So here's a point of order: Love your neighbor does not mean be a doormat. The full commandment is love God, love your neighbor, and love yourself. Life is about balancing that trifecta. We don't love our neighbor by constantly subjecting ourselves to our neighbor's hurtful behavior towards us. We are simply engaged in the emotional equivalent of constantly poking ourselves in the eye when we do that.
Love is about care and nurture. We too often limit love to being some kind of friendship, like loving our neighbor means we have to invite our neighbor, the one who repeatedly has knocked us down the stairs, to dinner, even if we're afraid during the entire meal that s/he's going to throw Brussel sprouts at us and call us names. That isn't loving ourselves, and it's not really loving our neighbor.
When did we forget that sometimes love is best done at a distance? That love can be drawing very sturdy boundaries with some particular people in our lives that are nice and clear? I can love a person who has hurt me AND love myself by saying, "You can't play in my sandbox anymore," or (in a close friend's parlance) "Go with God, but go." I don't have to wish his face turn purple or pray she has bad hair for the rest of her life (although admitting our anger is often part of the journey of reframing our love for someone who has hurt us). I can lovingly pray for those who have hurt me in a journey of forgiveness; I can love them as God commanded; I can love myself. It's not a choice of which one, but the wisdom and willingness to do all three in a healthy way.
So who are these people that might need an eviction from our sandboxes? Some of our thoughts (based on our experiences - your experiences may be different):
+People who constantly give you an inventory of your flaws and shortcomings, while never reflecting on their own. We are not saying that you should avoid people who tell you some hard truths about yourself. In fact, honor and nurture those relationships - as long as they are mutual. We're talking about those people who constantly assault you with unsolicited advice, like, "Wow, those pants look tight. Have you gained weight? And your sermon Sunday was boring, too." And those are the whole of the conversation. We have women's magazines and make-over shows to make us feel badly about ourselves. We don't need BFF's for that.
+People who pursue a romantic relationship with you while still dating someone else, while married to someone else, or while having weird, quasi-romantic relationships with others. Men and women who do this have deep, dark stuff going on that a professional therapist needs to address, not you. Stay away. When they start the grand explanation, after you've discovered the pictures on their Facebook page, the emails/phone calls to the other women/men, or whatever proof you've discovered that causes you concern, remember that honest people don't need to explain away things like this. Oh, and when you end things and they still want to be "friends," trust that they will be as dark and hurtful as a friend. So, stay away from that, too.
+People who disregard your boundaries. Our ears should prick when we tell someone, "(This act, comment, etc.) makes me feel uncomfortable," and the reply is, "Well, that's your problem." No, it isn't. Every balanced relationship has boundaries, and when someone ignores yours, there is a high probability for an emotionally damaging relationship. Balanced relationships, loving relationships - professional, romantic, and otherwise - honor various boundaries and various levels of comfort.
+Those whose behavior is abusive. Physical abuse is often (but not always) easier to spot, but emotional bullying and sexual harassment are also abuse. As a note, sexual harassment includes working in an environment where the comments and/or atmosphere is sexually hostile. Abuse is not loving. And being victimized by abuse is not loving ourselves. As an aside, if you see this kind of abuse and say nothing, that isn't loving, either. Silence only helps the abuser, and too often, the victim isn't in a position to defend herself/himself.
+Those who engage in character assassination. Constantly. And meanly. Our experience is that people who talk smack about others with you will talk smack about you with others. Particularly when the friendship is strained (as all friendships will be eventually). Those relationships worth energy are those that, when the strain and unrest comes, you talk to each other about the problems, not tear each other down with others.
So who did we not put on this not-inclusive list? Those who vote differently from us; those who disagree with us or have another viewpoint; those who are a different ethnicity, religion, race, or sexual orientation; even those who worship differently from us. None of the examples we listed can be seen in the first moments of a relationship. We might be lucky to hear someone else's experience with a person that gives us the heads-up about certain behaviors (and when someone has had one of these experiences with a person, pay attention). Usually, however, we just have to spend time with someone to discover how loving them and ourselves will look. Some people we meet with an initial negative first impressions become life-long friends. Some people that seem like wonderful additions to our life turn out to be segue ways to hard lessons we need to learn in hurt and disappointment.
Temptation may invite us to give proper names to these examples, as if we are always the ones who have been wronged. But loving ourselves also means seeing ourselves fully for who we are - shadow and light, goodness and evil. Perhaps another reading of the qualities of those who need to be loved with strict boundaries will engage us to see how we are also on the giving end of hurt and pain. We may have been the person who didn't hear someone's discomfort with our repeated behavior in a relationship. What was merely "joking" to one may be bullying to others. What was "processing" to a co-worker may really have been experienced as character assassination. What was an innocent flirtation to us may have been a violation of vows to the other party. Oh yes, we are also the wounder. But love gives us courage to see the darker parts of ourselves, our capabilities for damage to others, and, in the same act, damage to ourselves. That loving act of taking our own inventories, of hearing why another cannot be in relationship with us because of our acts, may stop future wrecks. Owning our mistakes allows love to transform them into lessons that needed to be learned.
This holy love is unsafe and reckless. It is not for the faint-hearted. Loving as God commands takes courage and honesty and willingness to grow, change, and learn from our successes and mistakes, but mostly from our mistakes.
So be of good courage, and love God, love your neighbor, and love yourself. All three. In one.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Friday, September 23, 2011
Cool Priest Moments
My nephew thinks I have a remarkably cool job. As in, after seeing the box of yet-interred ashes on a shelf in my office and the church playground that is easily accessible from my rectory, he exclaimed, "How do you GET a job like this!?!"
He is eight, but he's right. Far too often, clergy deal with the unseemly side of humanity: the acting out of fearful congregants; the bullying that is part of every system, even the church; people in the midst of dark and depressing events that pull at the part of us that so desperately wants to make it better, but our wiser side realizes all we can usually do is sit with them in that place. Oh yes, we are there in that place very often.
But we do get to do a hefty amount of amazingly cool stuff. Much of it, at least for me, is witnessed only by God and the people involved, and that's the way it should be in holy ministry. But there are some things that are banner-worthy. So, church playground in the backyard aside, here are a few of my cool priest moments that I hope resonate with many of you on this first day of fall.
1. Hearing the speaker for a Diocesan event wants to meet you because of the DirtySexyMinistry blog. And that our moms and the COO of the Episcopal church read the blog, too. Face it, we're still amazed anyone reads it for sustenance and not for ammunition.
2. Being part of a faith community that baptizes. And not dropping the baby. I don't baptize. We as a community baptize. However, someone is authorized by the liturgy to do the actual pouring of the holy water. It's an amazing privilege and moment of humility to be entrusted by the Church to be part of this sacred event. And even moreso that I've not dropped an infant into the font. There is still time, however.
3. That one of the active patriarchs of the parish who is retired and a wonderful part of the community knows who P!NK is and knows her music. Maybe he can even sing along, but that may be pushing things. Oh, and that I got one of her songs played at diocesan convention, which led to another priest's matriarch asking, "Did she say, 'panty snatcher' in that song?" Awe-some.
4. Sitting quietly in the church late one night after a particularly long day and feeling the joyful truth of naming St. Michael's as the parish I serve (as opposed to "my parish," another phrase I hear from priests that makes me bristle). I hope every clergy person regularly sits alone in the church with God simply to feel that reality of servant ministry in their bones. I get chills. And it tickles.
5. Ditching the closed-toe sensible black shoes at the altar. A pair of turquoise suede sling backs were my first act of rebellion several years ago. I'm quite sure God is more concerned about the humility and love in our hearts and souls than appropriate footwear. I'm also betting that God is all about fabulous. So, snakeskin pumps and jeweled sling backs it will be.
6. Hearing, "You're cool...for a priest." And realizing it's not that much of a compliment. I mean, by and large, we are not a cool and hip bunch of people in many ways. The bar for cool clergy is pretty low. But enjoying it, anyway.
7. Being an extra in a couple of television shows and movies, because I "played" a priest in the part.
8. Having John, who was a regular transient in Mobile, Alabama, know me by name. And meeting the guy who played the President on "24." Only certain vocations give you the occasion to meet that wide of a swath of humanity in a short period of time.
9. Flubbing the lines in the canon of the Mass or singing the Mass in a setting known only to God and me, getting a terrible case of the giggles during the service, breaking a chalice, knocking over the altar flowers, or any number of epic fails that remind me that I am far away from perfect. And realizing that God is praised, anyway.
10. Getting caught by the Altar Guild dancing to Beyonce one Saturday when I was working at the parish. "Cool moment" may be a stretch, particularly for the women who saw me dropping it like it's hot. As I stood there in my terrible embarrassed, one of the ladies said, "Well, it's nice to know you're just a regular person." Yes, indeed.
He is eight, but he's right. Far too often, clergy deal with the unseemly side of humanity: the acting out of fearful congregants; the bullying that is part of every system, even the church; people in the midst of dark and depressing events that pull at the part of us that so desperately wants to make it better, but our wiser side realizes all we can usually do is sit with them in that place. Oh yes, we are there in that place very often.
But we do get to do a hefty amount of amazingly cool stuff. Much of it, at least for me, is witnessed only by God and the people involved, and that's the way it should be in holy ministry. But there are some things that are banner-worthy. So, church playground in the backyard aside, here are a few of my cool priest moments that I hope resonate with many of you on this first day of fall.
1. Hearing the speaker for a Diocesan event wants to meet you because of the DirtySexyMinistry blog. And that our moms and the COO of the Episcopal church read the blog, too. Face it, we're still amazed anyone reads it for sustenance and not for ammunition.
2. Being part of a faith community that baptizes. And not dropping the baby. I don't baptize. We as a community baptize. However, someone is authorized by the liturgy to do the actual pouring of the holy water. It's an amazing privilege and moment of humility to be entrusted by the Church to be part of this sacred event. And even moreso that I've not dropped an infant into the font. There is still time, however.
3. That one of the active patriarchs of the parish who is retired and a wonderful part of the community knows who P!NK is and knows her music. Maybe he can even sing along, but that may be pushing things. Oh, and that I got one of her songs played at diocesan convention, which led to another priest's matriarch asking, "Did she say, 'panty snatcher' in that song?" Awe-some.
4. Sitting quietly in the church late one night after a particularly long day and feeling the joyful truth of naming St. Michael's as the parish I serve (as opposed to "my parish," another phrase I hear from priests that makes me bristle). I hope every clergy person regularly sits alone in the church with God simply to feel that reality of servant ministry in their bones. I get chills. And it tickles.
5. Ditching the closed-toe sensible black shoes at the altar. A pair of turquoise suede sling backs were my first act of rebellion several years ago. I'm quite sure God is more concerned about the humility and love in our hearts and souls than appropriate footwear. I'm also betting that God is all about fabulous. So, snakeskin pumps and jeweled sling backs it will be.
6. Hearing, "You're cool...for a priest." And realizing it's not that much of a compliment. I mean, by and large, we are not a cool and hip bunch of people in many ways. The bar for cool clergy is pretty low. But enjoying it, anyway.
7. Being an extra in a couple of television shows and movies, because I "played" a priest in the part.
8. Having John, who was a regular transient in Mobile, Alabama, know me by name. And meeting the guy who played the President on "24." Only certain vocations give you the occasion to meet that wide of a swath of humanity in a short period of time.
9. Flubbing the lines in the canon of the Mass or singing the Mass in a setting known only to God and me, getting a terrible case of the giggles during the service, breaking a chalice, knocking over the altar flowers, or any number of epic fails that remind me that I am far away from perfect. And realizing that God is praised, anyway.
10. Getting caught by the Altar Guild dancing to Beyonce one Saturday when I was working at the parish. "Cool moment" may be a stretch, particularly for the women who saw me dropping it like it's hot. As I stood there in my terrible embarrassed, one of the ladies said, "Well, it's nice to know you're just a regular person." Yes, indeed.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Growing (or groaning) Up
I don't know about you, but growing up just snuck up on me. I was happily minding my own business, wearing my snakeskin mini skirt, eating Doritos like they were going out of style, and then BAM! I became a grown up. I would find myself talking about how important going to bed early was. I marvelled at how wonderful it was to get so much done before 10 AM. My beloved junk food gave me stomach aches, and leafy greens and fiber became really, really important to me.
Yep, somewhere between graduating from college and now, it began to happen. I have a muffin top and a permanent crease between my eyes. Paying my taxes and bills on time, with cash left over, makes me really proud of myself. A good meal no longer means that the restaurant has unlimited refills on Dr. Pepper.
Of course, this does not mean that I no longer have fun, but I think, as a grown up, I am discovering what true fun and enjoyment really is. I like walking, talking for hours with friends over dinner or coffee. I love reading those Iris Johannsen novels. I also love the self confidence that has come.
Not a self confidence built on blind ego, but experiences of success and failure. It is amazing how your confidence grows when you can achieve something. I remember moments when I realized I was actually capable of leading a group, speaking in front of people, and helping others. These moments generally came after realizing what I was not capable of (that list is confidential). Those failures and heartbreaks helped me along, teaching me what I needed to do to cope with those shortcomings, and when you call an accountant or plumber or doctor...
So, when did you know that you grew up?
Yep, somewhere between graduating from college and now, it began to happen. I have a muffin top and a permanent crease between my eyes. Paying my taxes and bills on time, with cash left over, makes me really proud of myself. A good meal no longer means that the restaurant has unlimited refills on Dr. Pepper.
Of course, this does not mean that I no longer have fun, but I think, as a grown up, I am discovering what true fun and enjoyment really is. I like walking, talking for hours with friends over dinner or coffee. I love reading those Iris Johannsen novels. I also love the self confidence that has come.
Not a self confidence built on blind ego, but experiences of success and failure. It is amazing how your confidence grows when you can achieve something. I remember moments when I realized I was actually capable of leading a group, speaking in front of people, and helping others. These moments generally came after realizing what I was not capable of (that list is confidential). Those failures and heartbreaks helped me along, teaching me what I needed to do to cope with those shortcomings, and when you call an accountant or plumber or doctor...
So, when did you know that you grew up?
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Apology 101
Here's a news flash: we all make mistakes. We all do and say things about others or to others that hurt and injure another person. Some of these are minor infractions, quickly resolved and sent into relational history. Other acts do significant damage to a relationship and heal at a glacial pace.
We as Christians are called to forgiveness, which includes both attributes of confession and reconciliation. Reconciliation is the sexy part of that ministry, where we revel in the moment where, "it's all okay, " even when it may only be okay on the very surface because we've rushed to paint a patina of good will and friendship over the deep wounds of hurt while paying very little attention to the hurtful acts.
Confession is the not-so-much-fun part, where we have to admit the wounds, ours and the ones we have inflicted upon others. Confession is the dirty part of forgiveness. Confession requires us to delve into the brokenness of our own souls and the impact that brokenness has upon others. We are astoundingly good at confessing other's imperfections, telling others how they have hurt us, telling others what they have done to injure us. Yet confession also requires that we listen to how we've hurt others. Confession holds within it the question, "How have I hurt you?". Obviously, not something most of us want to hear on a Friday evening, but God never calls us to the path of least resistance. Rats.
In our usual Dirty Sexy Ministry way, some thoughts on how we can walk that path of apology and confession.
1. Be courageous and willing to ask and hear how you've hurt someone. Even if your voice shakes as you ask the question, even if you're frightened about what you may hear (although most of us usually have some broad idea of what we've done when a relationship is damaged - we're usually not THAT surprised, unless the surprise is that the other person knows what we did), if you want fully to engage in confession and reconciliation, begin the conversation.
2. Listen to the pain of another to listen, not to craft your counter-arguments. In worthwhile relationships, both parties get to speak of their joy and pain. If you find yourself listening to all the bad you've done, and how it's all your fault, but never her/his, this may not be a person who needs your full energy. On the other hand, if you feel compelled to list the other's faults and shortcomings without giving equal time to them speaking of yours, you may need to spend less time with your own ego. Jesus gets to be perfect; the rest of us fall short of the glory of God.
3. Actually be sorry for what you've done. If you're not, or if you experience the person being angry for something that doesn't resonate with you, keep talking. Usually, when lots of hurt has gone unspoken, we fall into the scorekeeping mode of hurt, where simply breathing incorrectly becomes fertile ground for injurious action. Thus, listen and keep listening.
4. Never, ever say, "I'm sorry for whatever I've done," when you aren't willing to hear or talk about what you've done. This is the burka of apologies. It's a blanket covering for the wrong-doing, but it completely ignores the substance of what needs to be discussed. And it silences the other's pain.
5. And, "I'm sorry for what you think I did to hurt you," is #4's trashier cousin. It's not even an apology.
6. Confession and reconciliation needs to be on equal footing. Both parties (or all parties) need to be assured of the egalitarianism of the process of confession. This may not be such a factor in issues between friends or some spouses/partners, it does become an issue with work situations, congregational issues, and other systemic wounds. When there is a discrepancy in the relationship because one person (or group) is in a more powerful position that the other, the less-powerful person needs some sense of protection. Perhaps a neutral third-party, perhaps a covenant of courtesy to which all people agree, perhaps even simply sitting in a neutral space. While this may sound odd, my experience is the person in less power will often capitulate just to stay safe, which provides more breeding ground for resentment and her rowdy friends deep-seated anger and victimization when a person or group feels they had to apologize and while their pain, hurts, and disappointments were never addressed.
7. Give time her due. While, "I'm sorry I borrowed your blouse and got ink on it and ruined it," may be something that can be confessed and reconciled over coffee, "I'm sorry I borrowed your husband and had an affair, " is probably something that needs a great deal of time to be fully confessed and reconciled. For the big stuff, don't think that it's all said and done in the course of a few moments and a latte afterwards. While the healing time of reconciliation may be awkward and uncomfortable, allow it to be holy and liminal space where God is working.
8. Recognize that confession is not about making YOU feel better or getting YOUR way. Confessing our damage to the relationship is about honesty and transparency and vulnerability. We should be a bit nervous and awkward about the process. Confession is a mark of opening our selves and souls and wounds to God for healing which, for most of us, is a bit painful for our own souls.
9. Recognize reconciliation is not something either party does alone, but something we offer to God. The Presiding Bishop made a statement recently along the lines of not being able to forgive with hate in our hearts. Depending on the damage, some anger and hate takes time for God to unknot and salve. Deep wounds take time to heal, and sometimes healing is not, "Hey, it's all okay and we're friends again." Mystery has a big part of reconciliation. Don't make this an academic exercise.
10. Engage the Sacrament of Reconciliation in the Book of Common Prayer. Maybe you're a bit too nervous actually to make confession to a priest, but even reading the liturgy alone and naming your sins aloud to God is a worthwhile act of apology.
We as Christians are called to forgiveness, which includes both attributes of confession and reconciliation. Reconciliation is the sexy part of that ministry, where we revel in the moment where, "it's all okay, " even when it may only be okay on the very surface because we've rushed to paint a patina of good will and friendship over the deep wounds of hurt while paying very little attention to the hurtful acts.
Confession is the not-so-much-fun part, where we have to admit the wounds, ours and the ones we have inflicted upon others. Confession is the dirty part of forgiveness. Confession requires us to delve into the brokenness of our own souls and the impact that brokenness has upon others. We are astoundingly good at confessing other's imperfections, telling others how they have hurt us, telling others what they have done to injure us. Yet confession also requires that we listen to how we've hurt others. Confession holds within it the question, "How have I hurt you?". Obviously, not something most of us want to hear on a Friday evening, but God never calls us to the path of least resistance. Rats.
In our usual Dirty Sexy Ministry way, some thoughts on how we can walk that path of apology and confession.
1. Be courageous and willing to ask and hear how you've hurt someone. Even if your voice shakes as you ask the question, even if you're frightened about what you may hear (although most of us usually have some broad idea of what we've done when a relationship is damaged - we're usually not THAT surprised, unless the surprise is that the other person knows what we did), if you want fully to engage in confession and reconciliation, begin the conversation.
2. Listen to the pain of another to listen, not to craft your counter-arguments. In worthwhile relationships, both parties get to speak of their joy and pain. If you find yourself listening to all the bad you've done, and how it's all your fault, but never her/his, this may not be a person who needs your full energy. On the other hand, if you feel compelled to list the other's faults and shortcomings without giving equal time to them speaking of yours, you may need to spend less time with your own ego. Jesus gets to be perfect; the rest of us fall short of the glory of God.
3. Actually be sorry for what you've done. If you're not, or if you experience the person being angry for something that doesn't resonate with you, keep talking. Usually, when lots of hurt has gone unspoken, we fall into the scorekeeping mode of hurt, where simply breathing incorrectly becomes fertile ground for injurious action. Thus, listen and keep listening.
4. Never, ever say, "I'm sorry for whatever I've done," when you aren't willing to hear or talk about what you've done. This is the burka of apologies. It's a blanket covering for the wrong-doing, but it completely ignores the substance of what needs to be discussed. And it silences the other's pain.
5. And, "I'm sorry for what you think I did to hurt you," is #4's trashier cousin. It's not even an apology.
6. Confession and reconciliation needs to be on equal footing. Both parties (or all parties) need to be assured of the egalitarianism of the process of confession. This may not be such a factor in issues between friends or some spouses/partners, it does become an issue with work situations, congregational issues, and other systemic wounds. When there is a discrepancy in the relationship because one person (or group) is in a more powerful position that the other, the less-powerful person needs some sense of protection. Perhaps a neutral third-party, perhaps a covenant of courtesy to which all people agree, perhaps even simply sitting in a neutral space. While this may sound odd, my experience is the person in less power will often capitulate just to stay safe, which provides more breeding ground for resentment and her rowdy friends deep-seated anger and victimization when a person or group feels they had to apologize and while their pain, hurts, and disappointments were never addressed.
7. Give time her due. While, "I'm sorry I borrowed your blouse and got ink on it and ruined it," may be something that can be confessed and reconciled over coffee, "I'm sorry I borrowed your husband and had an affair, " is probably something that needs a great deal of time to be fully confessed and reconciled. For the big stuff, don't think that it's all said and done in the course of a few moments and a latte afterwards. While the healing time of reconciliation may be awkward and uncomfortable, allow it to be holy and liminal space where God is working.
8. Recognize that confession is not about making YOU feel better or getting YOUR way. Confessing our damage to the relationship is about honesty and transparency and vulnerability. We should be a bit nervous and awkward about the process. Confession is a mark of opening our selves and souls and wounds to God for healing which, for most of us, is a bit painful for our own souls.
9. Recognize reconciliation is not something either party does alone, but something we offer to God. The Presiding Bishop made a statement recently along the lines of not being able to forgive with hate in our hearts. Depending on the damage, some anger and hate takes time for God to unknot and salve. Deep wounds take time to heal, and sometimes healing is not, "Hey, it's all okay and we're friends again." Mystery has a big part of reconciliation. Don't make this an academic exercise.
10. Engage the Sacrament of Reconciliation in the Book of Common Prayer. Maybe you're a bit too nervous actually to make confession to a priest, but even reading the liturgy alone and naming your sins aloud to God is a worthwhile act of apology.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Thoughts on September 11th
Some of our readers may know. Others not. But one of us was impacted by Katrina is a particular way, and the other was in New York on the day of September 11, 2001 and worked at Ground Zero for several months after. I wondered and prayed and discussed with friends about what I should write, if I should write, and why I might write. Maybe I should just let the day slip silently away. That would be easier. But dirty ministry is rarely about ease. So why start now.
The coverage of the tenth anniversary has ranged from well-done to tawdry, sometimes during the same interview. I have not and will not watch or listen to most of it, which means I am currently suffering from NPR withdrawal this week. It is, I realize, a small inconvenience. I have been asked to walk with the representatives of the first responders and others who ministered through their vocation and presence at Ground Zero at our Service of Remembrance and Hope at the Cathedral. I'm still thinking about whether or not to agree. As one friend said, "You are not a shrinking violet, so I respect the sacredness of the moments when you want to be anonymous."
Commentators offer their opinions on what 9/11 meant to us. Certainly loss and grief. A loss of feeling safe and in control. A loss of imagined protection. And the grief that stalks us and claws at us as a result. For many, they will feel grief and cry over an image of the broken towers when they cannot bring themselves to cry over their personal losses and brokenness. I've wondered why.
Grief, I've come to understand, is something we mature into. Children and teenagers do not experience grief the way some adults do, nor should they. Some adults never move past their childhood understanding of grief, unfortunately to their own pain and injury, I fear. Grief is troubling to us for obvious reasons, but I wonder if the most challenging aspect is its bipolar existence that never truly goes away. Grief will sob at the loss of a close friend one moment and laugh through the snot and tears the next. She rests quietly for months, even years, and then is stirred from her slumber at the sight of a particular sunset or the sound of a musical refrain or the tenor of a pitch of laughter. Grief is that profound starkness of standing feet from the imprint of the towers, thinking this is certainly what the seventh circle of hell must look like, and laughing with firefighters over truly raunchy jokes an hour later. Grief hits all cylinders of our humanity.
Grief in my mind, is Wisdom, that She who sits on the throne in heaven, of whom we hear about in Holy Scripture and mystic writings. Wisdom grieves. Wisdom realizes the pain of loss, the hurt of wounds, and the absence of something that was once there. Wisdom does that in her messy, elegant way. Ignorance pretends, "It's all okay," and busies itself with moving on. Ignorance never ever wants to be reminded of the wisdom of grief, and will often point to grief as if it is a sign of weakness, of illness, or of something bad. Lamentable, really, since ignorance is simply trying to hide from the wisdom of the depth of love and loss, something that has never seemed possible over the length of one's days.
For all the things I feel about September 11th, 2001, I think it is the day Wisdom, in her grief, sought me and held me tight. I wanted to break free then, but knew that was not possible. I often think I didn't want to know the insight and gifts she gave me that day or on days and years since. Life might be easier without them. I wonder if I could have learned how to stand in the seventh circle of hell without her help, and I know I could not. Because of Wisdom in her grief, I laugh more deeply, and cry just as deeply. My courage in the midst of things unknown is greater. Dropping off into the great deep with God is still scary, but I have made the journey before and will again (much to my displeasure). She and I sit together in silence at times, remembering the losses, and then Wisdom suggests I've remembered enough, so now I should get the chocolate ice cream and watch Pride and Prejudice. Again.
Details of my grief, my memories, even my laughter over the raunchy jokes of all that was and is and shall be Ground Zero are not important to many. They are important to me and to the few I trust with them. They are simply details, tiny stitches of thread in a bigger tapestry. Somewhere in these days, I hope I find the voice to nod at Wisdom for appearing that day. Perhaps not a thank you. I'm not sure gratitude for particular wounds is wholly possible. We can appreciate the wisdom and insight from the journey and experience of grief and woundedness and still wish we could have taken the correspondance course instead.
The Service at Christ Church Cathedral in Lexington has the representatives of those who served at Ground Zero processing with candles and placing them in front of the altar. I've been guarded because I simply haven't been sure about how I will be feeling on that day at that time. But Wisdom has taught me that where we are is often where we need to be, spiritually and otherwise. Perhaps part of my remembrance will be placing that light at the altar as an acknowledgment of Wisdom's presence that day and days since, and a realization and guarded appreciation for the way her light shone through the cracks in this life as I offer my imperfect self in ministry.
The coverage of the tenth anniversary has ranged from well-done to tawdry, sometimes during the same interview. I have not and will not watch or listen to most of it, which means I am currently suffering from NPR withdrawal this week. It is, I realize, a small inconvenience. I have been asked to walk with the representatives of the first responders and others who ministered through their vocation and presence at Ground Zero at our Service of Remembrance and Hope at the Cathedral. I'm still thinking about whether or not to agree. As one friend said, "You are not a shrinking violet, so I respect the sacredness of the moments when you want to be anonymous."
Commentators offer their opinions on what 9/11 meant to us. Certainly loss and grief. A loss of feeling safe and in control. A loss of imagined protection. And the grief that stalks us and claws at us as a result. For many, they will feel grief and cry over an image of the broken towers when they cannot bring themselves to cry over their personal losses and brokenness. I've wondered why.
Grief, I've come to understand, is something we mature into. Children and teenagers do not experience grief the way some adults do, nor should they. Some adults never move past their childhood understanding of grief, unfortunately to their own pain and injury, I fear. Grief is troubling to us for obvious reasons, but I wonder if the most challenging aspect is its bipolar existence that never truly goes away. Grief will sob at the loss of a close friend one moment and laugh through the snot and tears the next. She rests quietly for months, even years, and then is stirred from her slumber at the sight of a particular sunset or the sound of a musical refrain or the tenor of a pitch of laughter. Grief is that profound starkness of standing feet from the imprint of the towers, thinking this is certainly what the seventh circle of hell must look like, and laughing with firefighters over truly raunchy jokes an hour later. Grief hits all cylinders of our humanity.
Grief in my mind, is Wisdom, that She who sits on the throne in heaven, of whom we hear about in Holy Scripture and mystic writings. Wisdom grieves. Wisdom realizes the pain of loss, the hurt of wounds, and the absence of something that was once there. Wisdom does that in her messy, elegant way. Ignorance pretends, "It's all okay," and busies itself with moving on. Ignorance never ever wants to be reminded of the wisdom of grief, and will often point to grief as if it is a sign of weakness, of illness, or of something bad. Lamentable, really, since ignorance is simply trying to hide from the wisdom of the depth of love and loss, something that has never seemed possible over the length of one's days.
For all the things I feel about September 11th, 2001, I think it is the day Wisdom, in her grief, sought me and held me tight. I wanted to break free then, but knew that was not possible. I often think I didn't want to know the insight and gifts she gave me that day or on days and years since. Life might be easier without them. I wonder if I could have learned how to stand in the seventh circle of hell without her help, and I know I could not. Because of Wisdom in her grief, I laugh more deeply, and cry just as deeply. My courage in the midst of things unknown is greater. Dropping off into the great deep with God is still scary, but I have made the journey before and will again (much to my displeasure). She and I sit together in silence at times, remembering the losses, and then Wisdom suggests I've remembered enough, so now I should get the chocolate ice cream and watch Pride and Prejudice. Again.
Details of my grief, my memories, even my laughter over the raunchy jokes of all that was and is and shall be Ground Zero are not important to many. They are important to me and to the few I trust with them. They are simply details, tiny stitches of thread in a bigger tapestry. Somewhere in these days, I hope I find the voice to nod at Wisdom for appearing that day. Perhaps not a thank you. I'm not sure gratitude for particular wounds is wholly possible. We can appreciate the wisdom and insight from the journey and experience of grief and woundedness and still wish we could have taken the correspondance course instead.
The Service at Christ Church Cathedral in Lexington has the representatives of those who served at Ground Zero processing with candles and placing them in front of the altar. I've been guarded because I simply haven't been sure about how I will be feeling on that day at that time. But Wisdom has taught me that where we are is often where we need to be, spiritually and otherwise. Perhaps part of my remembrance will be placing that light at the altar as an acknowledgment of Wisdom's presence that day and days since, and a realization and guarded appreciation for the way her light shone through the cracks in this life as I offer my imperfect self in ministry.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Well Done, Good and Faithful Servant
A priest friend of mine, when reflecting on the ministry of Bishop Stacy Sauls, talked about a piece she heard on NPR. Many good sermons come from NPR, by the way, and a gift to their pledge drive is less expensive than a sermon-help book. A baseball player spoke of his love for poetry and his essay in a poetry magazine, reflecting that he loved baseball, but it had broken his heart. She immediately knew his pain.
Many of us do, actually. We love the church, madly, deeply, recklessly, even sacrificially, but the church has also broken our hearts. Sometimes the church has told us we are not enough, that our voices didn't matter, and that while every other part of creation was good as deemed in Genesis, we, because of any number of unfounded reasons, were not good. Sometimes we have been abused by the church and her leaders, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. Those ordained have misused their empowerment to demean and bully others. Some laity have reacted to uncomfortable and challenging situations in hurtful ways to those in community with them. So we just looked around us, our hearts bleeding and broken, and sat down to cry. Yet even then, we might have been broken even more. The church has a history of mauling her wounded.
Then, in our brokenness, we see something that intrigues us. Like Moses who approaches the burning bush for what seems to be nothing more than sheer nosiness, we see something bright that catches our attention. Maybe our heart sees another part of itself and goes to investigate. Maybe we just get our attention yanked by a scurrying furry squirrel that pulls us forward to the chase. But we move.
In the movement forward, our hearts begin to heal. I don't know specifics, but I do know when my heart was broken by the church, I sat in Bishop Sauls' office and said so. We even talked specifics, honestly and openly. And then he said those magical words of love and healing.
"I'm sorry."
Magical because they recognized the injury. Loving because they weren't a flippant or thin blanket apology that isn't really sorry for anything. He, as a bishop who gets to wear that interesting shade of amethyst, spoke for the church, the church saying, "I'm sorry for what we have done to break your heart. What do we now?"
What now for me was becoming one of his priests, believing that broken hearts are useful in ministry, and falling back in love with the church. What now is remembering why I do love the church, my ministry, and the people I serve. What now is sitting with fellow clergy who all know something about crucified hearts and souls and selves and even more about resurrection, celebration and laughter.
Bishop Sauls would never have the hubris or arrogance to say he saved anyone from anything. He is wise enough to know salvation of any manner is God's job, not ours. From saving wounded clergy to saving parishioners in hard places, God is the top of that pay grade. Our job is witness. Our job is to witness love, mercy, forgiveness, and even resurrection. Witness by living what we say, not telling others what to do. Witness by simply being present, not worrying about end results. Witness is, for me, another word for mission. That, Bishop Sauls would likely say, is exactly what our business is.
Many of the clergy in the Diocese of Lexington nodded at this particular revelation, that an aspect of Bishop Sauls was his witness and mission of love to the broken and shaky hearts who wanted still to love the church, but who were unsure they could follow God. The church has broken many hearts. And Bishop Stacy Sauls was and is a witness to the sacrament of confession and reconciliation to many. He was and is a witness to the courage to see broken hearts not as players out of the game, but often the hearts that are courageous enough to let the light of God shine through the breaks, cracks, and wounds instead of wrapping those wounds in barbed wire and acting as if nothing happened. Those broken and resurrected hearts are the ones you want on your first string.
So thank you, Bishop Stacy Sauls, for inviting many of us to fall back in love with the church, her flaws and all, through your ministry and love for the church. Thank you for witnessing to God's saving love in our parishes, our communities, our ministries, and, most importantly, in ourselves. Well done, good and faithful servant. And to the National Church (Episcopal) where he is now the Chief Operating Officer, be careful with his heart, please.
Click here for the NPR piece referenced.
Many of us do, actually. We love the church, madly, deeply, recklessly, even sacrificially, but the church has also broken our hearts. Sometimes the church has told us we are not enough, that our voices didn't matter, and that while every other part of creation was good as deemed in Genesis, we, because of any number of unfounded reasons, were not good. Sometimes we have been abused by the church and her leaders, physically, spiritually, and emotionally. Those ordained have misused their empowerment to demean and bully others. Some laity have reacted to uncomfortable and challenging situations in hurtful ways to those in community with them. So we just looked around us, our hearts bleeding and broken, and sat down to cry. Yet even then, we might have been broken even more. The church has a history of mauling her wounded.
Then, in our brokenness, we see something that intrigues us. Like Moses who approaches the burning bush for what seems to be nothing more than sheer nosiness, we see something bright that catches our attention. Maybe our heart sees another part of itself and goes to investigate. Maybe we just get our attention yanked by a scurrying furry squirrel that pulls us forward to the chase. But we move.
In the movement forward, our hearts begin to heal. I don't know specifics, but I do know when my heart was broken by the church, I sat in Bishop Sauls' office and said so. We even talked specifics, honestly and openly. And then he said those magical words of love and healing.
"I'm sorry."
Magical because they recognized the injury. Loving because they weren't a flippant or thin blanket apology that isn't really sorry for anything. He, as a bishop who gets to wear that interesting shade of amethyst, spoke for the church, the church saying, "I'm sorry for what we have done to break your heart. What do we now?"
What now for me was becoming one of his priests, believing that broken hearts are useful in ministry, and falling back in love with the church. What now is remembering why I do love the church, my ministry, and the people I serve. What now is sitting with fellow clergy who all know something about crucified hearts and souls and selves and even more about resurrection, celebration and laughter.
Bishop Sauls would never have the hubris or arrogance to say he saved anyone from anything. He is wise enough to know salvation of any manner is God's job, not ours. From saving wounded clergy to saving parishioners in hard places, God is the top of that pay grade. Our job is witness. Our job is to witness love, mercy, forgiveness, and even resurrection. Witness by living what we say, not telling others what to do. Witness by simply being present, not worrying about end results. Witness is, for me, another word for mission. That, Bishop Sauls would likely say, is exactly what our business is.
Many of the clergy in the Diocese of Lexington nodded at this particular revelation, that an aspect of Bishop Sauls was his witness and mission of love to the broken and shaky hearts who wanted still to love the church, but who were unsure they could follow God. The church has broken many hearts. And Bishop Stacy Sauls was and is a witness to the sacrament of confession and reconciliation to many. He was and is a witness to the courage to see broken hearts not as players out of the game, but often the hearts that are courageous enough to let the light of God shine through the breaks, cracks, and wounds instead of wrapping those wounds in barbed wire and acting as if nothing happened. Those broken and resurrected hearts are the ones you want on your first string.
So thank you, Bishop Stacy Sauls, for inviting many of us to fall back in love with the church, her flaws and all, through your ministry and love for the church. Thank you for witnessing to God's saving love in our parishes, our communities, our ministries, and, most importantly, in ourselves. Well done, good and faithful servant. And to the National Church (Episcopal) where he is now the Chief Operating Officer, be careful with his heart, please.
Click here for the NPR piece referenced.
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