novel in the Church. Women were integral in the early Christian church, so when any woman is ordained, she is simply reclaiming a role stripped from us for centuries.
Perhaps, though, in their questions, they want to know. So they ask questions that are obvious and safe, instead of challenging the patriarchy of whatever faith they belong. They see something, or actually someone new and different, and inquire. Some people share their condescension at my role in the church, but most are simply intrigued, even happy to know I, with thousands of my sisters, exist and stand in pulpits and behind altars and pray beside hospital beds and in public gatherings all over the world.
Perhaps the Litany of the Inquisitive, like so many prayers, is God speaking to us through our own questions. Faith is always more about daring to ask the questions than sitting smugly within the answers that are probably wrong or at least mildly off-base. In the Gospels, many of Jesus’ teaching moments occur in response to questions, both genuine and surly. The hows, whos, and whys of life are the access into our deepest thoughts, fears, and doubts. Within our human desires, perhaps the deepest longing is to know. Not a sinful desire, mind you, unless we are so convinced that we know everything that we, in turn, dismiss what we do not know and strangle the mystery, ambiguity, and grace out of life.
So when we see something that we didn’t know existed, like Bigfoot or the first truly carbon-neutral car real people can afford or a clergy person who is a woman, humanity inquires.
And God says such inquiry is good and reminds me to be patient as the Litany is prayed in its fullness. God also tells me I can go up to a male priest one day and perform the Litany, just for laughs. After all, laughter is a prayer She always loves to hear.
Monday, October 5, 2009
My name in your mouth
Okay, it's not as dirty and sexy as you might think. Not this time, anyway. But it is from a quote about what love is. A quote from a child, at that. Love is when my name feels safe in your mouth.
Because we all know the feeling when our names don't feel safe in someone's mouth (or email, as I discovered this morning). When you hear your name, and a part of your soul, that very tender, fragile part, quakes because you are certain this person will criticize you, dimish you, or otherwise bruise part of your soul. The times when you hear a presumably reasonable comment regarding a project or a performance or an answer to a question, but what you really hear is, "Your name here, you are unworthy and I don't care about you."
Which is how I read the one-word response to my emailed question this morning. Not as an answer, but as a statement that I was unworthy of a kinder response or that my question was bothersome, even that I was bothersome. I don't even have to hear my name to feel unsafe. The terse response to my email question didn't feel safe.
You may be thinking words right now like overly sensitive or over-reaction, and you'd be right. We humans are a complicated and complex blend of emotions, and when we are hurt emotionally, our brain interprets those injuries just as if we've been hurt physically. Only problem? We get treated for broken bones. We let broken parts of our souls stay broken. We may decide to use boundaries to wall off the injured parts of us. But someone always gets through those walls to find our ancient soul injuries, those gashes and cuts to our dignity, our very worth, that have never completely healed. These deep soul wounds cause us to react strongly to a comment, a look, even an email that pushes on the tender spots. We suddenly feel unsafe. Unloved. Unworthy.
So what do we do? We name our hurts, the events that happen that make us feel unsafe. Many times simply recognizing that our pain is genuine and real offers us healing. We may even find the courage to talk with the one who wounded us. And when we're the perpetrators (and we all are), we accept our fault. We pray, and we remember that we are loved, beloved, and loved even more by God and by many around us.
So what do I do? I deleted the email and called a friend to talk. My name feels safe in her mouth. And for that I am thankful.
Because we all know the feeling when our names don't feel safe in someone's mouth (or email, as I discovered this morning). When you hear your name, and a part of your soul, that very tender, fragile part, quakes because you are certain this person will criticize you, dimish you, or otherwise bruise part of your soul. The times when you hear a presumably reasonable comment regarding a project or a performance or an answer to a question, but what you really hear is, "Your name here, you are unworthy and I don't care about you."
Which is how I read the one-word response to my emailed question this morning. Not as an answer, but as a statement that I was unworthy of a kinder response or that my question was bothersome, even that I was bothersome. I don't even have to hear my name to feel unsafe. The terse response to my email question didn't feel safe.
You may be thinking words right now like overly sensitive or over-reaction, and you'd be right. We humans are a complicated and complex blend of emotions, and when we are hurt emotionally, our brain interprets those injuries just as if we've been hurt physically. Only problem? We get treated for broken bones. We let broken parts of our souls stay broken. We may decide to use boundaries to wall off the injured parts of us. But someone always gets through those walls to find our ancient soul injuries, those gashes and cuts to our dignity, our very worth, that have never completely healed. These deep soul wounds cause us to react strongly to a comment, a look, even an email that pushes on the tender spots. We suddenly feel unsafe. Unloved. Unworthy.
So what do we do? We name our hurts, the events that happen that make us feel unsafe. Many times simply recognizing that our pain is genuine and real offers us healing. We may even find the courage to talk with the one who wounded us. And when we're the perpetrators (and we all are), we accept our fault. We pray, and we remember that we are loved, beloved, and loved even more by God and by many around us.
So what do I do? I deleted the email and called a friend to talk. My name feels safe in her mouth. And for that I am thankful.
Friday, October 2, 2009
A priest and a platypus walk into a bar...
I swear that I try to be normal. I drive a non-descript piece of questionable automotive stuff. I live in a little house on a side street. In my free time, I like to read novels, watch movies, go out to eat, etc. I watch television. I try to exercise everyday. I even eat vegetables.
I try not to stick out. I speak with even tones. I don’t lose my temper. I am not prone to crying fits. I am cordial and humorous. I brush my hair. I take showers. I brush my teeth. I joined the Junior League (I have a membership card to prove it).
And yet, I am not normal, am I? I believe that a 2000 year old Hebrew man, who wandered around Palestine with a bunch of other men, chit chatting with weirdos, healing the sick, died and rose from the dead, is indeed the Son of God and God. I look for this man in other people and in my life. I believe that a mysterious Spirit moves in the world. It, too, is God.
I try to follow what this man said and how he lived. I believe that I can hear the “Lord” speaking to me in my life. I see miracles. I believe that life has a purpose, and that there exists a world beyond this world. I think that in my body is a soul. I lead worship where angels and men come together to kneel before the Almighty. Heaven is elsewhere and here. I pray, and I believe that someone is listening.
Yep, I would say that this is odd. I want to make my faith, what I believe, what I hope to live seem everyday, normal or ordinary. I don’t want people to think that I am crazy. I don’t want to stick out, but I do. I have to stick out.
Being a priest, being a follower of Christ makes you stick out. I used to feel uncomfortable going into a restaurant or bar with my collar on because inevitably it led to weird looks or strange comments. But then again, I am weird and strange. If a platypus walked into a restaurant or bar with a collar on, I would have to give her a weird look or make a strange comment too. People recognize that faith, and those who work in the faith realm, is something totally other. You do not see this sort of stuff everyday.
Faith is unusual. Faith is uncomfortable. We talk about what cannot be seen nor heard, but it can be felt. We walk on the edge of this world and an unseen world. There is no proof.
Try as I might to fit in. Try as I might for my life to be normal or ordinary, it is not. A life of faith is extraordinary and outrageous. Faith leads us away from what is always to what could be, a life of possibilities and impossibilities.
I try not to stick out. I speak with even tones. I don’t lose my temper. I am not prone to crying fits. I am cordial and humorous. I brush my hair. I take showers. I brush my teeth. I joined the Junior League (I have a membership card to prove it).
And yet, I am not normal, am I? I believe that a 2000 year old Hebrew man, who wandered around Palestine with a bunch of other men, chit chatting with weirdos, healing the sick, died and rose from the dead, is indeed the Son of God and God. I look for this man in other people and in my life. I believe that a mysterious Spirit moves in the world. It, too, is God.
I try to follow what this man said and how he lived. I believe that I can hear the “Lord” speaking to me in my life. I see miracles. I believe that life has a purpose, and that there exists a world beyond this world. I think that in my body is a soul. I lead worship where angels and men come together to kneel before the Almighty. Heaven is elsewhere and here. I pray, and I believe that someone is listening.
Yep, I would say that this is odd. I want to make my faith, what I believe, what I hope to live seem everyday, normal or ordinary. I don’t want people to think that I am crazy. I don’t want to stick out, but I do. I have to stick out.
Being a priest, being a follower of Christ makes you stick out. I used to feel uncomfortable going into a restaurant or bar with my collar on because inevitably it led to weird looks or strange comments. But then again, I am weird and strange. If a platypus walked into a restaurant or bar with a collar on, I would have to give her a weird look or make a strange comment too. People recognize that faith, and those who work in the faith realm, is something totally other. You do not see this sort of stuff everyday.
Faith is unusual. Faith is uncomfortable. We talk about what cannot be seen nor heard, but it can be felt. We walk on the edge of this world and an unseen world. There is no proof.
Try as I might to fit in. Try as I might for my life to be normal or ordinary, it is not. A life of faith is extraordinary and outrageous. Faith leads us away from what is always to what could be, a life of possibilities and impossibilities.
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