four little words

Two minutes early, I slid into the waiting room chair at the beauty parlor where my mother, sisters, and I all have our locks trimmed.  Two minutes early and within five seconds of my bottom touching the vinyl seat, I hear those four little words that follow me seemingly wherever I go.  Regardless of community, geography, age, race, gender, socio-economic realities, education level, employment status, sexual orientation, or marital status, those four little words echo across the globe, or at least this great nation of ours.  “I don’t like change.” 

Curiosity stirs.  I wonder who first uttered these four humble words (or those of equal sentiment).  Let’s go back to the United States of America.  One of the key reasons we came into existence was a hunger for change.  For 12ish years, my most consistent context has been the local church which I pastored in various forms, sizes, and locales.  Each one had bastions built to resist change as if the next World War were ready to erupt.  Yet, the Protestant Church came into reality out of a passionate need for change. 

“I don’t like change,” said the woman with the ultra-dark, black-dyed bouffant.  Really?  Whilst you’ve tried to pretend that it’s still the 1960s, your body shows signs that change is all around you:   your wrinkles, your dye job, your posture, osteoporitic as it is.  Still more than physical realities remain, dear one:  your wisdom, your knowledge, your awareness of current events.  You have such beauty, courage, and honor that has helped you to make it thus far.  Would a continuing education event really hurt you that much?

Change came for me.  Perhaps those three or four of you who are my consistent audience were already aware.  My last post here was in May 2011.  My aunt died.  That death released a new level of awareness in me about where I was and who I was and who I was going to become if I didn’t change some key things.  Sure, there is always diet and exercise, but my food intake is not very extravagant and most would consider it quite healthy.  I’m talking about core issues that kept stirring over and over.  God grabbed a hold of me and wouldn’t let go this time.  No more backing down.   Change with grace must happen.

So in August, I snapped-to like Jacob’s hip when the angel pulled it out of socket.  After a foot/ankle injury, I’d already been limping all summer.  I decided that I might as well complete the total picture.  As God grabbed hold of me, I grabbed hold of God.  “I won’t let you go ‘til you bless me” (Gen 32: 26).   And I didn’t.  So God did.  As Jacob saw the face of God, he was ready to cross the Jabbok River (Gen. 32: 30).  Likewise, I was ready to cross the New and head back to the land of my home, the land of the Holston.  This time with a new/old name, a new/old approach, a new way of living out the same realities of whom I had always been.  

Today, I write from that new context:  hospice chaplaincy.  Who could have thought that those who are dying are the ones most ready to live honestly, fully, and well?  One doesn’t get a second chance at dying, so let us make the very best of it.  Let us learn and grow as much as we possibly can as we are being born into the mystery of life-without-end.

Regularly, I count my blessings — growing and striving to learn more about myself;  perceiving and enacting my purpose in the kingdom-coming and kingdom-present; pushing myself at the raw edges; amazing loved ones and the opportunity to be with them; the opportunity to be instead of do; the ability to re-engage a spirituality of creativity — all of these things are deeply meaningful to me.  Helpful as it is to hear others honor the courage out of which I’ve lived, I would have done it even without that recognition.  I suppose I’ve learned I’m nothing if not resilient.

Still, as one might imagine, the past 9 months have been painful.  But then, every pregnancy and birthing includes its fair share of pain.  Gestationally, it has been fruitful.  Rest and freedom and hope and companionship and authenticity and no more obscuring truth because it is too dangerous or difficult for others to handle.  Still, I cannot try to hide that the grief of leaving the womb is an ever-present reality.  I wonder if it will fade.  In no way would I be willing to return to that pre-birth state, but I do miss elements of its known-ness and safety.

Maybe I shouldn’t be so critical of those who don’t like change… or still hold on desperately to that mile-high bouffant.  After all, when I googled the hairstyle, there appeared several photos of present-day celebrities whose up-dos look hauntingly like what I imagine mine does when I twist it up on the back of my head.  Four little words.  Four little words.

readings for the end of a life

 It’s my experience that contemplative folk gather papers and objects to help them reflect.  Some use holy texts.  Others seek creation as the first testament to God’s grace, much as the Hebrews did before ever a text was penned.  Still others gather scraps of things they find over a lifetime.

 

My loved one has done this.  At the desk by the laptop, there lay a file.  Within it’s creamy folds were newspaper clippings, printed emails, and hand-scrawled notes.  Here my loved one shared readings most important to her.  It’s clear to me that she left a message of the core thoughts that helped her make passage from this life to the next.

 

When we gathered with her dear friends three months ago, we celebrated Holy Communion.  It was her last time of taking the Body and Blood.  We shared the message of James’ Letter, wherein we call the elders, lay on hands, and pray for the Spirit’s anointing and healing.  I’ve often told parishioners that healing might come in the next life.  That is true for her.So, in addition to James, here are her readings that prepared her for eternal peace.

 

The Choice by Max Lucado

IT’S QUIET. It’s early. My coffee is hot. The sky is still black. The world is still asleep. The day is coming.

In a few moments the day will arrive. It will roar down the track with the rising of the sun. The stillness of the dawn will be exchanged for the noise of  the day. The calm of solitude will be replaced by the pounding pace of the human race. The refuge of the early morning will be invaded by decisions to be made and deadlines to be met.

For the next twelve hours I will be exposed to the day’s demands. It is now that I must make a choice. Because of Calvary, I’m free to choose. And so I choose.

I choose love . . . No occasion justifies hatred; no injustice warrants bitterness. I choose love. Today I will love God and what God loves.I choose joy . . . I will invite my God to be the God of circumstance. I will refuse the temptation to be cynical . . . the tool of the lazy thinker. I will refuse to see people as anything less than human beings, created by God. I will refuse to see any problem as anything less than an opportunity to see God.

I choose peace . . . I will live forgiven. I will forgive so that I may live.

I choose patience . . . I will overlook the inconveniences of the world. Instead of cursing the one who takes my place, I’ll invite him to do so. Rather than complain that the wait is too long, I will thank God for a moment to pray. Instead of clinching my fist at new assignments, I will face them with joy and courage.

I choose kindness . . . I will be kind to the poor, for they are alone. Kind to the rich, for they are afraid. And kind to the unkind, for such is how God has treated me.

I choose goodness . . . I will go without a dollar before I take a dishonest one. I will be overlooked before I will boast. I will confess before I will accuse. I choose goodness.

I choose faithfulness . . . Today I will keep my promises. My debtors will not regret their trust. My associates will not question my word. My wife will not question my love. And my children will never fear that their father will not come home.I choose gentleness . . . Nothing is won by force.

I choose to be gentle. If I raise my voice may it be only in praise. If I clench my fist, may it be only in prayer. If I make a demand, may it be only of myself.I choose self-control . . . I am a spiritual being. After this body is dead, my spirit will soar. I refuse to let what will rot, rule the eternal.

I choose self-control. I will be drunk only by joy. I will be impassioned only by my faith. I will be influenced only by God. I will be taught only by Christ. I choose self-control.

Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. To these I commit my day. If I succeed, I will give thanks. If I fail, I will seek his grace. And then, when this day is done, I will place my head on my pillow and rest.

From When God Whispers Your Name, Copyright (Thomas Nelson, 1999) Max Lucado

 May I Go? – By Susan Jackson

May I Go? Do you think the time is right? May I say goodbye to pain filled days and endless lonely nights?I’ve lived my life and done my best, an example tried to be. So can I take that step beyond, and set my spirit free?I didn’t want to go at first, I fought with all my might. But something seems to draw me now to a warm and living light.I want to go, I really do; it’s difficult to stay. But I will try as best I can to live just one more day. To give you time to care for me and share your love and fears. I know you’re sad and afraid, because I see your tears. I’ll not be far, I promise that, and hope you’ll always know, That my spirit will be close to you wherever you may go. Thank you so for loving me. You know I love you too, And that’s why it’s hard to say goodbye and end this life with you.So hold me now just one more time and let me hear you say, Because you care so much for me, you’ll let me go today.

 Elizabeth Kubler-Ross:  

 “Learn to get in touch with the silence within yourself, and know that everything in life has purpose. There are no mistakes, no coincidences, all events are blessings given to us to learn from.”

 Prayer for the World – Rabbi Harold Kushner  (2003)

Let the rain come and wash away the ancient grudges, the bitter hatreds held and nurtured over generations. Let the rain wash away the memory of the hurt, the neglect.Then let the sun come out and fill the sky with rainbows. Let the warmth of the sun heal us wherever we are broken.Let it burn away the fog so that we can see each other clearly.So that we can see beyond labels,beyond accents, gender or skin color.Let the warmth and brightness of the sun melt our selfishness.So that we can share the joys and feel the sorrows of our neighbors.And let the light of the sun be so strong that we will see all people as our neighbors. Let the earth, nourished by rain, bring forth flowers to surround us with beauty.  And let the mountains teach our hearts to reach upward to heaven.Amen.

  Prayer for Balance — Lynn Andrews  

Oh, Great Mother, As I look our across the desert,Green from rain,And the mountains in the distance,I ask that you give me guidance along my path of heart,I ask that you help me to understand my powers of creativity.As the clouds above me cast shadows on the desert floor,I know that I have often lost my way,And when the shadow aspects of myself diminish my life,I become afraid.Oh, Great Mother, Take my hand,Help me to see the trail So that I may find my way home.I am often tired these days,I think sometimes that I will be bereft of Balance forever,That there is no one to help me.But as I look at the great mountains in the distance,As their silhouette is etched against the sky With such clarity,I know that somewhere in my heart I have known such clarity before, And that you are there for me.It is only me that sometimes refuses to see you.And I will open my eyes now, And I will see your face,Just as the sunlight bursting through the clouds Illuminates the flowers all around me.I will begin to shine as they do.I am flowering for you, Great Mother,I am lending my beauty to the universe for a short time.And I realize that this life is a process Of seed and stalk and growth and flowering,And then death.But death is only a rebirth back into spirit, a rebirth back into life. And you may call me anytime, Great Spirit,Back into your arms. So I am here for you, Great Mother,I am here for you, Great Spirit, I am like a hollow log With your love and your energy flowing through me Forever.Help me to walk in beauty and power All the days of my life.Ho.

© Lynn V. Andrews, Woman at the Edge of Two Worlds 

You go, Girl! Tell it. Tell it like it is!

Mary Magdalene Copyright Sally K. Green

Not too long ago, a friend and colleague of mine wrote to share a challenging article.  It’s interesting to me that I saw all sorts of reflections on Rob Bell’s Love Wins, particularly on the part of the conservative theological blogosphere and tweeting public.  But I saw very little responding to this critique.

In his lines, the author shares these observations, perhaps meant to convict the heart but also to provoke the spirit, and maybe some anger:

The results from a recent poll published by the Pew Forum on Religion and Public Life  reveal what social scientists have known for a long time: White Evangelical Christians are the group least likely to support politicians or policies that reflect the actual teachings of Jesus. It is perhaps one of the strangest, most dumb-founding ironies in contemporary American culture. Evangelical Christians, who most fiercely proclaim to have a personal relationship with Christ, who most confidently declare their belief that the Bible is the inerrant word of God, who go to church on a regular basis, pray daily, listen to Christian music, and place God and His Only Begotten Son at the center of their lives, are simultaneously the very people most likely to reject his teachings and despise his radical message.

One of the ironies I face on a daily basis relates to my gender and the response I make to the very personal call that Christ issues me.  If I had a dollar for every time I’ve had to answer questions about being a woman in full-time Christian ministry, particularly parish ministry as a lead pastor, I’d be an independently wealthy woman.

So the irony.  Why is it that many who profess to love and serve Jesus seem not to pay attention to what he said and did in relation to women?   Despite the predominant historical perspective, Jesus said and did quite a lot in relation to women.   And it was quite progressive.   Both in his earthly ministry and in his Resurrection revelations.

My thoughts on these matters are stirred by two recent happenings.  First, a blog article posted by the Rev. Dave Buerstetta called “He Said These Things to Her.”  Second, a 6th grader in my congregation shared his personal experience of women in ministry.

I’ve long relied upon the very arguments Rev. Buerstetta uses in his blog.  Mary was the first one charged with sharing the gospel message in John 20: 1-18.  At the bare minimum, she preached the gospel.  If we’re the slightest bit generous, we can think of her as an evangelist.  But then, I think many closed-minded folk would prefer to relegate the Magdalene’s spiritual gifts to that of compassion (Romans 12: 6-8) and hospitality, which, of course, was expected of everyone (Romans 12:13).   Tradition has tried to relegate her to the role of demon-possessed prostitute in order to keep her quiet.

But, let’s not stop with the Gospel of John.  Shall we also look to Matthew 28.

⁵ The angel said to the women, “Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. ⁶ He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay. ⁷ Then go quickly and tell his disciples: ‘He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him.’ Now I have told you.” (CEV)

First Jesus in John’s gospel and an angel in Matthew’s gospel.  Both urge Mary Magdalene to go and quickly tell.  Matthew’s telling makes it clear:  not only the Magdalene, but the other Mary, as well.  What of Luke’s account?  In this case, the women are not urged to tell, but they share nonetheless.

^9-10Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and some other women were the ones who had gone to the tomb. When they returned, they told the eleven apostles and the others what had happened. ¹¹The apostles thought it was all nonsense, and they would not believe.  (CEV)

See how even the gospel with the most supportive accounts of Jesus’ ministry with women silences them?  That’s because Luke is all to aware how men in those days considered a woman’s viewpoint.  It was nonsense.  They refused to believe.  But the worst picture of women’s role in the Resurrection revelation comes in Mark’s gospel.  With the original ending at verse 8, the women are struck with fear.

 ⁸ Trembling and bewildered, the women went out and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid. (CEV)

How often we women allow ourselves to be silenced by fear!  So it is that even today, men and women who intend to be “good” continue their attempts to silence others who strive to answer God’s call on their lives.  I’ll share that I’ve yet to face an argument wherein my critic uses Jesus’ words and deeds to stymie me.

There is, of course, much more in the biblical record to address the matter of women’s work for the sake of God’s kingdom.  Perhaps the best biblical study addressing women in ministry was written a few years ago by William Carter.  If you’re asking questions about women in ministry, go read “How Far Does Grace Go?”  It is well thought out and fairly handled.

Let’s return to the young man in my congregation.  His story brings me both joy and sorrow.  For it is one thing for me to face attacks of those who position themselves as my enemy.  It is quite another for an 11 year old, or a man laboring in a factory ridiculed by his co-workers, or an 80 year-old woman picked at by a fussy niece.  I’ve been schooled in my answers.  No one schooled them.

He Qi, Mary Magdalene

Last Sunday, as we sat down to lunch, he proudly told me that he told someone about his Pastor, calling my name.  The man scowled and began, as the boy put it, “fussing and telling me I was wrong to listen to you.”  He continued, “But I told him, ‘She loves Jesus and she loves me.  If women have the right to vote, and to work, and to do all the things they can do now, I don’t know why she can’t serve the Lord.”  Well, how do you like that?  I told him that some people will not agree with women in ministry, but that Mary Magdalene was the first person to proclaim Jesus was alive.

That led to conversations with men sitting at the same table.  I was surprised to hear them relate their dismay that they ” don’t know why there are still people out there who think that women shouldn’t be pastors.”    I shared that when I’m out in public, I’m careful in how much I share about my professional life.  I have to ask myself how willing I am to get into a big debate with a stranger.  Such is the hazard of the job while living in the buckle of the Bible Belt.    The fine gentlemen with whom I dined were shocked that I even had to consider such a thing.

I’m joyful to serve among a people who are so supportive.  Perhaps they’ve seen the fruits of my ministry and that of my predecessor.  But, oddly enough, while there are very strong women here, there is an even larger contingent of strong, faithful men.  That’s different from previous communities where the lay leadership predominantly consisted of women.  Many a researcher has noted that without the women, the church would have crumbled long ago.

resurrection as self-care

On Easter Eve, I find myself gathering the energies necessary to accomplish the task before me.   Through the week, I’ve practiced strategies of self-discipline:  eating well, going to bed on time, exercising, drinking plenty of water, singing and praising, quiet reflection, study and steady prayer.  In a previous blog post, I’d referenced self-care as other care.  I’m convinced it is true.  Because, as I am well, so am I able to help others on their journey of wholeness.  As I am strong, so am I able to equip others to walk with those among us who suffer.  If I’m a wreck, crashed on the rocks, then I am no good to others.

Likewise, I’ve learned a great deal about letting things go.  The same way a bride can cause her wedding to be a miserable experience, or a mother can ruin her household’s experience of “the holidays” by over-focusing on the details of a perfect celebration, I have learned that I can ruin Holy Week if I over-program it.  The observance will come around again next year.  We may not wash feet this year or hold a service of Tenebrae, but we certainly can next year.  And if the Lord comes between now and then, all the better.

While St. Paul was willing to go to the great lengths — (“by all means”) — of doing whatever he could to win some, I’m going with the CEV translation of what Paul said he’d do.  I’ll look at the needs of the people among whom I’m serving and address those matters in the time and context in which we are serving.

²²When I am with people whose faith is weak, I live as they do to win them. I do everything I can to win everyone I possibly can. (1 Corinthians 9: 22)

But I’ve also learned that “letting go” may mean a willingness to accept some solid failures.  If we attempt to truly be everything to everyone at all times, then we will exhaust ourselves.  Just because we’ve always done it, or just because another church has had success with a particular ministry, or just because we think a new step in ministry would be great fun doesn’t mean we should do it.  My concept of pacing ourselves is straight from the Holy One.  We should do what we do well.  Half-way attempts will yield a level of dis-spirited-ness.  With limited resources, we strive to show Resurrection to the best of our ability.  Not as much or as often or as spread thin as we possibly can.

On the edge of my eleventh Easter as a pastor in the local church, I am aware of all that I have learned about how to pace myself to win the race, rather that to simply to accomplish a sprint.  For Paul continues in his first letter to the Corinthian church by saying:

²³I do all this for the good news, because I want to share in its blessings.   ²⁴You know that many runners enter a race, and only one of them wins the prize. So run to win! ²⁵Athletes work hard to win a crown that cannot last, but we do it for a crown that will last forever. (9: 23-25, CEV)

Unlike any other Holy Week prior to this one, I sense that I am at a healthier place than I ever have been.  This could be due to the fact that I have a great team of support — a wonderful collaboration of staff and lay people have made this celebration possible.   Together, we have envisioned and carried out a meaningful season of Lenten worship, service, and devotion.  Together, we have set the stage for a powerful season of Easter experiences.  This partnership is growing us and we are becoming stronger in the love of Christ Jesus.

But this team also extends to a network of friends and colleagues with whom I share mutual support.  I can’t say enough for the idea-sharing I enjoy with a few partners in ministry.  My dear friends who listen to my struggles uplift me.  A neutral ear of a pastoral counselor makes a great difference in my quality of life.

That fact that I’m feeling more whole this year could also relate to the fact that I’m serving one congregation instead of two.  Focus makes a real difference in terms of effectiveness.  Racing 3-5 miles back and forth between similar but distinct congregations can make a pastor begin to wonder about her ability to hold onto any single thought for very long.  She always wonders if she has accomplished the detail at one congregation that she just addressed with another.  Waiting for double the phone or email responses, making twice the pastoral calls, and more can wear on one’s ability to focus and follow through.

But then again, maybe my focus isn’t as clear as I thought because when I began this post, it was going to be about women-in-ministry and the story of Mary Magdalene.  But here we are.  This is where the Spririt has led.

My discovery this year is that coming out of the Tomb is about self-care.  For this humble servant, the path to Resurrection continues in the space of self-discipline.

Seasons of silence

image by Wicked Nox

Yes, it’s true.  I am  a tweeter.  And while I gave up Facebook for Lent (for many reasons which I will enumerate after Easter), I didn’t quit tweeting.  This morning, the Unvirtuous Abbey — one of those whom I “follow” on Twitter and “Like” on Facebook — has taken a vow of silence for this holy week.  It’s a good thought, and I suppose maybe be connected to some of my practical and spiritual reasons for withdrawing.

Silence can purify.  Sloughing off dead skin like a molting snake, silence shirks off the excess.  Maybe it’s silence in what we put out into the world.  For me, it’s been about what I take in.  With thousands of images and ideas, articles and attitudes infiltrating my mental and emotional space, I must step back.  I am now one of those weirdos who doesn’t watch TV.  I still have one on which I watch my happy, little Netflix DVDs, but I’m the chooser of what flows through rather than some media mogul who opts for some trashy reality series rather than a good mystery.

Silence.  I used to fill up every moment with sound.  In college, we blared our boom-boxes.  Sometimes, we aimed to drown out noisy neighbors upstairs or down the hall.  Other times, the goal was to modify the frequencies of the train roaring by.  When the years of forced loudness went away, I found myself hungering for the sounds of others.  Some sort of media always kept me company.  But over the past few years, I’ve preferred the echoes of my dog’s feet padding down the hall.  Birdsong.  Mowers of people down the street.  Yes, even the cattle lowing under my bedroom window.

I have regretted the lack of interplay with other notions and experiences happening during my quiet times.  I feel I’ve missed the magnitude of the earthquake, tsunami, and reactor’s vulnerability in Japan.  I’m a bit numbed out to the ongoing economic crisis.  For better or worse, I nearly skipped over the national budget crisis.

At some points, I think Francis Asbury was better off on horseback in the wilderness.  But then, he would have lost wonderful conversation with Madame Russell, and many others.  During this long Lent of silence, I’ve missed the easy, brief conversations with loved ones.  So it is that I subscribe with gratitude to my friend J’s blog and ponder over her words and liturgies.  Here she shares some thoughts on Holy Week with which I resonate.  I commend them to you.

As for me, the silence will end, soon.  Will it be too soon?  Time will tell.

I just can’t help myself

In “You’ve Got Mail,”  Meg Ryan’s character, Kathleen, sits down with Greg Kinnear’s, Frank, to confront the fact that neither is in love with the other.  Whereas Kathleen is ready to say that the hope of another exists, she’s not quite there yet.  On the other hand, Frank has begun a rather public flirtation with a television personality who interviewed him.  He declares, “I just can’t help myself.” 

My friend asks me to share the song that I hate to love and another that I love to hate.  Well, it’s like this.  If I don’t like it, it’s probably now crowded out into the Land of the Forgotten Tunes.  So much swirls up there in my noggin’ there’s not enough room to store something if I don’t enjoy at least a bit about it.  So, I am not sure I’m going to come up with a song I love to hate.  But, I can’t help myself when it comes to Gordon Lightfoot.

I remember riding around in our Orange VW Bus which we appropriately called “Bussie.”  Dad popped the 8-track of Lightfoot crooning “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” as we rode around town.  He sang along pretty well, I must say.  The ballad is beautiful even though it is one of deep sadness.  I think I always have loved stories and songs steeped in truth.  Truth is important to share, even if it is painful.

In the meantime, I can’t help but share another bit of trivia I discovered by way of another friend this week.  It is also a true story of which many are entirely unaware.  Tomorrow is the 100th anniversary of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire.  The tragedy became the basis of reform of safety standards and responsibilities of employers for their workers.  You see, whereas most people die these days from smoke inhalation when there are fires, the Shirtwaist Factory caused deaths to 146 women either by burning to death or jumping to their deaths in order to escape the flames because managers had locked the doors to stairwells and fire escapes were not properly functioning.  Most of the victims were between the ages of 16 and 23.

In these days, when we’re thinking a great deal about labor unions and the rights of workers and, as industries move overseas where the legal protections US workers enjoy do not exist, we must remember, come to the aid of others, and in the process, help ourselves.  It’s called “doing it unto the least of these.”  It’s called doing it unto Jesus.

One more “can’t help myself” tragic story/song:  Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. 

Lyrical autobiography

Have you noticed how some songs will come around and around again?  Maybe not in terms of popularity, but in the way they speak to you?  It can be the same with the holy texts.  Somehow, a interpretation you had at 14 is still part of you when you’re 23.  Yet that early-twenties experience is new and fresh.  The layers build with successive readings to deepen the encounter with the text and the God to whom it points.  As with scripture, so songs speak to me.

Before I enrolled in an upper level preaching class (Preaching the Parables), I’d already been fascinated with the story of the Persistent Widow and the Unjust Judge.  But working through that text in preparation for a sermon, paper, and defense steeped me in a greater appreciation of what God was saying through Jesus’ parabolic teaching.  Then, into the parish I went and the text became part of my survival, thriving, and ministry to those who also were trying to resurface from challenges at hand.  Just as my Creator has charged me never to give up, so I urge others. 

 

2 He said, “There was once a judge in some city who never gave God a thought and cared nothing for people. 3 A widow in that city kept after him: ‘My rights are being violated. Protect me!’ 4 “He never gave her the time of day. But after this went on and on he said to himself, ‘I care nothing what God thinks, even less what people think. 5 But because this widow won’t quit badgering me, I’d better do something and see that she gets justice – otherwise I’m going to end up beaten black and blue by her pounding.'” (Luke 18: 2-5, The Message)

It’s safe to say that I’ve had more than one person’s share of struggles.  I won’t belabor the details here.  They could very well be too personal for such a venue.  But the Widow’s persistence, for me, became representative of God’s persistence with us.  Our Creator who made us in God’s own image and endowed us with life, choice, and great love will never give up on us.  Ever.  Even to the very end.  Why?  Because God’s nature is love.  So, why should I give up on myself or others?

Yes, sometimes one must walk away from a fight, but the fighter still remains.  So, as I consider a song that describes me, I come to Simon & Garfunkel’s “The Boxer.”   Although the metaphor breaks plainly down when he arrives at the ladies on 7th Avenue.  “The Boxer” was a song that stirred me as a youth and moves me more today.  That, my friends, is good music.

A thing of beauty

Japan

Whenever Margitta updates a post, I give a word of thanks to God for RSS feeds and her eye for beauty in simplicty. 

“‘Tis the gift to be simple, ’tis the gift to be free,” goes the old Shaker hymn.  

“‘Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be, And when we find ourselves in the place just right, ‘Twill be in the valley of love and delight. 

When true simplicity is gain’d,  To bow and bend we shan’t be asham’d, To turn, turn will be our delight, Till by turning, turning we come round right.”

Margitta decorates her home with such ease and grace that she opens up quietness for the soul to stretch.  Her inventiveness is freshness to my eye and spirit.  It must be necessary in the Northland in which she dwells. 

If you need a still moment in which to pause, visit her space at White as Linen.

Tulips

Holy Humor

Maybe my funny-bone just doesn’t tickle the way most of current North American culture does.  I have never found CBS’s “Two and a Half Men” to be even slightly laughable despite my affection for Duckie… I mean Jon Cryer.  Strangely enough, the program has ranked high in the ratings for years.  Charlie Sheen’s behavior, however, is ranking worse than “not funny” and has moved over into the “downright disturbing.”  Is it some sort of drug-induced psychosis? 

Despite my lack of affection for sitcoms these days, I do love shows that make me laugh.  Guess it’s a sign of aging, but I long for the golden days of The Cosby Show and Family Ties, or even Ally McBeal or Everybody Loves Raymond. 

This week, I came across a lovely little comedy called “Drop Dead Diva.”  Have you heard of it?  I missed it when it premiered on Lifetime last year.  Now, please understand, most of the time, Lifetime nauseates me.  While it bills as television for women, most often the programs seem to encourage women to stay in unhealthy relationships of all sorts.  But Drop Dead Diva is good.  It’s the story of Deb, a beauty-queen wanna-be model who dies, goes to heaven, and in a strange turn of events is able to return to Earth.  Mishaps happen, of course, and as Deb inhales her new first breath, it is in the body of a lawyer who is anything but a pageant-circuit kind of gal.  Jane’s no-nonsense, brainy approach to life has made her a superb legal eagle.  You see the comedic potential.  If you don’t get Lifetime, let me recommend Netflix for instant viewing.  Lifetime has accomplished something beautiful here.  It’s not only funny but it’s poignant as Deb figures out how to be more than beauty.  She goes from a life of zero positive or negative contributions to a woman who contributes and experiences a range of blessings and challenges.

Comedian and author, Eric Idle writes: 

At least one way of measuring the freedom of any society is the amount of comedy that is permitted, and clearly a healthy society permits more satirical comment than a repressive, so that if comedy is to function in some way as a safety release then it must obviously deal with these taboo areas. This is part of the responsibility we accord our licensed jesters, that nothing be excused the searching light of comedy. If anything can survive the probe of humour it is clearly of value, and conversely all groups who claim immunity from laughter are claiming special privileges which should not be granted.

This cultural core of comedy is the reason that Jon Stewart hosts the number-one rated news program.  With his wit he succeeds in influencing society more than any other newscaster at this time.  Wisdom flows from humor, in this case.

Which brings me around to humor in the faith-sphere.  If Easter weren’t so late this year (it’s the absolute latest possible date – April 24), my parish would have celebrated  Holy Humor Sunday on the Sabbath closest to April Fools’.  We’re talking good clean jokes.  Divine humor (after all God spoke through a donkey, Balaam’s ass, to be precise.  Playful clothing and music.  Alas, it will have to wait until next year.  We’ll be in the middle of the Seven Deadly Sins instead, this year.

In the realm of religion, we often take ourselves all too seriously.  After all, we hammer into one another’s head that the only thing of lasting significance is spiritual.  The responsibility of sharing the Gospel is, indeed, a joyful and burdensome thing.  As a result, musicians through the generations have created beautiful works to tell the gospel story.  But seldom with humor.  Always aiming at conviction, there is little room for laughter.

So the oratorio, “Not the Messiah:  He’s a Very Naughty Boy” is a welcome piece of comedy.  You’ll hear overtones of Handel, Mozart, nine lessons and carols, and even Bob Dylan.  A musical setting of “the Life of Brian,” the film is a delight:  gorgeous symphony, gifted soloists, mass choir, and the goofiness of Monty Python all rolled into one. 

Scooby Doo, Frog Prince, and an Innocent Man

What do a Great Dane, a muppet, and Bill Joel have in common?  Truth be told, not much, except maybe my childhood entertainment preferences.  Recently a girlfriend of mine began sharing her musical interests with her circle of friends on a daily basis.  Day 1 begins with your favorite piece from your first album, ever.

Got it.  Except there were three and I cannot remember when I got which one.  Maybe Scooby came first.  The vinyl LP told the Mystery of the Strange Paw Prints and a couple of others I can no longer recall.  You can own your very own copy for $49.98 from a used seller on amazon.  But, I bet Mom still has mine in storage.  Mostly, I remember the scritchy-scratch of the needle-on-plastic.  Oh, and the impression that being redheaded was far better than wearing glasses.  <sigh>

As for something that sticks in my memory banks, let’s listen to Kermit’s retelling of the classic tale “The Frog Prince.”  Jim Henson, of course, gave it his own magical spin.  A lovely princess Melora is under a spell.  The result:   confused speech.  (Remind anyone of Babel?)  She sings, “N’im Inteen.  N’im Inteen.  By mirthday’s ootay.”  Poor girl.  Sweetums plays the henchman of the evil “aunt” who wants to become <sigh> stepmother by marrying a doofy Daddy King.   Kermit coaxes along nephew Robin, the enchanted Frog Prince.  Eventually, the Brave little froggy figures out how to defeat Wicked Aunt Tamenela by “baking the hall in the candle of her brain.”   ( Have I mentioned that I could write a thesis on how this mythical tale helped to control my little girl self’s development into a young woman who struggled to speak clearly in front of others?  <sigh>  It makes me wonder if little boys’ stories control them, too.)  Still, I love Henson’s depiction and remember fondly listening to the LP.  Maybe it was all about Kermie.

That carries me to my first-entirely-composed-of-music  album.  In 1983, Billy Joel crooned about “An Innocent Man.”  Ten years old, I swooned at that voice.  It was long before heartbreak and betrayal came my way.  Speaking of…  I continue to be bumfuzzled by the way people — especially other women — blame women for failed relationships.  (Oh, you didn’t know it was my fault?  And that I was asking for it?  Sounds like the accusations hurled at survivors of rape to me.)  We females always seem to be told we’re at the root of every evil.   <SIGH>  Before I start down a path of  a brewing war on women, I’ll go…

Back to Billy.  What a voice.  What lyrics.   Sing to me, baby.  Even with your hair gone and greyed.

In retrospect, maybe our first musical and entertainment interests have a great deal of power.  In a real sense, the brainy brunette with glasses who struggled with self-esteem,  who wrestled for the ability to tell her story which one day involved more than her share of heartaches from which she needed healing, all came true in yours truly. 

On the other hand, I’ve grown to be the woman who walks in confidence whether or not there are greys, thick specs, or wide hips.  I’ve become the lady who doesn’t require a man to straighten out my speech for me, much less to rescue me.  I’ve become the sister who stands strong in spite of sorrows. 

Which bring me back to Babel.  In this stream-of-consciousness reflection, I see that, ultimately, we humans make choices about everything from music to the-really-big-life-altering-stuff.  The people at the Tower wanted to be like God.  They chose their paths.  At Eden, not only Eve but also Adam chose to bite into the apple.  Well, so could I. 

But you know what?   I choose not to be defined by wicked “aunties” who put on cloaks of concern and facades of friendship and turn around to stab others in the back with their babbling gossip.   I choose to be who I will be.  And, well,  I choose to celebrate the songs that shaped me along the way.